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    <title>
      Wieland; Or the Transformation, by Charles Brockden Brown
    </title>
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Project Gutenberg's Wieland; or The Transformation, by Charles Brockden Brown

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Wieland; or The Transformation
       An American Tale

Author: Charles Brockden Brown

Release Date: August 7, 2008 [EBook #792]
Last Updated: January 25, 2013

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WIELAND; OR THE TRANSFORMATION ***


Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger





</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      WIELAND; OR THE TRANSFORMATION
    </h1>
    <h2>
      An American Tale
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      by Charles Brockden Brown
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                From Virtue's blissful paths away
                The double-tongued are sure to stray;
                Good is a forth-right journey still,
                And mazy paths but lead to ill.
      </pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Advertisement.
    </p>
    <p>
      The following Work is delivered to the world as the first of a series of
      performances, which the favorable reception of this will induce the Writer
      to publish. His purpose is neither selfish nor temporary, but aims at the
      illustration of some important branches of the moral constitution of man.
      Whether this tale will be classed with the ordinary or frivolous sources
      of amusement, or be ranked with the few productions whose usefulness
      secures to them a lasting reputation, the reader must be permitted to
      decide.
    </p>
    <p>
      The incidents related are extraordinary and rare. Some of them, perhaps,
      approach as nearly to the nature of miracles as can be done by that which
      is not truly miraculous. It is hoped that intelligent readers will not
      disapprove of the manner in which appearances are solved, but that the
      solution will be found to correspond with the known principles of human
      nature. The power which the principal person is said to possess can
      scarcely be denied to be real. It must be acknowledged to be extremely
      rare; but no fact, equally uncommon, is supported by the same strength of
      historical evidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some readers may think the conduct of the younger Wieland impossible. In
      support of its possibility the Writer must appeal to Physicians and to men
      conversant with the latent springs and occasional perversions of the human
      mind. It will not be objected that the instances of similar delusion are
      rare, because it is the business of moral painters to exhibit their
      subject in its most instructive and memorable forms. If history furnishes
      one parallel fact, it is a sufficient vindication of the Writer; but most
      readers will probably recollect an authentic case, remarkably similar to
      that of Wieland.
    </p>
    <p>
      It will be necessary to add, that this narrative is addressed, in an
      epistolary form, by the Lady whose story it contains, to a small number of
      friends, whose curiosity, with regard to it, had been greatly awakened. It
      may likewise be mentioned, that these events took place between the
      conclusion of the French and the beginning of the revolutionary war. The
      memoirs of Carwin, alluded to at the conclusion of the work, will be
      published or suppressed according to the reception which is given to the
      present attempt.
    </p>
    <p>
      C. B. B. September 3, 1798.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> Chapter I </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> Chapter II </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> Chapter III </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> Chapter IV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> Chapter V </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> Chapter VI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> Chapter VII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> Chapter VIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> Chapter IX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> Chapter X </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> Chapter XI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> Chapter XII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> Chapter XIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> Chapter XIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> Chapter XV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> Chapter XVI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> Chapter XVII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> Chapter XVIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0019"> Chapter XIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0020"> Chapter XX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> Chapter XXI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> Chapter XXII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> Chapter XXIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> Chapter XXIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> Chapter XXV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0026"> Chapter XXVI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0027"> Chapter XXVII </a>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h2>
      Chapter I
    </h2>
    <p>
      I feel little reluctance in complying with your request. You know not
      fully the cause of my sorrows. You are a stranger to the depth of my
      distresses. Hence your efforts at consolation must necessarily fail. Yet
      the tale that I am going to tell is not intended as a claim upon your
      sympathy. In the midst of my despair, I do not disdain to contribute what
      little I can to the benefit of mankind. I acknowledge your right to be
      informed of the events that have lately happened in my family. Make what
      use of the tale you shall think proper. If it be communicated to the
      world, it will inculcate the duty of avoiding deceit. It will exemplify
      the force of early impressions, and show the immeasurable evils that flow
      from an erroneous or imperfect discipline.
    </p>
    <p>
      My state is not destitute of tranquillity. The sentiment that dictates my
      feelings is not hope. Futurity has no power over my thoughts. To all that
      is to come I am perfectly indifferent. With regard to myself, I have
      nothing more to fear. Fate has done its worst. Henceforth, I am callous to
      misfortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      I address no supplication to the Deity. The power that governs the course
      of human affairs has chosen his path. The decree that ascertained the
      condition of my life, admits of no recal. No doubt it squares with the
      maxims of eternal equity. That is neither to be questioned nor denied by
      me. It suffices that the past is exempt from mutation. The storm that tore
      up our happiness, and changed into dreariness and desert the blooming
      scene of our existence, is lulled into grim repose; but not until the
      victim was transfixed and mangled; till every obstacle was dissipated by
      its rage; till every remnant of good was wrested from our grasp and
      exterminated.
    </p>
    <p>
      How will your wonder, and that of your companions, be excited by my story!
      Every sentiment will yield to your amazement. If my testimony were without
      corroborations, you would reject it as incredible. The experience of no
      human being can furnish a parallel: That I, beyond the rest of mankind,
      should be reserved for a destiny without alleviation, and without example!
      Listen to my narrative, and then say what it is that has made me deserve
      to be placed on this dreadful eminence, if, indeed, every faculty be not
      suspended in wonder that I am still alive, and am able to relate it. My
      father's ancestry was noble on the paternal side; but his mother was the
      daughter of a merchant. My grand-father was a younger brother, and a
      native of Saxony. He was placed, when he had reached the suitable age, at
      a German college. During the vacations, he employed himself in traversing
      the neighbouring territory. On one occasion it was his fortune to visit
      Hamburg. He formed an acquaintance with Leonard Weise, a merchant of that
      city, and was a frequent guest at his house. The merchant had an only
      daughter, for whom his guest speedily contracted an affection; and, in
      spite of parental menaces and prohibitions, he, in due season, became her
      husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this act he mortally offended his relations. Thenceforward he was
      entirely disowned and rejected by them. They refused to contribute any
      thing to his support. All intercourse ceased, and he received from them
      merely that treatment to which an absolute stranger, or detested enemy,
      would be entitled.
    </p>
    <p>
      He found an asylum in the house of his new father, whose temper was kind,
      and whose pride was flattered by this alliance. The nobility of his birth
      was put in the balance against his poverty. Weise conceived himself, on
      the whole, to have acted with the highest discretion, in thus disposing of
      his child. My grand-father found it incumbent on him to search out some
      mode of independent subsistence. His youth had been eagerly devoted to
      literature and music. These had hitherto been cultivated merely as sources
      of amusement. They were now converted into the means of gain. At this
      period there were few works of taste in the Saxon dialect. My ancestor may
      be considered as the founder of the German Theatre. The modern poet of the
      same name is sprung from the same family, and, perhaps, surpasses but
      little, in the fruitfulness of his invention, or the soundness of his
      taste, the elder Wieland. His life was spent in the composition of sonatas
      and dramatic pieces. They were not unpopular, but merely afforded him a
      scanty subsistence. He died in the bloom of his life, and was quickly
      followed to the grave by his wife. Their only child was taken under the
      protection of the merchant. At an early age he was apprenticed to a London
      trader, and passed seven years of mercantile servitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      My father was not fortunate in the character of him under whose care he
      was now placed. He was treated with rigor, and full employment was
      provided for every hour of his time. His duties were laborious and
      mechanical. He had been educated with a view to this profession, and,
      therefore, was not tormented with unsatisfied desires. He did not hold his
      present occupations in abhorrence, because they withheld him from paths
      more flowery and more smooth, but he found in unintermitted labour, and in
      the sternness of his master, sufficient occasions for discontent. No
      opportunities of recreation were allowed him. He spent all his time pent
      up in a gloomy apartment, or traversing narrow and crowded streets. His
      food was coarse, and his lodging humble. His heart gradually contracted a
      habit of morose and gloomy reflection. He could not accurately define what
      was wanting to his happiness. He was not tortured by comparisons drawn
      between his own situation and that of others. His state was such as suited
      his age and his views as to fortune. He did not imagine himself treated
      with extraordinary or unjustifiable rigor. In this respect he supposed the
      condition of others, bound like himself to mercantile service, to resemble
      his own; yet every engagement was irksome, and every hour tedious in its
      lapse.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this state of mind he chanced to light upon a book written by one of
      the teachers of the Albigenses, or French Protestants. He entertained no
      relish for books, and was wholly unconscious of any power they possessed
      to delight or instruct. This volume had lain for years in a corner of his
      garret, half buried in dust and rubbish. He had marked it as it lay; had
      thrown it, as his occasions required, from one spot to another; but had
      felt no inclination to examine its contents, or even to inquire what was
      the subject of which it treated.
    </p>
    <p>
      One Sunday afternoon, being induced to retire for a few minutes to his
      garret, his eye was attracted by a page of this book, which, by some
      accident, had been opened and placed full in his view. He was seated on
      the edge of his bed, and was employed in repairing a rent in some part of
      his clothes. His eyes were not confined to his work, but occasionally
      wandering, lighted at length upon the page. The words "Seek and ye shall
      find," were those that first offered themselves to his notice. His
      curiosity was roused by these so far as to prompt him to proceed. As soon
      as he finished his work, he took up the book and turned to the first page.
      The further he read, the more inducement he found to continue, and he
      regretted the decline of the light which obliged him for the present to
      close it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The book contained an exposition of the doctrine of the sect of
      Camissards, and an historical account of its origin. His mind was in a
      state peculiarly fitted for the reception of devotional sentiments. The
      craving which had haunted him was now supplied with an object. His mind
      was at no loss for a theme of meditation. On days of business, he rose at
      the dawn, and retired to his chamber not till late at night. He now
      supplied himself with candles, and employed his nocturnal and Sunday hours
      in studying this book. It, of course, abounded with allusions to the
      Bible. All its conclusions were deduced from the sacred text. This was the
      fountain, beyond which it was unnecessary to trace the stream of religious
      truth; but it was his duty to trace it thus far.
    </p>
    <p>
      A Bible was easily procured, and he ardently entered on the study of it.
      His understanding had received a particular direction. All his reveries
      were fashioned in the same mould. His progress towards the formation of
      his creed was rapid. Every fact and sentiment in this book were viewed
      through a medium which the writings of the Camissard apostle had
      suggested. His constructions of the text were hasty, and formed on a
      narrow scale. Every thing was viewed in a disconnected position. One
      action and one precept were not employed to illustrate and restrict the
      meaning of another. Hence arose a thousand scruples to which he had
      hitherto been a stranger. He was alternately agitated by fear and by
      ecstacy. He imagined himself beset by the snares of a spiritual foe, and
      that his security lay in ceaseless watchfulness and prayer.
    </p>
    <p>
      His morals, which had never been loose, were now modelled by a stricter
      standard. The empire of religious duty extended itself to his looks,
      gestures, and phrases. All levities of speech, and negligences of
      behaviour, were proscribed. His air was mournful and contemplative. He
      laboured to keep alive a sentiment of fear, and a belief of the
      awe-creating presence of the Deity. Ideas foreign to this were sedulously
      excluded. To suffer their intrusion was a crime against the Divine Majesty
      inexpiable but by days and weeks of the keenest agonies.
    </p>
    <p>
      No material variation had occurred in the lapse of two years. Every day
      confirmed him in his present modes of thinking and acting. It was to be
      expected that the tide of his emotions would sometimes recede, that
      intervals of despondency and doubt would occur; but these gradually were
      more rare, and of shorter duration; and he, at last, arrived at a state
      considerably uniform in this respect.
    </p>
    <p>
      His apprenticeship was now almost expired. On his arrival of age he became
      entitled, by the will of my grand-father, to a small sum. This sum would
      hardly suffice to set him afloat as a trader in his present situation, and
      he had nothing to expect from the generosity of his master. Residence in
      England had, besides, become almost impossible, on account of his
      religious tenets. In addition to these motives for seeking a new
      habitation, there was another of the most imperious and irresistable
      necessity. He had imbibed an opinion that it was his duty to disseminate
      the truths of the gospel among the unbelieving nations. He was terrified
      at first by the perils and hardships to which the life of a missionary is
      exposed. This cowardice made him diligent in the invention of objections
      and excuses; but he found it impossible wholly to shake off the belief
      that such was the injunction of his duty. The belief, after every new
      conflict with his passions, acquired new strength; and, at length, he
      formed a resolution of complying with what he deemed the will of heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      The North-American Indians naturally presented themselves as the first
      objects for this species of benevolence. As soon as his servitude expired,
      he converted his little fortune into money, and embarked for Philadelphia.
      Here his fears were revived, and a nearer survey of savage manners once
      more shook his resolution. For a while he relinquished his purpose, and
      purchasing a farm on Schuylkill, within a few miles of the city, set
      himself down to the cultivation of it. The cheapness of land, and the
      service of African slaves, which were then in general use, gave him who
      was poor in Europe all the advantages of wealth. He passed fourteen years
      in a thrifty and laborious manner. In this time new objects, new
      employments, and new associates appeared to have nearly obliterated the
      devout impressions of his youth. He now became acquainted with a woman of
      a meek and quiet disposition, and of slender acquirements like himself. He
      proffered his hand and was accepted.
    </p>
    <p>
      His previous industry had now enabled him to dispense with personal
      labour, and direct attention to his own concerns. He enjoyed leisure, and
      was visited afresh by devotional contemplation. The reading of the
      scriptures, and other religious books, became once more his favorite
      employment. His ancient belief relative to the conversion of the savage
      tribes, was revived with uncommon energy. To the former obstacles were now
      added the pleadings of parental and conjugal love. The struggle was long
      and vehement; but his sense of duty would not be stifled or enfeebled, and
      finally triumphed over every impediment.
    </p>
    <p>
      His efforts were attended with no permanent success. His exhortations had
      sometimes a temporary power, but more frequently were repelled with insult
      and derision. In pursuit of this object he encountered the most imminent
      perils, and underwent incredible fatigues, hunger, sickness, and solitude.
      The licence of savage passion, and the artifices of his depraved
      countrymen, all opposed themselves to his progress. His courage did not
      forsake him till there appeared no reasonable ground to hope for success.
      He desisted not till his heart was relieved from the supposed obligation
      to persevere. With his constitution somewhat decayed, he at length
      returned to his family. An interval of tranquillity succeeded. He was
      frugal, regular, and strict in the performance of domestic duties. He
      allied himself with no sect, because he perfectly agreed with none. Social
      worship is that by which they are all distinguished; but this article
      found no place in his creed. He rigidly interpreted that precept which
      enjoins us, when we worship, to retire into solitude, and shut out every
      species of society. According to him devotion was not only a silent
      office, but must be performed alone. An hour at noon, and an hour at
      midnight were thus appropriated.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the distance of three hundred yards from his house, on the top of a
      rock whose sides were steep, rugged, and encumbered with dwarf cedars and
      stony asperities, he built what to a common eye would have seemed a
      summer-house. The eastern verge of this precipice was sixty feet above the
      river which flowed at its foot. The view before it consisted of a
      transparent current, fluctuating and rippling in a rocky channel, and
      bounded by a rising scene of cornfields and orchards. The edifice was
      slight and airy. It was no more than a circular area, twelve feet in
      diameter, whose flooring was the rock, cleared of moss and shrubs, and
      exactly levelled, edged by twelve Tuscan columns, and covered by an
      undulating dome. My father furnished the dimensions and outlines, but
      allowed the artist whom he employed to complete the structure on his own
      plan. It was without seat, table, or ornament of any kind.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the temple of his Deity. Twice in twenty-four hours he repaired
      hither, unaccompanied by any human being. Nothing but physical inability
      to move was allowed to obstruct or postpone this visit. He did not exact
      from his family compliance with his example. Few men, equally sincere in
      their faith, were as sparing in their censures and restrictions, with
      respect to the conduct of others, as my father. The character of my mother
      was no less devout; but her education had habituated her to a different
      mode of worship. The loneliness of their dwelling prevented her from
      joining any established congregation; but she was punctual in the offices
      of prayer, and in the performance of hymns to her Saviour, after the
      manner of the disciples of Zinzendorf. My father refused to interfere in
      her arrangements. His own system was embraced not, accurately speaking,
      because it was the best, but because it had been expressly prescribed to
      him. Other modes, if practised by other persons, might be equally
      acceptable.
    </p>
    <p>
      His deportment to others was full of charity and mildness. A sadness
      perpetually overspread his features, but was unmingled with sternness or
      discontent. The tones of his voice, his gestures, his steps were all in
      tranquil unison. His conduct was characterised by a certain forbearance
      and humility, which secured the esteem of those to whom his tenets were
      most obnoxious. They might call him a fanatic and a dreamer, but they
      could not deny their veneration to his invincible candour and invariable
      integrity. His own belief of rectitude was the foundation of his
      happiness. This, however, was destined to find an end.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly the sadness that constantly attended him was deepened. Sighs, and
      even tears, sometimes escaped him. To the expostulations of his wife he
      seldom answered any thing. When he designed to be communicative, he hinted
      that his peace of mind was flown, in consequence of deviation from his
      duty. A command had been laid upon him, which he had delayed to perform.
      He felt as if a certain period of hesitation and reluctance had been
      allowed him, but that this period was passed. He was no longer permitted
      to obey. The duty assigned to him was transferred, in consequence of his
      disobedience, to another, and all that remained was to endure the penalty.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not describe this penalty. It appeared to be nothing more for some
      time than a sense of wrong. This was sufficiently acute, and was
      aggravated by the belief that his offence was incapable of expiation. No
      one could contemplate the agonies which he seemed to suffer without the
      deepest compassion. Time, instead of lightening the burthen, appeared to
      add to it. At length he hinted to his wife, that his end was near. His
      imagination did not prefigure the mode or the time of his decease, but was
      fraught with an incurable persuasion that his death was at hand. He was
      likewise haunted by the belief that the kind of death that awaited him was
      strange and terrible. His anticipations were thus far vague and
      indefinite; but they sufficed to poison every moment of his being, and
      devote him to ceaseless anguish.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter II
    </h2>
    <p>
      Early in the morning of a sultry day in August, he left Mettingen, to go
      to the city. He had seldom passed a day from home since his return from
      the shores of the Ohio. Some urgent engagements at this time existed,
      which would not admit of further delay. He returned in the evening, but
      appeared to be greatly oppressed with fatigue. His silence and dejection
      were likewise in a more than ordinary degree conspicuous. My mother's
      brother, whose profession was that of a surgeon, chanced to spend this
      night at our house. It was from him that I have frequently received an
      exact account of the mournful catastrophe that followed.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the evening advanced, my father's inquietudes increased. He sat with
      his family as usual, but took no part in their conversation. He appeared
      fully engrossed by his own reflections. Occasionally his countenance
      exhibited tokens of alarm; he gazed stedfastly and wildly at the ceiling;
      and the exertions of his companions were scarcely sufficient to interrupt
      his reverie. On recovering from these fits, he expressed no surprize; but
      pressing his hand to his head, complained, in a tremulous and terrified
      tone, that his brain was scorched to cinders. He would then betray marks
      of insupportable anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      My uncle perceived, by his pulse, that he was indisposed, but in no
      alarming degree, and ascribed appearances chiefly to the workings of his
      mind. He exhorted him to recollection and composure, but in vain. At the
      hour of repose he readily retired to his chamber. At the persuasion of my
      mother he even undressed and went to bed. Nothing could abate his
      restlessness. He checked her tender expostulations with some sternness.
      "Be silent," said he, "for that which I feel there is but one cure, and
      that will shortly come. You can help me nothing. Look to your own
      condition, and pray to God to strengthen you under the calamities that
      await you." "What am I to fear?" she answered. "What terrible disaster is
      it that you think of?" "Peace&mdash;as yet I know it not myself, but come
      it will, and shortly." She repeated her inquiries and doubts; but he
      suddenly put an end to the discourse, by a stern command to be silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had never before known him in this mood. Hitherto all was benign in
      his deportment. Her heart was pierced with sorrow at the contemplation of
      this change. She was utterly unable to account for it, or to figure to
      herself the species of disaster that was menaced.
    </p>
    <p>
      Contrary to custom, the lamp, instead of being placed on the hearth, was
      left upon the table. Over it against the wall there hung a small clock, so
      contrived as to strike a very hard stroke at the end of every sixth hour.
      That which was now approaching was the signal for retiring to the fane at
      which he addressed his devotions. Long habit had occasioned him to be
      always awake at this hour, and the toll was instantly obeyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now frequent and anxious glances were cast at the clock. Not a single
      movement of the index appeared to escape his notice. As the hour verged
      towards twelve his anxiety visibly augmented. The trepidations of my
      mother kept pace with those of her husband; but she was intimidated into
      silence. All that was left to her was to watch every change of his
      features, and give vent to her sympathy in tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length the hour was spent, and the clock tolled. The sound appeared to
      communicate a shock to every part of my father's frame. He rose
      immediately, and threw over himself a loose gown. Even this office was
      performed with difficulty, for his joints trembled, and his teeth
      chattered with dismay. At this hour his duty called him to the rock, and
      my mother naturally concluded that it was thither he intended to repair.
      Yet these incidents were so uncommon, as to fill her with astonishment and
      foreboding. She saw him leave the room, and heard his steps as they
      hastily descended the stairs. She half resolved to rise and pursue him,
      but the wildness of the scheme quickly suggested itself. He was going to a
      place whither no power on earth could induce him to suffer an attendant.
    </p>
    <p>
      The window of her chamber looked toward the rock. The atmosphere was clear
      and calm, but the edifice could not be discovered at that distance through
      the dusk. My mother's anxiety would not allow her to remain where she was.
      She rose, and seated herself at the window. She strained her sight to get
      a view of the dome, and of the path that led to it. The first painted
      itself with sufficient distinctness on her fancy, but was
      undistinguishable by the eye from the rocky mass on which it was erected.
      The second could be imperfectly seen; but her husband had already passed,
      or had taken a different direction.
    </p>
    <p>
      What was it that she feared? Some disaster impended over her husband or
      herself. He had predicted evils, but professed himself ignorant of what
      nature they were. When were they to come? Was this night, or this hour to
      witness the accomplishment? She was tortured with impatience, and
      uncertainty. All her fears were at present linked to his person, and she
      gazed at the clock, with nearly as much eagerness as my father had done,
      in expectation of the next hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      An half hour passed away in this state of suspence. Her eyes were fixed
      upon the rock; suddenly it was illuminated. A light proceeding from the
      edifice, made every part of the scene visible. A gleam diffused itself
      over the intermediate space, and instantly a loud report, like the
      explosion of a mine, followed. She uttered an involuntary shriek, but the
      new sounds that greeted her ear, quickly conquered her surprise. They were
      piercing shrieks, and uttered without intermission. The gleams which had
      diffused themselves far and wide were in a moment withdrawn, but the
      interior of the edifice was filled with rays.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first suggestion was that a pistol was discharged, and that the
      structure was on fire. She did not allow herself time to meditate a second
      thought, but rushed into the entry and knocked loudly at the door of her
      brother's chamber. My uncle had been previously roused by the noise, and
      instantly flew to the window. He also imagined what he saw to be fire. The
      loud and vehement shrieks which succeeded the first explosion, seemed to
      be an invocation of succour. The incident was inexplicable; but he could
      not fail to perceive the propriety of hastening to the spot. He was
      unbolting the door, when his sister's voice was heard on the outside
      conjuring him to come forth.
    </p>
    <p>
      He obeyed the summons with all the speed in his power. He stopped not to
      question her, but hurried down stairs and across the meadow which lay
      between the house and the rock. The shrieks were no longer to be heard;
      but a blazing light was clearly discernible between the columns of the
      temple. Irregular steps, hewn in the stone, led him to the summit. On
      three sides, this edifice touched the very verge of the cliff. On the
      fourth side, which might be regarded as the front, there was an area of
      small extent, to which the rude staircase conducted you. My uncle speedily
      gained this spot. His strength was for a moment exhausted by his haste. He
      paused to rest himself. Meanwhile he bent the most vigilant attention
      towards the object before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Within the columns he beheld what he could no better describe, than by
      saying that it resembled a cloud impregnated with light. It had the
      brightness of flame, but was without its upward motion. It did not occupy
      the whole area, and rose but a few feet above the floor. No part of the
      building was on fire. This appearance was astonishing. He approached the
      temple. As he went forward the light retired, and, when he put his feet
      within the apartment, utterly vanished. The suddenness of this transition
      increased the darkness that succeeded in a tenfold degree. Fear and wonder
      rendered him powerless. An occurrence like this, in a place assigned to
      devotion, was adapted to intimidate the stoutest heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      His wandering thoughts were recalled by the groans of one near him. His
      sight gradually recovered its power, and he was able to discern my father
      stretched on the floor. At that moment, my mother and servants arrived
      with a lanthorn, and enabled my uncle to examine more closely this scene.
      My father, when he left the house, besides a loose upper vest and
      slippers, wore a shirt and drawers. Now he was naked, his skin throughout
      the greater part of his body was scorched and bruised. His right arm
      exhibited marks as of having been struck by some heavy body. His clothes
      had been removed, and it was not immediately perceived that they were
      reduced to ashes. His slippers and his hair were untouched.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was removed to his chamber, and the requisite attention paid to his
      wounds, which gradually became more painful. A mortification speedily
      shewed itself in the arm, which had been most hurt. Soon after, the other
      wounded parts exhibited the like appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Immediately subsequent to this disaster, my father seemed nearly in a
      state of insensibility. He was passive under every operation. He scarcely
      opened his eyes, and was with difficulty prevailed upon to answer the
      questions that were put to him. By his imperfect account, it appeared,
      that while engaged in silent orisons, with thoughts full of confusion and
      anxiety, a faint gleam suddenly shot athwart the apartment. His fancy
      immediately pictured to itself, a person bearing a lamp. It seemed to come
      from behind. He was in the act of turning to examine the visitant, when
      his right arm received a blow from a heavy club. At the same instant, a
      very bright spark was seen to light upon his clothes. In a moment, the
      whole was reduced to ashes. This was the sum of the information which he
      chose to give. There was somewhat in his manner that indicated an
      imperfect tale. My uncle was inclined to believe that half the truth had
      been suppressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, the disease thus wonderfully generated, betrayed more terrible
      symptoms. Fever and delirium terminated in lethargic slumber, which, in
      the course of two hours, gave place to death. Yet not till insupportable
      exhalations and crawling putrefaction had driven from his chamber and the
      house every one whom their duty did not detain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the end of my father. None surely was ever more mysterious. When
      we recollect his gloomy anticipations and unconquerable anxiety; the
      security from human malice which his character, the place, and the
      condition of the times, might be supposed to confer; the purity and
      cloudlessness of the atmosphere, which rendered it impossible that
      lightning was the cause; what are the conclusions that we must form?
    </p>
    <p>
      The prelusive gleam, the blow upon his arm, the fatal spark, the explosion
      heard so far, the fiery cloud that environed him, without detriment to the
      structure, though composed of combustible materials, the sudden vanishing
      of this cloud at my uncle's approach&mdash;what is the inference to be
      drawn from these facts? Their truth cannot be doubted. My uncle's
      testimony is peculiarly worthy of credit, because no man's temper is more
      sceptical, and his belief is unalterably attached to natural causes.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was at this time a child of six years of age. The impressions that were
      then made upon me, can never be effaced. I was ill qualified to judge
      respecting what was then passing; but as I advanced in age, and became
      more fully acquainted with these facts, they oftener became the subject of
      my thoughts. Their resemblance to recent events revived them with new
      force in my memory, and made me more anxious to explain them. Was this the
      penalty of disobedience? this the stroke of a vindictive and invisible
      hand? Is it a fresh proof that the Divine Ruler interferes in human
      affairs, meditates an end, selects, and commissions his agents, and
      enforces, by unequivocal sanctions, submission to his will? Or, was it
      merely the irregular expansion of the fluid that imparts warmth to our
      heart and our blood, caused by the fatigue of the preceding day, or
      flowing, by established laws, from the condition of his thoughts? [*]
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * A case, in its symptoms exactly parallel to this, is
     published in one of the Journals of Florence. See, likewise,
     similar cases reported by Messrs. Merille and Muraire, in
     the "Journal de Medicine," for February and May, 1783. The
     researches of Maffei and Fontana have thrown some light upon
     this subject.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      Chapter III
    </h2>
    <p>
      The shock which this disastrous occurrence occasioned to my mother, was
      the foundation of a disease which carried her, in a few months, to the
      grave. My brother and myself were children at this time, and were now
      reduced to the condition of orphans. The property which our parents left
      was by no means inconsiderable. It was entrusted to faithful hands, till
      we should arrive at a suitable age. Meanwhile, our education was assigned
      to a maiden aunt who resided in the city, and whose tenderness made us in
      a short time cease to regret that we had lost a mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      The years that succeeded were tranquil and happy. Our lives were molested
      by few of those cares that are incident to childhood. By accident more
      than design, the indulgence and yielding temper of our aunt was mingled
      with resolution and stedfastness. She seldom deviated into either extreme
      of rigour or lenity. Our social pleasures were subject to no unreasonable
      restraints. We were instructed in most branches of useful knowledge, and
      were saved from the corruption and tyranny of colleges and
      boarding-schools.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our companions were chiefly selected from the children of our neighbours.
      Between one of these and my brother, there quickly grew the most
      affectionate intimacy. Her name was Catharine Pleyel. She was rich,
      beautiful, and contrived to blend the most bewitching softness with the
      most exuberant vivacity. The tie by which my brother and she were united,
      seemed to add force to the love which I bore her, and which was amply
      returned. Between her and myself there was every circumstance tending to
      produce and foster friendship. Our sex and age were the same. We lived
      within sight of each other's abode. Our tempers were remarkably congenial,
      and the superintendants of our education not only prescribed to us the
      same pursuits, but allowed us to cultivate them together.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every day added strength to the triple bonds that united us. We gradually
      withdrew ourselves from the society of others, and found every moment
      irksome that was not devoted to each other. My brother's advance in age
      made no change in our situation. It was determined that his profession
      should be agriculture. His fortune exempted him from the necessity of
      personal labour. The task to be performed by him was nothing more than
      superintendance. The skill that was demanded by this was merely
      theoretical, and was furnished by casual inspection, or by closet study.
      The attention that was paid to this subject did not seclude him for any
      long time from us, on whom time had no other effect than to augment our
      impatience in the absence of each other and of him. Our tasks, our walks,
      our music, were seldom performed but in each other's company.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was easy to see that Catharine and my brother were born for each other.
      The passion which they mutually entertained quickly broke those bounds
      which extreme youth had set to it; confessions were made or extorted, and
      their union was postponed only till my brother had passed his minority.
      The previous lapse of two years was constantly and usefully employed.
    </p>
    <p>
      O my brother! But the task I have set myself let me perform with
      steadiness. The felicity of that period was marred by no gloomy
      anticipations. The future, like the present, was serene. Time was supposed
      to have only new delights in store. I mean not to dwell on previous
      incidents longer than is necessary to illustrate or explain the great
      events that have since happened. The nuptial day at length arrived. My
      brother took possession of the house in which he was born, and here the
      long protracted marriage was solemnized.
    </p>
    <p>
      My father's property was equally divided between us. A neat dwelling,
      situated on the bank of the river, three quarters of a mile from my
      brother's, was now occupied by me. These domains were called, from the
      name of the first possessor, Mettingen. I can scarcely account for my
      refusing to take up my abode with him, unless it were from a disposition
      to be an economist of pleasure. Self-denial, seasonably exercised, is one
      means of enhancing our gratifications. I was, beside, desirous of
      administering a fund, and regulating an household, of my own. The short
      distance allowed us to exchange visits as often as we pleased. The walk
      from one mansion to the other was no undelightful prelude to our
      interviews. I was sometimes their visitant, and they, as frequently, were
      my guests.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our education had been modelled by no religious standard. We were left to
      the guidance of our own understanding, and the casual impressions which
      society might make upon us. My friend's temper, as well as my own,
      exempted us from much anxiety on this account. It must not be supposed
      that we were without religion, but with us it was the product of lively
      feelings, excited by reflection on our own happiness, and by the grandeur
      of external nature. We sought not a basis for our faith, in the weighing
      of proofs, and the dissection of creeds. Our devotion was a mixed and
      casual sentiment, seldom verbally expressed, or solicitously sought, or
      carefully retained. In the midst of present enjoyment, no thought was
      bestowed on the future. As a consolation in calamity religion is dear. But
      calamity was yet at a distance, and its only tendency was to heighten
      enjoyments which needed not this addition to satisfy every craving.
    </p>
    <p>
      My brother's situation was somewhat different. His deportment was grave,
      considerate, and thoughtful. I will not say whether he was indebted to
      sublimer views for this disposition. Human life, in his opinion, was made
      up of changeable elements, and the principles of duty were not easily
      unfolded. The future, either as anterior, or subsequent to death, was a
      scene that required some preparation and provision to be made for it.
      These positions we could not deny, but what distinguished him was a
      propensity to ruminate on these truths. The images that visited us were
      blithsome and gay, but those with which he was most familiar were of an
      opposite hue. They did not generate affliction and fear, but they diffused
      over his behaviour a certain air of forethought and sobriety. The
      principal effect of this temper was visible in his features and tones.
      These, in general, bespoke a sort of thrilling melancholy. I scarcely ever
      knew him to laugh. He never accompanied the lawless mirth of his
      companions with more than a smile, but his conduct was the same as ours.
    </p>
    <p>
      He partook of our occupations and amusements with a zeal not less than
      ours, but of a different kind. The diversity in our temper was never the
      parent of discord, and was scarcely a topic of regret. The scene was
      variegated, but not tarnished or disordered by it. It hindered the element
      in which we moved from stagnating. Some agitation and concussion is
      requisite to the due exercise of human understanding. In his studies, he
      pursued an austerer and more arduous path. He was much conversant with the
      history of religious opinions, and took pains to ascertain their validity.
      He deemed it indispensable to examine the ground of his belief, to settle
      the relation between motives and actions, the criterion of merit, and the
      kinds and properties of evidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was an obvious resemblance between him and my father, in their
      conceptions of the importance of certain topics, and in the light in which
      the vicissitudes of human life were accustomed to be viewed. Their
      characters were similar, but the mind of the son was enriched by science,
      and embellished with literature.
    </p>
    <p>
      The temple was no longer assigned to its ancient use. From an Italian
      adventurer, who erroneously imagined that he could find employment for his
      skill, and sale for his sculptures in America, my brother had purchased a
      bust of Cicero. He professed to have copied this piece from an antique dug
      up with his own hands in the environs of Modena. Of the truth of his
      assertions we were not qualified to judge; but the marble was pure and
      polished, and we were contented to admire the performance, without waiting
      for the sanction of connoisseurs. We hired the same artist to hew a
      suitable pedestal from a neighbouring quarry. This was placed in the
      temple, and the bust rested upon it. Opposite to this was a harpsichord,
      sheltered by a temporary roof from the weather. This was the place of
      resort in the evenings of summer. Here we sung, and talked, and read, and
      occasionally banqueted. Every joyous and tender scene most dear to my
      memory, is connected with this edifice. Here the performances of our
      musical and poetical ancestor were rehearsed. Here my brother's children
      received the rudiments of their education; here a thousand conversations,
      pregnant with delight and improvement, took place; and here the social
      affections were accustomed to expand, and the tear of delicious sympathy
      to be shed.
    </p>
    <p>
      My brother was an indefatigable student. The authors whom he read were
      numerous, but the chief object of his veneration was Cicero. He was never
      tired of conning and rehearsing his productions. To understand them was
      not sufficient. He was anxious to discover the gestures and cadences with
      which they ought to be delivered. He was very scrupulous in selecting a
      true scheme of pronunciation for the Latin tongue, and in adapting it to
      the words of his darling writer. His favorite occupation consisted in
      embellishing his rhetoric with all the proprieties of gesticulation and
      utterance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not contented with this, he was diligent in settling and restoring the
      purity of the text. For this end, he collected all the editions and
      commentaries that could be procured, and employed months of severe study
      in exploring and comparing them. He never betrayed more satisfaction than
      when he made a discovery of this kind.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not till the addition of Henry Pleyel, my friend's only brother, to
      our society, that his passion for Roman eloquence was countenanced and
      fostered by a sympathy of tastes. This young man had been some years in
      Europe. We had separated at a very early age, and he was now returned to
      spend the remainder of his days among us.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our circle was greatly enlivened by the accession of a new member. His
      conversation abounded with novelty. His gaiety was almost boisterous, but
      was capable of yielding to a grave deportment when the occasion required
      it. His discernment was acute, but he was prone to view every object
      merely as supplying materials for mirth. His conceptions were ardent but
      ludicrous, and his memory, aided, as he honestly acknowledged, by his
      invention, was an inexhaustible fund of entertainment.
    </p>
    <p>
      His residence was at the same distance below the city as ours was above,
      but there seldom passed a day without our being favoured with a visit. My
      brother and he were endowed with the same attachment to the Latin writers;
      and Pleyel was not behind his friend in his knowledge of the history and
      metaphysics of religion. Their creeds, however, were in many respects
      opposite. Where one discovered only confirmations of his faith, the other
      could find nothing but reasons for doubt. Moral necessity, and calvinistic
      inspiration, were the props on which my brother thought proper to repose.
      Pleyel was the champion of intellectual liberty, and rejected all guidance
      but that of his reason. Their discussions were frequent, but, being
      managed with candour as well as with skill, they were always listened to
      by us with avidity and benefit.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pleyel, like his new friends, was fond of music and poetry. Henceforth our
      concerts consisted of two violins, an harpsichord, and three voices. We
      were frequently reminded how much happiness depends upon society. This new
      friend, though, before his arrival, we were sensible of no vacuity, could
      not now be spared. His departure would occasion a void which nothing could
      fill, and which would produce insupportable regret. Even my brother,
      though his opinions were hourly assailed, and even the divinity of Cicero
      contested, was captivated with his friend, and laid aside some part of his
      ancient gravity at Pleyel's approach.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      Chapter IV
    </h2>
    <p>
      Six years of uninterrupted happiness had rolled away, since my brother's
      marriage. The sound of war had been heard, but it was at such a distance
      as to enhance our enjoyment by affording objects of comparison. The
      Indians were repulsed on the one side, and Canada was conquered on the
      other. Revolutions and battles, however calamitous to those who occupied
      the scene, contributed in some sort to our happiness, by agitating our
      minds with curiosity, and furnishing causes of patriotic exultation. Four
      children, three of whom were of an age to compensate, by their personal
      and mental progress, the cares of which they had been, at a more helpless
      age, the objects, exercised my brother's tenderness. The fourth was a
      charming babe that promised to display the image of her mother, and
      enjoyed perfect health. To these were added a sweet girl fourteen years
      old, who was loved by all of us, with an affection more than parental.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her mother's story was a mournful one. She had come hither from England
      when this child was an infant, alone, without friends, and without money.
      She appeared to have embarked in a hasty and clandestine manner. She
      passed three years of solitude and anguish under my aunt's protection, and
      died a martyr to woe; the source of which she could, by no importunities,
      be prevailed upon to unfold. Her education and manners bespoke her to be
      of no mean birth. Her last moments were rendered serene, by the assurances
      she received from my aunt, that her daughter should experience the same
      protection that had been extended to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      On my brother's marriage, it was agreed that she should make a part of his
      family. I cannot do justice to the attractions of this girl. Perhaps the
      tenderness she excited might partly originate in her personal resemblance
      to her mother, whose character and misfortunes were still fresh in our
      remembrance. She was habitually pensive, and this circumstance tended to
      remind the spectator of her friendless condition; and yet that epithet was
      surely misapplied in this case. This being was cherished by those with
      whom she now resided, with unspeakable fondness. Every exertion was made
      to enlarge and improve her mind. Her safety was the object of a solicitude
      that almost exceeded the bounds of discretion. Our affection indeed could
      scarcely transcend her merits. She never met my eye, or occurred to my
      reflections, without exciting a kind of enthusiasm. Her softness, her
      intelligence, her equanimity, never shall I see surpassed. I have often
      shed tears of pleasure at her approach, and pressed her to my bosom in an
      agony of fondness.
    </p>
    <p>
      While every day was adding to the charms of her person, and the stores of
      her mind, there occurred an event which threatened to deprive us of her.
      An officer of some rank, who had been disabled by a wound at Quebec, had
      employed himself, since the ratification of peace, in travelling through
      the colonies. He remained a considerable period at Philadelphia, but was
      at last preparing for his departure. No one had been more frequently
      honoured with his visits than Mrs. Baynton, a worthy lady with whom our
      family were intimate. He went to her house with a view to perform a
      farewell visit, and was on the point of taking his leave, when I and my
      young friend entered the apartment. It is impossible to describe the
      emotions of the stranger, when he fixed his eyes upon my companion. He was
      motionless with surprise. He was unable to conceal his feelings, but sat
      silently gazing at the spectacle before him. At length he turned to Mrs.
      Baynton, and more by his looks and gestures than by words, besought her
      for an explanation of the scene. He seized the hand of the girl, who, in
      her turn, was surprised by his behaviour, and drawing her forward, said in
      an eager and faultering tone, Who is she? whence does she come? what is
      her name?
    </p>
    <p>
      The answers that were given only increased the confusion of his thoughts.
      He was successively told, that she was the daughter of one whose name was
      Louisa Conway, who arrived among us at such a time, who sedulously
      concealed her parentage, and the motives of her flight, whose incurable
      griefs had finally destroyed her, and who had left this child under the
      protection of her friends. Having heard the tale, he melted into tears,
      eagerly clasped the young lady in his arms, and called himself her father.
      When the tumults excited in his breast by this unlooked-for meeting were
      somewhat subsided, he gratified our curiosity by relating the following
      incidents.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Miss Conway was the only daughter of a banker in London, who discharged
      towards her every duty of an affectionate father. He had chanced to fall
      into her company, had been subdued by her attractions, had tendered her
      his hand, and been joyfully accepted both by parent and child. His wife
      had given him every proof of the fondest attachment. Her father, who
      possessed immense wealth, treated him with distinguished respect,
      liberally supplied his wants, and had made one condition of his consent to
      their union, a resolution to take up their abode with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "They had passed three years of conjugal felicity, which had been
      augmented by the birth of this child; when his professional duty called
      him into Germany. It was not without an arduous struggle, that she was
      persuaded to relinquish the design of accompanying him through all the
      toils and perils of war. No parting was ever more distressful. They strove
      to alleviate, by frequent letters, the evils of their lot. Those of his
      wife, breathed nothing but anxiety for his safety, and impatience of his
      absence. At length, a new arrangement was made, and he was obliged to
      repair from Westphalia to Canada. One advantage attended this change. It
      afforded him an opportunity of meeting his family. His wife anticipated
      this interview, with no less rapture than himself. He hurried to London,
      and the moment he alighted from the stage-coach, ran with all speed to Mr.
      Conway's house.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was an house of mourning. His father was overwhelmed with grief, and
      incapable of answering his inquiries. The servants, sorrowful and mute,
      were equally refractory. He explored the house, and called on the names of
      his wife and daughter, but his summons was fruitless. At length, this new
      disaster was explained. Two days before his arrival, his wife's chamber
      was found empty. No search, however diligent and anxious, could trace her
      steps. No cause could be assigned for her disappearance. The mother and
      child had fled away together.
    </p>
    <p>
      "New exertions were made, her chamber and cabinets were ransacked, but no
      vestige was found serving to inform them as to the motives of her flight,
      whether it had been voluntary or otherwise, and in what corner of the
      kingdom or of the world she was concealed. Who shall describe the sorrow
      and amazement of the husband? His restlessness, his vicissitudes of hope
      and fear, and his ultimate despair? His duty called him to America. He had
      been in this city, and had frequently passed the door of the house in
      which his wife, at that moment, resided. Her father had not remitted his
      exertions to elucidate this painful mystery, but they had failed. This
      disappointment hastened his death; in consequence of which, Louisa's
      father became possessor of his immense property."
    </p>
    <p>
      This tale was a copious theme of speculation. A thousand questions were
      started and discussed in our domestic circle, respecting the motives that
      influenced Mrs. Stuart to abandon her country. It did not appear that her
      proceeding was involuntary. We recalled and reviewed every particular that
      had fallen under our own observation. By none of these were we furnished
      with a clue. Her conduct, after the most rigorous scrutiny, still remained
      an impenetrable secret. On a nearer view, Major Stuart proved himself a
      man of most amiable character. His attachment to Louisa appeared hourly to
      increase. She was no stranger to the sentiments suitable to her new
      character. She could not but readily embrace the scheme which was proposed
      to her, to return with her father to England. This scheme his regard for
      her induced him, however, to postpone. Some time was necessary to prepare
      her for so great a change and enable her to think without agony of her
      separation from us.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was not without hopes of prevailing on her father entirely to relinquish
      this unwelcome design. Meanwhile, he pursued his travels through the
      southern colonies, and his daughter continued with us. Louisa and my
      brother frequently received letters from him, which indicated a mind of no
      common order. They were filled with amusing details, and profound
      reflections. While here, he often partook of our evening conversations at
      the temple; and since his departure, his correspondence had frequently
      supplied us with topics of discourse.
    </p>
    <p>
      One afternoon in May, the blandness of the air, and brightness of the
      verdure, induced us to assemble, earlier than usual, in the temple. We
      females were busy at the needle, while my brother and Pleyel were bandying
      quotations and syllogisms. The point discussed was the merit of the
      oration for Cluentius, as descriptive, first, of the genius of the
      speaker; and, secondly, of the manners of the times. Pleyel laboured to
      extenuate both these species of merit, and tasked his ingenuity, to shew
      that the orator had embraced a bad cause; or, at least, a doubtful one. He
      urged, that to rely on the exaggerations of an advocate, or to make the
      picture of a single family a model from which to sketch the condition of a
      nation, was absurd. The controversy was suddenly diverted into a new
      channel, by a misquotation. Pleyel accused his companion of saying
      "polliciatur" when he should have said "polliceretur." Nothing would
      decide the contest, but an appeal to the volume. My brother was returning
      to the house for this purpose, when a servant met him with a letter from
      Major Stuart. He immediately returned to read it in our company.
    </p>
    <p>
      Besides affectionate compliments to us, and paternal benedictions on
      Louisa, his letter contained a description of a waterfall on the
      Monongahela. A sudden gust of rain falling, we were compelled to remove to
      the house. The storm passed away, and a radiant moon-light succeeded.
      There was no motion to resume our seats in the temple. We therefore
      remained where we were, and engaged in sprightly conversation. The letter
      lately received naturally suggested the topic. A parallel was drawn
      between the cataract there described, and one which Pleyel had discovered
      among the Alps of Glarus. In the state of the former, some particular was
      mentioned, the truth of which was questionable. To settle the dispute
      which thence arose, it was proposed to have recourse to the letter. My
      brother searched for it in his pocket. It was no where to be found. At
      length, he remembered to have left it in the temple, and he determined to
      go in search of it. His wife, Pleyel, Louisa, and myself, remained where
      we were.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a few minutes he returned. I was somewhat interested in the dispute,
      and was therefore impatient for his return; yet, as I heard him ascending
      the stairs, I could not but remark, that he had executed his intention
      with remarkable dispatch. My eyes were fixed upon him on his entrance.
      Methought he brought with him looks considerably different from those with
      which he departed. Wonder, and a slight portion of anxiety were mingled in
      them. His eyes seemed to be in search of some object. They passed quickly
      from one person to another, till they rested on his wife. She was seated
      in a careless attitude on the sofa, in the same spot as before. She had
      the same muslin in her hand, by which her attention was chiefly engrossed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moment he saw her, his perplexity visibly increased. He quietly seated
      himself, and fixing his eyes on the floor, appeared to be absorbed in
      meditation. These singularities suspended the inquiry which I was
      preparing to make respecting the letter. In a short time, the company
      relinquished the subject which engaged them, and directed their attention
      to Wieland. They thought that he only waited for a pause in the discourse,
      to produce the letter. The pause was uninterrupted by him. At length
      Pleyel said, "Well, I suppose you have found the letter."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No," said he, without any abatement of his gravity, and looking
      stedfastly at his wife, "I did not mount the hill."&mdash;"Why not?"&mdash;"Catharine,
      have you not moved from that spot since I left the room?"&mdash;She was
      affected with the solemnity of his manner, and laying down her work,
      answered in a tone of surprise, "No; Why do you ask that question?"&mdash;His
      eyes were again fixed upon the floor, and he did not immediately answer.
      At length, he said, looking round upon us, "Is it true that Catharine did
      not follow me to the hill? That she did not just now enter the room?"&mdash;We
      assured him, with one voice, that she had not been absent for a moment,
      and inquired into the motive of his questions.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your assurances," said he, "are solemn and unanimous; and yet I must deny
      credit to your assertions, or disbelieve the testimony of my senses, which
      informed me, when I was half way up the hill, that Catharine was at the
      bottom."
    </p>
    <p>
      We were confounded at this declaration. Pleyel rallied him with great
      levity on his behaviour. He listened to his friend with calmness, but
      without any relaxation of features.
    </p>
    <p>
      "One thing," said he with emphasis, "is true; either I heard my wife's
      voice at the bottom of the hill, or I do not hear your voice at present."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Truly," returned Pleyel, "it is a sad dilemma to which you have reduced
      yourself. Certain it is, if our eyes can give us certainty that your wife
      has been sitting in that spot during every moment of your absence. You
      have heard her voice, you say, upon the hill. In general, her voice, like
      her temper, is all softness. To be heard across the room, she is obliged
      to exert herself. While you were gone, if I mistake not, she did not utter
      a word. Clara and I had all the talk to ourselves. Still it may be that
      she held a whispering conference with you on the hill; but tell us the
      particulars."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The conference," said he, "was short; and far from being carried on in a
      whisper. You know with what intention I left the house. Half way to the
      rock, the moon was for a moment hidden from us by a cloud. I never knew
      the air to be more bland and more calm. In this interval I glanced at the
      temple, and thought I saw a glimmering between the columns. It was so
      faint, that it would not perhaps have been visible, if the moon had not
      been shrowded. I looked again, but saw nothing. I never visit this
      building alone, or at night, without being reminded of the fate of my
      father. There was nothing wonderful in this appearance; yet it suggested
      something more than mere solitude and darkness in the same place would
      have done.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I kept on my way. The images that haunted me were solemn; and I
      entertained an imperfect curiosity, but no fear, as to the nature of this
      object. I had ascended the hill little more than half way, when a voice
      called me from behind. The accents were clear, distinct, powerful, and
      were uttered, as I fully believed, by my wife. Her voice is not commonly
      so loud. She has seldom occasion to exert it, but, nevertheless, I have
      sometimes heard her call with force and eagerness. If my ear was not
      deceived, it was her voice which I heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Stop, go no further. There is danger in your path." The suddenness and
      unexpectedness of this warning, the tone of alarm with which it was given,
      and, above all, the persuasion that it was my wife who spoke, were enough
      to disconcert and make me pause. I turned and listened to assure myself
      that I was not mistaken. The deepest silence succeeded. At length, I spoke
      in my turn. Who calls? is it you, Catharine? I stopped and presently
      received an answer. "Yes, it is I; go not up; return instantly; you are
      wanted at the house." Still the voice was Catharine's, and still it
      proceeded from the foot of the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What could I do? The warning was mysterious. To be uttered by Catharine
      at a place, and on an occasion like these, enhanced the mystery. I could
      do nothing but obey. Accordingly, I trod back my steps, expecting that she
      waited for me at the bottom of the hill. When I reached the bottom, no one
      was visible. The moon-light was once more universal and brilliant, and
      yet, as far as I could see no human or moving figure was discernible. If
      she had returned to the house, she must have used wondrous expedition to
      have passed already beyond the reach of my eye. I exerted my voice, but in
      vain. To my repeated exclamations, no answer was returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ruminating on these incidents, I returned hither. There was no room to
      doubt that I had heard my wife's voice; attending incidents were not
      easily explained; but you now assure me that nothing extraordinary has
      happened to urge my return, and that my wife has not moved from her seat."
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was my brother's narrative. It was heard by us with different
      emotions. Pleyel did not scruple to regard the whole as a deception of the
      senses. Perhaps a voice had been heard; but Wieland's imagination had
      misled him in supposing a resemblance to that of his wife, and giving such
      a signification to the sounds. According to his custom he spoke what he
      thought. Sometimes, he made it the theme of grave discussion, but more
      frequently treated it with ridicule. He did not believe that sober
      reasoning would convince his friend, and gaiety, he thought, was useful to
      take away the solemnities which, in a mind like Wieland's, an accident of
      this kind was calculated to produce.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pleyel proposed to go in search of the letter. He went and speedily
      returned, bearing it in his hand. He had found it open on the pedestal;
      and neither voice nor visage had risen to impede his design.
    </p>
    <p>
      Catharine was endowed with an uncommon portion of good sense; but her mind
      was accessible, on this quarter, to wonder and panic. That her voice
      should be thus inexplicably and unwarrantably assumed, was a source of no
      small disquietude. She admitted the plausibility of the arguments by which
      Pleyel endeavoured to prove, that this was no more than an auricular
      deception; but this conviction was sure to be shaken, when she turned her
      eyes upon her husband, and perceived that Pleyel's logic was far from
      having produced the same effect upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to myself, my attention was engaged by this occurrence. I could not
      fail to perceive a shadowy resemblance between it and my father's death.
      On the latter event, I had frequently reflected; my reflections never
      conducted me to certainty, but the doubts that existed were not of a
      tormenting kind. I could not deny that the event was miraculous, and yet I
      was invincibly averse to that method of solution. My wonder was excited by
      the inscrutableness of the cause, but my wonder was unmixed with sorrow or
      fear. It begat in me a thrilling, and not unpleasing solemnity. Similar to
      these were the sensations produced by the recent adventure.
    </p>
    <p>
      But its effect upon my brother's imagination was of chief moment. All that
      was desirable was, that it should be regarded by him with indifference.
      The worst effect that could flow, was not indeed very formidable. Yet I
      could not bear to think that his senses should be the victims of such
      delusion. It argued a diseased condition of his frame, which might show
      itself hereafter in more dangerous symptoms. The will is the tool of the
      understanding, which must fashion its conclusions on the notices of sense.
      If the senses be depraved, it is impossible to calculate the evils that
      may flow from the consequent deductions of the understanding.
    </p>
    <p>
      I said, this man is of an ardent and melancholy character. Those ideas
      which, in others, are casual or obscure, which are entertained in moments
      of abstraction and solitude, and easily escape when the scene is changed,
      have obtained an immoveable hold upon his mind. The conclusions which long
      habit has rendered familiar, and, in some sort, palpable to his intellect,
      are drawn from the deepest sources. All his actions and practical
      sentiments are linked with long and abstruse deductions from the system of
      divine government and the laws of our intellectual constitution. He is, in
      some respects, an enthusiast, but is fortified in his belief by
      innumerable arguments and subtilties.
    </p>
    <p>
      His father's death was always regarded by him as flowing from a direct and
      supernatural decree. It visited his meditations oftener than it did mine.
      The traces which it left were more gloomy and permanent. This new incident
      had a visible effect in augmenting his gravity. He was less disposed than
      formerly to converse and reading. When we sifted his thoughts, they were
      generally found to have a relation, more or less direct, with this
      incident. It was difficult to ascertain the exact species of impression
      which it made upon him. He never introduced the subject into conversation,
      and listened with a silent and half-serious smile to the satirical
      effusions of Pleyel.
    </p>
    <p>
      One evening we chanced to be alone together in the temple. I seized that
      opportunity of investigating the state of his thoughts. After a pause,
      which he seemed in no wise inclined to interrupt, I spoke to him&mdash;"How
      almost palpable is this dark; yet a ray from above would dispel it." "Ay,"
      said Wieland, with fervor, "not only the physical, but moral night would
      be dispelled." "But why," said I, "must the Divine Will address its
      precepts to the eye?" He smiled significantly. "True," said he, "the
      understanding has other avenues." "You have never," said I, approaching
      nearer to the point&mdash;"you have never told me in what way you
      considered the late extraordinary incident." "There is no determinate way
      in which the subject can be viewed. Here is an effect, but the cause is
      utterly inscrutable. To suppose a deception will not do. Such is possible,
      but there are twenty other suppositions more probable. They must all be
      set aside before we reach that point." "What are these twenty
      suppositions?" "It is needless to mention them. They are only less
      improbable than Pleyel's. Time may convert one of them into certainty.
      Till then it is useless to expatiate on them."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter V
    </h2>
    <p>
      Some time had elapsed when there happened another occurrence, still more
      remarkable. Pleyel, on his return from Europe, brought information of
      considerable importance to my brother. My ancestors were noble Saxons, and
      possessed large domains in Lusatia. The Prussian wars had destroyed those
      persons whose right to these estates precluded my brother's. Pleyel had
      been exact in his inquiries, and had discovered that, by the law of
      male-primogeniture, my brother's claims were superior to those of any
      other person now living. Nothing was wanting but his presence in that
      country, and a legal application to establish this claim.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pleyel strenuously recommended this measure. The advantages he thought
      attending it were numerous, and it would argue the utmost folly to neglect
      them. Contrary to his expectation he found my brother averse to the
      scheme. Slight efforts, he, at first, thought would subdue his reluctance;
      but he found this aversion by no means slight. The interest that he took
      in the happiness of his friend and his sister, and his own partiality to
      the Saxon soil, from which he had likewise sprung, and where he had spent
      several years of his youth, made him redouble his exertions to win
      Wieland's consent. For this end he employed every argument that his
      invention could suggest. He painted, in attractive colours, the state of
      manners and government in that country, the security of civil rights, and
      the freedom of religious sentiments. He dwelt on the privileges of wealth
      and rank, and drew from the servile condition of one class, an argument in
      favor of his scheme, since the revenue and power annexed to a German
      principality afford so large a field for benevolence. The evil flowing
      from this power, in malignant hands, was proportioned to the good that
      would arise from the virtuous use of it. Hence, Wieland, in forbearing to
      claim his own, withheld all the positive felicity that would accrue to his
      vassals from his success, and hazarded all the misery that would redound
      from a less enlightened proprietor.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was easy for my brother to repel these arguments, and to shew that no
      spot on the globe enjoyed equal security and liberty to that which he at
      present inhabited. That if the Saxons had nothing to fear from
      mis-government, the external causes of havoc and alarm were numerous and
      manifest. The recent devastations committed by the Prussians furnished a
      specimen of these. The horrors of war would always impend over them, till
      Germany were seized and divided by Austrian and Prussian tyrants; an event
      which he strongly suspected was at no great distance. But setting these
      considerations aside, was it laudable to grasp at wealth and power even
      when they were within our reach? Were not these the two great sources of
      depravity? What security had he, that in this change of place and
      condition, he should not degenerate into a tyrant and voluptuary? Power
      and riches were chiefly to be dreaded on account of their tendency to
      deprave the possessor. He held them in abhorrence, not only as instruments
      of misery to others, but to him on whom they were conferred. Besides,
      riches were comparative, and was he not rich already? He lived at present
      in the bosom of security and luxury. All the instruments of pleasure, on
      which his reason or imagination set any value, were within his reach. But
      these he must forego, for the sake of advantages which, whatever were
      their value, were as yet uncertain. In pursuit of an imaginary addition to
      his wealth, he must reduce himself to poverty, he must exchange present
      certainties for what was distant and contingent; for who knows not that
      the law is a system of expence, delay and uncertainty? If he should
      embrace this scheme, it would lay him under the necessity of making a
      voyage to Europe, and remaining for a certain period, separate from his
      family. He must undergo the perils and discomforts of the ocean; he must
      divest himself of all domestic pleasures; he must deprive his wife of her
      companion, and his children of a father and instructor, and all for what?
      For the ambiguous advantages which overgrown wealth and flagitious tyranny
      have to bestow? For a precarious possession in a land of turbulence and
      war? Advantages, which will not certainly be gained, and of which the
      acquisition, if it were sure, is necessarily distant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pleyel was enamoured of his scheme on account of its intrinsic benefits,
      but, likewise, for other reasons. His abode at Leipsig made that country
      appear to him like home. He was connected with this place by many social
      ties. While there he had not escaped the amorous contagion. But the lady,
      though her heart was impressed in his favor, was compelled to bestow her
      hand upon another. Death had removed this impediment, and he was now
      invited by the lady herself to return. This he was of course determined to
      do, but was anxious to obtain the company of Wieland; he could not bear to
      think of an eternal separation from his present associates. Their
      interest, he thought, would be no less promoted by the change than his
      own. Hence he was importunate and indefatigable in his arguments and
      solicitations.
    </p>
    <p>
      He knew that he could not hope for mine or his sister's ready concurrence
      in this scheme. Should the subject be mentioned to us, we should league
      our efforts against him, and strengthen that reluctance in Wieland which
      already was sufficiently difficult to conquer. He, therefore, anxiously
      concealed from us his purpose. If Wieland were previously enlisted in his
      cause, he would find it a less difficult task to overcome our aversion. My
      brother was silent on this subject, because he believed himself in no
      danger of changing his opinion, and he was willing to save us from any
      uneasiness. The mere mention of such a scheme, and the possibility of his
      embracing it, he knew, would considerably impair our tranquillity.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day, about three weeks subsequent to the mysterious call, it was
      agreed that the family should be my guests. Seldom had a day been passed
      by us, of more serene enjoyment. Pleyel had promised us his company, but
      we did not see him till the sun had nearly declined. He brought with him a
      countenance that betokened disappointment and vexation. He did not wait
      for our inquiries, but immediately explained the cause. Two days before a
      packet had arrived from Hamburgh, by which he had flattered himself with
      the expectation of receiving letters, but no letters had arrived. I never
      saw him so much subdued by an untoward event. His thoughts were employed
      in accounting for the silence of his friends. He was seized with the
      torments of jealousy, and suspected nothing less than the infidelity of
      her to whom he had devoted his heart. The silence must have been
      concerted. Her sickness, or absence, or death, would have increased the
      certainty of some one's having written. No supposition could be formed but
      that his mistress had grown indifferent, or that she had transferred her
      affections to another. The miscarriage of a letter was hardly within the
      reach of possibility. From Leipsig to Hamburgh, and from Hamburgh hither,
      the conveyance was exposed to no hazard.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had been so long detained in America chiefly in consequence of
      Wieland's aversion to the scheme which he proposed. He now became more
      impatient than ever to return to Europe. When he reflected that, by his
      delays, he had probably forfeited the affections of his mistress, his
      sensations amounted to agony. It only remained, by his speedy departure,
      to repair, if possible, or prevent so intolerable an evil. Already he had
      half resolved to embark in this very ship which, he was informed, would
      set out in a few weeks on her return.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile he determined to make a new attempt to shake the resolution of
      Wieland. The evening was somewhat advanced when he invited the latter to
      walk abroad with him. The invitation was accepted, and they left
      Catharine, Louisa and me, to amuse ourselves by the best means in our
      power. During this walk, Pleyel renewed the subject that was nearest his
      heart. He re-urged all his former arguments, and placed them in more
      forcible lights.
    </p>
    <p>
      They promised to return shortly; but hour after hour passed, and they made
      not their appearance. Engaged in sprightly conversation, it was not till
      the clock struck twelve that we were reminded of the lapse of time. The
      absence of our friends excited some uneasy apprehensions. We were
      expressing our fears, and comparing our conjectures as to what might be
      the cause, when they entered together. There were indications in their
      countenances that struck me mute. These were unnoticed by Catharine, who
      was eager to express her surprize and curiosity at the length of their
      walk. As they listened to her, I remarked that their surprize was not less
      than ours. They gazed in silence on each other, and on her. I watched
      their looks, but could not understand the emotions that were written in
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      These appearances diverted Catharine's inquiries into a new channel. What
      did they mean, she asked, by their silence, and by their thus gazing
      wildly at each other, and at her? Pleyel profited by this hint, and
      assuming an air of indifference, framed some trifling excuse, at the same
      time darting significant glances at Wieland, as if to caution him against
      disclosing the truth. My brother said nothing, but delivered himself up to
      meditation. I likewise was silent, but burned with impatience to fathom
      this mystery. Presently my brother and his wife, and Louisa, returned
      home. Pleyel proposed, of his own accord, to be my guest for the night.
      This circumstance, in addition to those which preceded, gave new edge to
      my wonder.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as we were left alone, Pleyel's countenance assumed an air of
      seriousness, and even consternation, which I had never before beheld in
      him. The steps with which he measured the floor betokened the trouble of
      his thoughts. My inquiries were suspended by the hope that he would give
      me the information that I wanted without the importunity of questions. I
      waited some time, but the confusion of his thoughts appeared in no degree
      to abate. At length I mentioned the apprehensions which their unusual
      absence had occasioned, and which were increased by their behaviour since
      their return, and solicited an explanation. He stopped when I began to
      speak, and looked stedfastly at me. When I had done, he said, to me, in a
      tone which faultered through the vehemence of his emotions, "How were you
      employed during our absence?" "In turning over the Della Crusca
      dictionary, and talking on different subjects; but just before your
      entrance, we were tormenting ourselves with omens and prognosticks
      relative to your absence." "Catherine was with you the whole time?" "Yes."
      "But are you sure?" "Most sure. She was not absent a moment." He stood,
      for a time, as if to assure himself of my sincerity. Then, clinching his
      hands, and wildly lifting them above his head, "Lo," cried he, "I have
      news to tell you. The Baroness de Stolberg is dead?"
    </p>
    <p>
      This was her whom he loved. I was not surprised at the agitations which he
      betrayed. "But how was the information procured? How was the truth of this
      news connected with the circumstance of Catharine's remaining in our
      company?" He was for some time inattentive to my questions. When he spoke,
      it seemed merely a continuation of the reverie into which he had been
      plunged.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And yet it might be a mere deception. But could both of us in that case
      have been deceived? A rare and prodigious coincidence! Barely not
      impossible. And yet, if the accent be oracular&mdash;Theresa is dead. No,
      no," continued he, covering his face with his hands, and in a tone half
      broken into sobs, "I cannot believe it. She has not written, but if she
      were dead, the faithful Bertrand would have given me the earliest
      information. And yet if he knew his master, he must have easily guessed at
      the effect of such tidings. In pity to me he was silent."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Clara, forgive me; to you, this behaviour is mysterious. I will explain
      as well as I am able. But say not a word to Catharine. Her strength of
      mind is inferior to your's. She will, besides, have more reason to be
      startled. She is Wieland's angel."
    </p>
    <p>
      Pleyel proceeded to inform me, for the first time, of the scheme which he
      had pressed, with so much earnestness, on my brother. He enumerated the
      objections which had been made, and the industry with which he had
      endeavoured to confute them. He mentioned the effect upon his resolutions
      produced by the failure of a letter. "During our late walk," continued he,
      "I introduced the subject that was nearest my heart. I re-urged all my
      former arguments, and placed them in more forcible lights. Wieland was
      still refractory. He expatiated on the perils of wealth and power, on the
      sacredness of conjugal and parental duties, and the happiness of
      mediocrity.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No wonder that the time passed, unperceived, away. Our whole souls were
      engaged in this cause. Several times we came to the foot of the rock; as
      soon as we perceived it, we changed our course, but never failed to
      terminate our circuitous and devious ramble at this spot. At length your
      brother observed, 'We seem to be led hither by a kind of fatality. Since
      we are so near, let us ascend and rest ourselves a while. If you are not
      weary of this argument we will resume it there.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "I tacitly consented. We mounted the stairs, and drawing the sofa in front
      of the river, we seated ourselves upon it. I took up the thread of our
      discourse where we had dropped it. I ridiculed his dread of the sea, and
      his attachment to home. I kept on in this strain, so congenial with my
      disposition, for some time, uninterrupted by him. At length, he said to
      me, "Suppose now that I, whom argument has not convinced, should yield to
      ridicule, and should agree that your scheme is eligible; what will you
      have gained? Nothing. You have other enemies beside myself to encounter.
      When you have vanquished me, your toil has scarcely begun. There are my
      sister and wife, with whom it will remain for you to maintain the contest.
      And trust me, they are adversaries whom all your force and stratagem will
      never subdue." I insinuated that they would model themselves by his will:
      that Catharine would think obedience her duty. He answered, with some
      quickness, "You mistake. Their concurrence is indispensable. It is not my
      custom to exact sacrifices of this kind. I live to be their protector and
      friend, and not their tyrant and foe. If my wife shall deem her happiness,
      and that of her children, most consulted by remaining where she is, here
      she shall remain." "But," said I, "when she knows your pleasure, will she
      not conform to it?" Before my friend had time to answer this question, a
      negative was clearly and distinctly uttered from another quarter. It did
      not come from one side or the other, from before us or behind. Whence then
      did it come? By whose organs was it fashioned?
    </p>
    <p>
      "If any uncertainty had existed with regard to these particulars, it would
      have been removed by a deliberate and equally distinct repetition of the
      same monosyllable, "No." The voice was my sister's. It appeared to come
      from the roof. I started from my seat. Catharine, exclaimed I, where are
      you? No answer was returned. I searched the room, and the area before it,
      but in vain. Your brother was motionless in his seat. I returned to him,
      and placed myself again by his side. My astonishment was not less than
      his."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well," said he, at length, "What think you of this? This is the self-same
      voice which I formerly heard; you are now convinced that my ears were well
      informed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," said I, "this, it is plain, is no fiction of the fancy." We again
      sunk into mutual and thoughtful silence. A recollection of the hour, and
      of the length of our absence, made me at last propose to return. We rose
      up for this purpose. In doing this, my mind reverted to the contemplation
      of my own condition. "Yes," said I aloud, but without particularly
      addressing myself to Wieland, "my resolution is taken. I cannot hope to
      prevail with my friends to accompany me. They may doze away their days on
      the banks of Schuylkill, but as to me, I go in the next vessel; I will fly
      to her presence, and demand the reason of this extraordinary silence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I had scarcely finished the sentence, when the same mysterious voice
      exclaimed, "You shall not go. The seal of death is on her lips. Her
      silence is the silence of the tomb." Think of the effects which accents
      like these must have had upon me. I shuddered as I listened. As soon as I
      recovered from my first amazement, "Who is it that speaks?" said I,
      "whence did you procure these dismal tidings?" I did not wait long for an
      answer. "From a source that cannot fail. Be satisfied. She is dead." You
      may justly be surprised, that, in the circumstances in which I heard the
      tidings, and notwithstanding the mystery which environed him by whom they
      were imparted, I could give an undivided attention to the facts, which
      were the subject of our dialogue. I eagerly inquired, when and where did
      she die? What was the cause of her death? Was her death absolutely
      certain? An answer was returned only to the last of these questions.
      "Yes," was pronounced by the same voice; but it now sounded from a greater
      distance, and the deepest silence was all the return made to my subsequent
      interrogatories.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was my sister's voice; but it could not be uttered by her; and yet, if
      not by her, by whom was it uttered? When we returned hither, and
      discovered you together, the doubt that had previously existed was
      removed. It was manifest that the intimation came not from her. Yet if not
      from her, from whom could it come? Are the circumstances attending the
      imparting of this news proof that the tidings are true? God forbid that
      they should be true."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Pleyel sunk into anxious silence, and gave me leisure to ruminate on
      this inexplicable event. I am at a loss to describe the sensations that
      affected me. I am not fearful of shadows. The tales of apparitions and
      enchantments did not possess that power over my belief which could even
      render them interesting. I saw nothing in them but ignorance and folly,
      and was a stranger even to that terror which is pleasing. But this
      incident was different from any that I had ever before known. Here were
      proofs of a sensible and intelligent existence, which could not be denied.
      Here was information obtained and imparted by means unquestionably
      super-human.
    </p>
    <p>
      That there are conscious beings, beside ourselves, in existence, whose
      modes of activity and information surpass our own, can scarcely be denied.
      Is there a glimpse afforded us into a world of these superior beings? My
      heart was scarcely large enough to give admittance to so swelling a
      thought. An awe, the sweetest and most solemn that imagination can
      conceive, pervaded my whole frame. It forsook me not when I parted from
      Pleyel and retired to my chamber. An impulse was given to my spirits
      utterly incompatible with sleep. I passed the night wakeful and full of
      meditation. I was impressed with the belief of mysterious, but not of
      malignant agency. Hitherto nothing had occurred to persuade me that this
      airy minister was busy to evil rather than to good purposes. On the
      contrary, the idea of superior virtue had always been associated in my
      mind with that of superior power. The warnings that had thus been heard
      appeared to have been prompted by beneficent intentions. My brother had
      been hindered by this voice from ascending the hill. He was told that
      danger lurked in his path, and his obedience to the intimation had perhaps
      saved him from a destiny similar to that of my father.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pleyel had been rescued from tormenting uncertainty, and from the hazards
      and fatigues of a fruitless voyage, by the same interposition. It had
      assured him of the death of his Theresa.
    </p>
    <p>
      This woman was then dead. A confirmation of the tidings, if true, would
      speedily arrive. Was this confirmation to be deprecated or desired? By her
      death, the tie that attached him to Europe, was taken away. Henceforward
      every motive would combine to retain him in his native country, and we
      were rescued from the deep regrets that would accompany his hopeless
      absence from us. Propitious was the spirit that imparted these tidings.
      Propitious he would perhaps have been, if he had been instrumental in
      producing, as well as in communicating the tidings of her death.
      Propitious to us, the friends of Pleyel, to whom has thereby been secured
      the enjoyment of his society; and not unpropitious to himself; for though
      this object of his love be snatched away, is there not another who is able
      and willing to console him for her loss?
    </p>
    <p>
      Twenty days after this, another vessel arrived from the same port. In this
      interval, Pleyel, for the most part, estranged himself from his old
      companions. He was become the prey of a gloomy and unsociable grief. His
      walks were limited to the bank of the Delaware. This bank is an artificial
      one. Reeds and the river are on one side, and a watery marsh on the other,
      in that part which bounded his lands, and which extended from the mouth of
      Hollander's creek to that of Schuylkill. No scene can be imagined less
      enticing to a lover of the picturesque than this. The shore is deformed
      with mud, and incumbered with a forest of reeds. The fields, in most
      seasons, are mire; but when they afford a firm footing, the ditches by
      which they are bounded and intersected, are mantled with stagnating green,
      and emit the most noxious exhalations. Health is no less a stranger to
      those seats than pleasure. Spring and autumn are sure to be accompanied
      with agues and bilious remittents.
    </p>
    <p>
      The scenes which environed our dwellings at Mettingen constituted the
      reverse of this. Schuylkill was here a pure and translucid current, broken
      into wild and ceaseless music by rocky points, murmuring on a sandy
      margin, and reflecting on its surface, banks of all varieties of height
      and degrees of declivity. These banks were chequered by patches of dark
      verdure and shapeless masses of white marble, and crowned by copses of
      cedar, or by the regular magnificence of orchards, which, at this season,
      were in blossom, and were prodigal of odours. The ground which receded
      from the river was scooped into valleys and dales. Its beauties were
      enhanced by the horticultural skill of my brother, who bedecked this
      exquisite assemblage of slopes and risings with every species of vegetable
      ornament, from the giant arms of the oak to the clustering tendrils of the
      honey-suckle.
    </p>
    <p>
      To screen him from the unwholesome airs of his own residence, it had been
      proposed to Pleyel to spend the months of spring with us. He had
      apparently acquiesced in this proposal; but the late event induced him to
      change his purpose. He was only to be seen by visiting him in his
      retirements. His gaiety had flown, and every passion was absorbed in
      eagerness to procure tidings from Saxony. I have mentioned the arrival of
      another vessel from the Elbe. He descried her early one morning as he was
      passing along the skirt of the river. She was easily recognized, being the
      ship in which he had performed his first voyage to Germany. He immediately
      went on board, but found no letters directed to him. This omission was, in
      some degree, compensated by meeting with an old acquaintance among the
      passengers, who had till lately been a resident in Leipsig. This person
      put an end to all suspense respecting the fate of Theresa, by relating the
      particulars of her death and funeral.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus was the truth of the former intimation attested. No longer devoured
      by suspense, the grief of Pleyel was not long in yielding to the influence
      of society. He gave himself up once more to our company. His vivacity had
      indeed been damped; but even in this respect he was a more acceptable
      companion than formerly, since his seriousness was neither incommunicative
      nor sullen.
    </p>
    <p>
      These incidents, for a time, occupied all our thoughts. In me they
      produced a sentiment not unallied to pleasure, and more speedily than in
      the case of my friends were intermixed with other topics. My brother was
      particularly affected by them. It was easy to perceive that most of his
      meditations were tinctured from this source. To this was to be ascribed a
      design in which his pen was, at this period, engaged, of collecting and
      investigating the facts which relate to that mysterious personage, the
      Daemon of Socrates.
    </p>
    <p>
      My brother's skill in Greek and Roman learning was exceeded by that of
      few, and no doubt the world would have accepted a treatise upon this
      subject from his hand with avidity; but alas! this and every other scheme
      of felicity and honor, were doomed to sudden blast and hopeless
      extermination.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter VI
    </h2>
    <p>
      I now come to the mention of a person with whose name the most turbulent
      sensations are connected. It is with a shuddering reluctance that I enter
      on the province of describing him. Now it is that I begin to perceive the
      difficulty of the task which I have undertaken; but it would be weakness
      to shrink from it. My blood is congealed: and my fingers are palsied when
      I call up his image. Shame upon my cowardly and infirm heart! Hitherto I
      have proceeded with some degree of composure, but now I must pause. I mean
      not that dire remembrance shall subdue my courage or baffle my design, but
      this weakness cannot be immediately conquered. I must desist for a little
      while.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have taken a few turns in my chamber, and have gathered strength enough
      to proceed. Yet have I not projected a task beyond my power to execute? If
      thus, on the very threshold of the scene, my knees faulter and I sink, how
      shall I support myself, when I rush into the midst of horrors such as no
      heart has hitherto conceived, nor tongue related? I sicken and recoil at
      the prospect, and yet my irresolution is momentary. I have not formed this
      design upon slight grounds, and though I may at times pause and hesitate,
      I will not be finally diverted from it.
    </p>
    <p>
      And thou, O most fatal and potent of mankind, in what terms shall I
      describe thee? What words are adequate to the just delineation of thy
      character? How shall I detail the means which rendered the secrecy of thy
      purposes unfathomable? But I will not anticipate. Let me recover if
      possible, a sober strain. Let me keep down the flood of passion that would
      render me precipitate or powerless. Let me stifle the agonies that are
      awakened by thy name. Let me, for a time, regard thee as a being of no
      terrible attributes. Let me tear myself from contemplation of the evils of
      which it is but too certain that thou wast the author, and limit my view
      to those harmless appearances which attended thy entrance on the stage.
    </p>
    <p>
      One sunny afternoon, I was standing in the door of my house, when I marked
      a person passing close to the edge of the bank that was in front. His pace
      was a careless and lingering one, and had none of that gracefulness and
      ease which distinguish a person with certain advantages of education from
      a clown. His gait was rustic and aukward. His form was ungainly and
      disproportioned. Shoulders broad and square, breast sunken, his head
      drooping, his body of uniform breadth, supported by long and lank legs,
      were the ingredients of his frame. His garb was not ill adapted to such a
      figure. A slouched hat, tarnished by the weather, a coat of thick grey
      cloth, cut and wrought, as it seemed, by a country tailor, blue worsted
      stockings, and shoes fastened by thongs, and deeply discoloured by dust,
      which brush had never disturbed, constituted his dress.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was nothing remarkable in these appearances; they were frequently to
      be met with on the road, and in the harvest field. I cannot tell why I
      gazed upon them, on this occasion, with more than ordinary attention,
      unless it were that such figures were seldom seen by me, except on the
      road or field. This lawn was only traversed by men whose views were
      directed to the pleasures of the walk, or the grandeur of the scenery.
    </p>
    <p>
      He passed slowly along, frequently pausing, as if to examine the prospect
      more deliberately, but never turning his eye towards the house, so as to
      allow me a view of his countenance. Presently, he entered a copse at a
      small distance, and disappeared. My eye followed him while he remained in
      sight. If his image remained for any duration in my fancy after his
      departure, it was because no other object occurred sufficient to expel it.
    </p>
    <p>
      I continued in the same spot for half an hour, vaguely, and by fits,
      contemplating the image of this wanderer, and drawing, from outward
      appearances, those inferences with respect to the intellectual history of
      this person, which experience affords us. I reflected on the alliance
      which commonly subsists between ignorance and the practice of agriculture,
      and indulged myself in airy speculations as to the influence of
      progressive knowledge in dissolving this alliance, and embodying the
      dreams of the poets. I asked why the plough and the hoe might not become
      the trade of every human being, and how this trade might be made conducive
      to, or, at least, consistent with the acquisition of wisdom and eloquence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Weary with these reflections, I returned to the kitchen to perform some
      household office. I had usually but one servant, and she was a girl about
      my own age. I was busy near the chimney, and she was employed near the
      door of the apartment, when some one knocked. The door was opened by her,
      and she was immediately addressed with "Pry'thee, good girl, canst thou
      supply a thirsty man with a glass of buttermilk?" She answered that there
      was none in the house. "Aye, but there is some in the dairy yonder. Thou
      knowest as well as I, though Hermes never taught thee, that though every
      dairy be an house, every house is not a dairy." To this speech, though she
      understood only a part of it, she replied by repeating her assurances,
      that she had none to give. "Well then," rejoined the stranger, "for
      charity's sweet sake, hand me forth a cup of cold water." The girl said
      she would go to the spring and fetch it. "Nay, give me the cup, and suffer
      me to help myself. Neither manacled nor lame, I should merit burial in the
      maw of carrion crows, if I laid this task upon thee." She gave him the
      cup, and he turned to go to the spring.
    </p>
    <p>
      I listened to this dialogue in silence. The words uttered by the person
      without, affected me as somewhat singular, but what chiefly rendered them
      remarkable, was the tone that accompanied them. It was wholly new. My
      brother's voice and Pleyel's were musical and energetic. I had fondly
      imagined, that, in this respect, they were surpassed by none. Now my
      mistake was detected. I cannot pretend to communicate the impression that
      was made upon me by these accents, or to depict the degree in which force
      and sweetness were blended in them. They were articulated with a
      distinctness that was unexampled in my experience. But this was not all.
      The voice was not only mellifluent and clear, but the emphasis was so
      just, and the modulation so impassioned, that it seemed as if an heart of
      stone could not fail of being moved by it. It imparted to me an emotion
      altogether involuntary and incontroulable. When he uttered the words "for
      charity's sweet sake," I dropped the cloth that I held in my hand, my
      heart overflowed with sympathy, and my eyes with unbidden tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      This description will appear to you trifling or incredible. The importance
      of these circumstances will be manifested in the sequel. The manner in
      which I was affected on this occasion, was, to my own apprehension, a
      subject of astonishment. The tones were indeed such as I never heard
      before; but that they should, in an instant, as it were, dissolve me in
      tears, will not easily be believed by others, and can scarcely be
      comprehended by myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      It will be readily supposed that I was somewhat inquisitive as to the
      person and demeanour of our visitant. After a moment's pause, I stepped to
      the door and looked after him. Judge my surprize, when I beheld the
      self-same figure that had appeared an half hour before upon the bank. My
      fancy had conjured up a very different image. A form, and attitude, and
      garb, were instantly created worthy to accompany such elocution; but this
      person was, in all visible respects, the reverse of this phantom. Strange
      as it may seem, I could not speedily reconcile myself to this
      disappointment. Instead of returning to my employment, I threw myself in a
      chair that was placed opposite the door, and sunk into a fit of musing.
    </p>
    <p>
      My attention was, in a few minutes, recalled by the stranger, who returned
      with the empty cup in his hand. I had not thought of the circumstance, or
      should certainly have chosen a different seat. He no sooner shewed
      himself, than a confused sense of impropriety, added to the suddenness of
      the interview, for which, not having foreseen it, I had made no
      preparation, threw me into a state of the most painful embarrassment. He
      brought with him a placid brow; but no sooner had he cast his eyes upon
      me, than his face was as glowingly suffused as my own. He placed the cup
      upon the bench, stammered out thanks, and retired.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was some time before I could recover my wonted composure. I had
      snatched a view of the stranger's countenance. The impression that it made
      was vivid and indelible. His cheeks were pallid and lank, his eyes sunken,
      his forehead overshadowed by coarse straggling hairs, his teeth large and
      irregular, though sound and brilliantly white, and his chin discoloured by
      a tetter. His skin was of coarse grain, and sallow hue. Every feature was
      wide of beauty, and the outline of his face reminded you of an inverted
      cone.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet his forehead, so far as shaggy locks would allow it to be seen,
      his eyes lustrously black, and possessing, in the midst of haggardness, a
      radiance inexpressibly serene and potent, and something in the rest of his
      features, which it would be in vain to describe, but which served to
      betoken a mind of the highest order, were essential ingredients in the
      portrait. This, in the effects which immediately flowed from it, I count
      among the most extraordinary incidents of my life. This face, seen for a
      moment, continued for hours to occupy my fancy, to the exclusion of almost
      every other image. I had purposed to spend the evening with my brother,
      but I could not resist the inclination of forming a sketch upon paper of
      this memorable visage. Whether my hand was aided by any peculiar
      inspiration, or I was deceived by my own fond conceptions, this portrait,
      though hastily executed, appeared unexceptionable to my own taste.
    </p>
    <p>
      I placed it at all distances, and in all lights; my eyes were rivetted
      upon it. Half the night passed away in wakefulness and in contemplation of
      this picture. So flexible, and yet so stubborn, is the human mind. So
      obedient to impulses the most transient and brief, and yet so unalterably
      observant of the direction which is given to it! How little did I then
      foresee the termination of that chain, of which this may be regarded as
      the first link?
    </p>
    <p>
      Next day arose in darkness and storm. Torrents of rain fell during the
      whole day, attended with incessant thunder, which reverberated in stunning
      echoes from the opposite declivity. The inclemency of the air would not
      allow me to walk-out. I had, indeed, no inclination to leave my apartment.
      I betook myself to the contemplation of this portrait, whose attractions
      time had rather enhanced than diminished. I laid aside my usual
      occupations, and seating myself at a window, consumed the day in
      alternately looking out upon the storm, and gazing at the picture which
      lay upon a table before me. You will, perhaps, deem this conduct somewhat
      singular, and ascribe it to certain peculiarities of temper. I am not
      aware of any such peculiarities. I can account for my devotion to this
      image no otherwise, than by supposing that its properties were rare and
      prodigious. Perhaps you will suspect that such were the first inroads of a
      passion incident to every female heart, and which frequently gains a
      footing by means even more slight, and more improbable than these. I shall
      not controvert the reasonableness of the suspicion, but leave you at
      liberty to draw, from my narrative, what conclusions you please.
    </p>
    <p>
      Night at length returned, and the storm ceased. The air was once more
      clear and calm, and bore an affecting contrast to that uproar of the
      elements by which it had been preceded. I spent the darksome hours, as I
      spent the day, contemplative and seated at the window. Why was my mind
      absorbed in thoughts ominous and dreary? Why did my bosom heave with
      sighs, and my eyes overflow with tears? Was the tempest that had just past
      a signal of the ruin which impended over me? My soul fondly dwelt upon the
      images of my brother and his children, yet they only increased the
      mournfulness of my contemplations. The smiles of the charming babes were
      as bland as formerly. The same dignity sat on the brow of their father,
      and yet I thought of them with anguish. Something whispered that the
      happiness we at present enjoyed was set on mutable foundations. Death must
      happen to all. Whether our felicity was to be subverted by it to-morrow,
      or whether it was ordained that we should lay down our heads full of years
      and of honor, was a question that no human being could solve. At other
      times, these ideas seldom intruded. I either forbore to reflect upon the
      destiny that is reserved for all men, or the reflection was mixed up with
      images that disrobed it of terror; but now the uncertainty of life
      occurred to me without any of its usual and alleviating accompaniments. I
      said to myself, we must die. Sooner or later, we must disappear for ever
      from the face of the earth. Whatever be the links that hold us to life,
      they must be broken. This scene of existence is, in all its parts,
      calamitous. The greater number is oppressed with immediate evils, and
      those, the tide of whose fortunes is full, how small is their portion of
      enjoyment, since they know that it will terminate.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some time I indulged myself, without reluctance, in these gloomy
      thoughts; but at length, the dejection which they produced became
      insupportably painful. I endeavoured to dissipate it with music. I had all
      my grand-father's melody as well as poetry by rote. I now lighted by
      chance on a ballad, which commemorated the fate of a German Cavalier, who
      fell at the siege of Nice under Godfrey of Bouillon. My choice was
      unfortunate, for the scenes of violence and carnage which were here wildly
      but forcibly pourtrayed, only suggested to my thoughts a new topic in the
      horrors of war.
    </p>
    <p>
      I sought refuge, but ineffectually, in sleep. My mind was thronged by
      vivid, but confused images, and no effort that I made was sufficient to
      drive them away. In this situation I heard the clock, which hung in the
      room, give the signal for twelve. It was the same instrument which
      formerly hung in my father's chamber, and which, on account of its being
      his workmanship, was regarded, by every one of our family, with
      veneration. It had fallen to me, in the division of his property, and was
      placed in this asylum. The sound awakened a series of reflections,
      respecting his death. I was not allowed to pursue them; for scarcely had
      the vibrations ceased, when my attention was attracted by a whisper,
      which, at first, appeared to proceed from lips that were laid close to my
      ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      No wonder that a circumstance like this startled me. In the first impulse
      of my terror, I uttered a slight scream, and shrunk to the opposite side
      of the bed. In a moment, however, I recovered from my trepidation. I was
      habitually indifferent to all the causes of fear, by which the majority
      are afflicted. I entertained no apprehension of either ghosts or robbers.
      Our security had never been molested by either, and I made use of no means
      to prevent or counterwork their machinations. My tranquillity, on this
      occasion, was quickly retrieved. The whisper evidently proceeded from one
      who was posted at my bed-side. The first idea that suggested itself was,
      that it was uttered by the girl who lived with me as a servant. Perhaps,
      somewhat had alarmed her, or she was sick, and had come to request my
      assistance. By whispering in my ear, she intended to rouse without
      alarming me.
    </p>
    <p>
      Full of this persuasion, I called; "Judith," said I, "is it you? What do
      you want? Is there any thing the matter with you?" No answer was returned.
      I repeated my inquiry, but equally in vain. Cloudy as was the atmosphere,
      and curtained as my bed was, nothing was visible. I withdrew the curtain,
      and leaning my head on my elbow, I listened with the deepest attention to
      catch some new sound. Meanwhile, I ran over in my thoughts, every
      circumstance that could assist my conjectures.
    </p>
    <p>
      My habitation was a wooden edifice, consisting of two stories. In each
      story were two rooms, separated by an entry, or middle passage, with which
      they communicated by opposite doors. The passage, on the lower story, had
      doors at the two ends, and a stair-case. Windows answered to the doors on
      the upper story. Annexed to this, on the eastern side, were wings,
      divided, in like manner, into an upper and lower room; one of them
      comprized a kitchen, and chamber above it for the servant, and
      communicated, on both stories, with the parlour adjoining it below, and
      the chamber adjoining it above. The opposite wing is of smaller
      dimensions, the rooms not being above eight feet square. The lower of
      these was used as a depository of household implements, the upper was a
      closet in which I deposited my books and papers. They had but one inlet,
      which was from the room adjoining. There was no window in the lower one,
      and in the upper, a small aperture which communicated light and air, but
      would scarcely admit the body. The door which led into this, was close to
      my bed-head, and was always locked, but when I myself was within. The
      avenues below were accustomed to be closed and bolted at nights.
    </p>
    <p>
      The maid was my only companion, and she could not reach my chamber without
      previously passing through the opposite chamber, and the middle passage,
      of which, however, the doors were usually unfastened. If she had
      occasioned this noise, she would have answered my repeated calls. No other
      conclusion, therefore, was left me, but that I had mistaken the sounds,
      and that my imagination had transformed some casual noise into the voice
      of a human creature. Satisfied with this solution, I was preparing to
      relinquish my listening attitude, when my ear was again saluted with a new
      and yet louder whispering. It appeared, as before, to issue from lips that
      touched my pillow. A second effort of attention, however, clearly shewed
      me, that the sounds issued from within the closet, the door of which was
      not more than eight inches from my pillow.
    </p>
    <p>
      This second interruption occasioned a shock less vehement than the former.
      I started, but gave no audible token of alarm. I was so much mistress of
      my feelings, as to continue listening to what should be said. The whisper
      was distinct, hoarse, and uttered so as to shew that the speaker was
      desirous of being heard by some one near, but, at the same time, studious
      to avoid being overheard by any other.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Stop, stop, I say; madman as you are! there are better means than that.
      Curse upon your rashness! There is no need to shoot."
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were the words uttered in a tone of eagerness and anger, within so
      small a distance of my pillow. What construction could I put upon them? My
      heart began to palpitate with dread of some unknown danger. Presently,
      another voice, but equally near me, was heard whispering in answer. "Why
      not? I will draw a trigger in this business, but perdition be my lot if I
      do more." To this, the first voice returned, in a tone which rage had
      heightened in a small degree above a whisper, "Coward! stand aside, and
      see me do it. I will grasp her throat; I will do her business in an
      instant; she shall not have time so much as to groan." What wonder that I
      was petrified by sounds so dreadful! Murderers lurked in my closet. They
      were planning the means of my destruction. One resolved to shoot, and the
      other menaced suffocation. Their means being chosen, they would forthwith
      break the door. Flight instantly suggested itself as most eligible in
      circumstances so perilous. I deliberated not a moment; but, fear adding
      wings to my speed, I leaped out of bed, and scantily robed as I was,
      rushed out of the chamber, down stairs, and into the open air. I can
      hardly recollect the process of turning keys, and withdrawing bolts. My
      terrors urged me forward with almost a mechanical impulse. I stopped not
      till I reached my brother's door. I had not gained the threshold, when,
      exhausted by the violence of my emotions, and by my speed, I sunk down in
      a fit.
    </p>
    <p>
      How long I remained in this situation I know not. When I recovered, I
      found myself stretched on a bed, surrounded by my sister and her female
      servants. I was astonished at the scene before me, but gradually recovered
      the recollection of what had happened. I answered their importunate
      inquiries as well as I was able. My brother and Pleyel, whom the storm of
      the preceding day chanced to detain here, informing themselves of every
      particular, proceeded with lights and weapons to my deserted habitation.
      They entered my chamber and my closet, and found every thing in its proper
      place and customary order. The door of the closet was locked, and appeared
      not to have been opened in my absence. They went to Judith's apartment.
      They found her asleep and in safety. Pleyel's caution induced him to
      forbear alarming the girl; and finding her wholly ignorant of what had
      passed, they directed her to return to her chamber. They then fastened the
      doors, and returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      My friends were disposed to regard this transaction as a dream. That
      persons should be actually immured in this closet, to which, in the
      circumstances of the time, access from without or within was apparently
      impossible, they could not seriously believe. That any human beings had
      intended murder, unless it were to cover a scheme of pillage, was
      incredible; but that no such design had been formed, was evident from the
      security in which the furniture of the house and the closet remained.
    </p>
    <p>
      I revolved every incident and expression that had occurred. My senses
      assured me of the truth of them, and yet their abruptness and
      improbability made me, in my turn, somewhat incredulous. The adventure had
      made a deep impression on my fancy, and it was not till after a week's
      abode at my brother's, that I resolved to resume the possession of my own
      dwelling. There was another circumstance that enhanced the mysteriousness
      of this event. After my recovery it was obvious to inquire by what means
      the attention of the family had been drawn to my situation. I had fallen
      before I had reached the threshold, or was able to give any signal. My
      brother related, that while this was transacting in my chamber, he himself
      was awake, in consequence of some slight indisposition, and lay, according
      to his custom, musing on some favorite topic. Suddenly the silence, which
      was remarkably profound, was broken by a voice of most piercing
      shrillness, that seemed to be uttered by one in the hall below his
      chamber. "Awake! arise!" it exclaimed: "hasten to succour one that is
      dying at your door."
    </p>
    <p>
      This summons was effectual. There was no one in the house who was not
      roused by it. Pleyel was the first to obey, and my brother overtook him
      before he reached the hall. What was the general astonishment when your
      friend was discovered stretched upon the grass before the door, pale,
      ghastly, and with every mark of death!
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the third instance of a voice, exerted for the benefit of this
      little community. The agent was no less inscrutable in this, than in the
      former case. When I ruminated upon these events, my soul was suspended in
      wonder and awe. Was I really deceived in imagining that I heard the closet
      conversation? I was no longer at liberty to question the reality of those
      accents which had formerly recalled my brother from the hill; which had
      imparted tidings of the death of the German lady to Pleyel; and which had
      lately summoned them to my assistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      But how was I to regard this midnight conversation? Hoarse and manlike
      voices conferring on the means of death, so near my bed, and at such an
      hour! How had my ancient security vanished! That dwelling, which had
      hitherto been an inviolate asylum, was now beset with danger to my life.
      That solitude, formerly so dear to me, could no longer be endured. Pleyel,
      who had consented to reside with us during the months of spring, lodged in
      the vacant chamber, in order to quiet my alarms. He treated my fears with
      ridicule, and in a short time very slight traces of them remained: but as
      it was wholly indifferent to him whether his nights were passed at my
      house or at my brother's, this arrangement gave general satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
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    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter VII
    </h2>
    <p>
      I will not enumerate the various inquiries and conjectures which these
      incidents occasioned. After all our efforts, we came no nearer to
      dispelling the mist in which they were involved; and time, instead of
      facilitating a solution, only accumulated our doubts. In the midst of
      thoughts excited by these events, I was not unmindful of my interview with
      the stranger. I related the particulars, and shewed the portrait to my
      friends. Pleyel recollected to have met with a figure resembling my
      description in the city; but neither his face or garb made the same
      impression upon him that it made upon me. It was a hint to rally me upon
      my prepossessions, and to amuse us with a thousand ludicrous anecdotes
      which he had collected in his travels. He made no scruple to charge me
      with being in love; and threatened to inform the swain, when he met him,
      of his good fortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pleyel's temper made him susceptible of no durable impressions. His
      conversation was occasionally visited by gleams of his ancient vivacity;
      but, though his impetuosity was sometimes inconvenient, there was nothing
      to dread from his malice. I had no fear that my character or dignity would
      suffer in his hands, and was not heartily displeased when he declared his
      intention of profiting by his first meeting with the stranger to introduce
      him to our acquaintance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some weeks after this I had spent a toilsome day, and, as the sun
      declined, found myself disposed to seek relief in a walk. The river bank
      is, at this part of it, and for some considerable space upward, so rugged
      and steep as not to be easily descended. In a recess of this declivity,
      near the southern verge of my little demesne, was placed a slight
      building, with seats and lattices. From a crevice of the rock, to which
      this edifice was attached, there burst forth a stream of the purest water,
      which, leaping from ledge to ledge, for the space of sixty feet, produced
      a freshness in the air, and a murmur, the most delicious and soothing
      imaginable. These, added to the odours of the cedars which embowered it,
      and of the honey-suckle which clustered among the lattices, rendered this
      my favorite retreat in summer.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this occasion I repaired hither. My spirits drooped through the fatigue
      of long attention, and I threw myself upon a bench, in a state, both
      mentally and personally, of the utmost supineness. The lulling sounds of
      the waterfall, the fragrance and the dusk combined to becalm my spirits,
      and, in a short time, to sink me into sleep. Either the uneasiness of my
      posture, or some slight indisposition molested my repose with dreams of no
      cheerful hue. After various incoherences had taken their turn to occupy my
      fancy, I at length imagined myself walking, in the evening twilight, to my
      brother's habitation. A pit, methought, had been dug in the path I had
      taken, of which I was not aware. As I carelessly pursued my walk, I
      thought I saw my brother, standing at some distance before me, beckoning
      and calling me to make haste. He stood on the opposite edge of the gulph.
      I mended my pace, and one step more would have plunged me into this abyss,
      had not some one from behind caught suddenly my arm, and exclaimed, in a
      voice of eagerness and terror, "Hold! hold!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The sound broke my sleep, and I found myself, at the next moment, standing
      on my feet, and surrounded by the deepest darkness. Images so terrific and
      forcible disabled me, for a time, from distinguishing between sleep and
      wakefulness, and withheld from me the knowledge of my actual condition. My
      first panics were succeeded by the perturbations of surprize, to find
      myself alone in the open air, and immersed in so deep a gloom. I slowly
      recollected the incidents of the afternoon, and how I came hither. I could
      not estimate the time, but saw the propriety of returning with speed to
      the house. My faculties were still too confused, and the darkness too
      intense, to allow me immediately to find my way up the steep. I sat down,
      therefore, to recover myself, and to reflect upon my situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was no sooner done, than a low voice was heard from behind the
      lattice, on the side where I sat. Between the rock and the lattice was a
      chasm not wide enough to admit a human body; yet, in this chasm he that
      spoke appeared to be stationed. "Attend! attend! but be not terrified."
    </p>
    <p>
      I started and exclaimed, "Good heavens! what is that? Who are you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "A friend; one come, not to injure, but to save you; fear nothing."
    </p>
    <p>
      This voice was immediately recognized to be the same with one of those
      which I had heard in the closet; it was the voice of him who had proposed
      to shoot, rather than to strangle, his victim. My terror made me, at once,
      mute and motionless. He continued, "I leagued to murder you. I repent.
      Mark my bidding, and be safe. Avoid this spot. The snares of death
      encompass it. Elsewhere danger will be distant; but this spot, shun it as
      you value your life. Mark me further; profit by this warning, but divulge
      it not. If a syllable of what has passed escape you, your doom is sealed.
      Remember your father, and be faithful."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the accents ceased, and left me overwhelmed with dismay. I was
      fraught with the persuasion, that during every moment I remained here, my
      life was endangered; but I could not take a step without hazard of falling
      to the bottom of the precipice. The path, leading to the summit, was
      short, but rugged and intricate. Even star-light was excluded by the
      umbrage, and not the faintest gleam was afforded to guide my steps. What
      should I do? To depart or remain was equally and eminently perilous.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this state of uncertainty, I perceived a ray flit across the gloom and
      disappear. Another succeeded, which was stronger, and remained for a
      passing moment. It glittered on the shrubs that were scattered at the
      entrance, and gleam continued to succeed gleam for a few seconds, till
      they, finally, gave place to unintermitted darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first visitings of this light called up a train of horrors in my mind;
      destruction impended over this spot; the voice which I had lately heard
      had warned me to retire, and had menaced me with the fate of my father if
      I refused. I was desirous, but unable, to obey; these gleams were such as
      preluded the stroke by which he fell; the hour, perhaps, was the same&mdash;I
      shuddered as if I had beheld, suspended over me, the exterminating sword.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently a new and stronger illumination burst through the lattice on the
      right hand, and a voice, from the edge of the precipice above, called out
      my name. It was Pleyel. Joyfully did I recognize his accents; but such was
      the tumult of my thoughts that I had not power to answer him till he had
      frequently repeated his summons. I hurried, at length, from the fatal
      spot, and, directed by the lanthorn which he bore, ascended the hill.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pale and breathless, it was with difficulty I could support myself. He
      anxiously inquired into the cause of my affright, and the motive of my
      unusual absence. He had returned from my brother's at a late hour, and was
      informed by Judith, that I had walked out before sun-set, and had not yet
      returned. This intelligence was somewhat alarming. He waited some time;
      but, my absence continuing, he had set out in search of me. He had
      explored the neighbourhood with the utmost care, but, receiving no tidings
      of me, he was preparing to acquaint my brother with this circumstance,
      when he recollected the summer-house on the bank, and conceived it
      possible that some accident had detained me there. He again inquired into
      the cause of this detention, and of that confusion and dismay which my
      looks testified.
    </p>
    <p>
      I told him that I had strolled hither in the afternoon, that sleep had
      overtaken me as I sat, and that I had awakened a few minutes before his
      arrival. I could tell him no more. In the present impetuosity of my
      thoughts, I was almost dubious, whether the pit, into which my brother had
      endeavoured to entice me, and the voice that talked through the lattice,
      were not parts of the same dream. I remembered, likewise, the charge of
      secrecy, and the penalty denounced, if I should rashly divulge what I had
      heard. For these reasons, I was silent on that subject, and shutting
      myself in my chamber, delivered myself up to contemplation.
    </p>
    <p>
      What I have related will, no doubt, appear to you a fable. You will
      believe that calamity has subverted my reason, and that I am amusing you
      with the chimeras of my brain, instead of facts that have really happened.
      I shall not be surprized or offended, if these be your suspicions. I know
      not, indeed, how you can deny them admission. For, if to me, the immediate
      witness, they were fertile of perplexity and doubt, how must they affect
      another to whom they are recommended only by my testimony? It was only by
      subsequent events, that I was fully and incontestibly assured of the
      veracity of my senses.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile what was I to think? I had been assured that a design had been
      formed against my life. The ruffians had leagued to murder me. Whom had I
      offended? Who was there with whom I had ever maintained intercourse, who
      was capable of harbouring such atrocious purposes?
    </p>
    <p>
      My temper was the reverse of cruel and imperious. My heart was touched
      with sympathy for the children of misfortune. But this sympathy was not a
      barren sentiment. My purse, scanty as it was, was ever open, and my hands
      ever active, to relieve distress. Many were the wretches whom my personal
      exertions had extricated from want and disease, and who rewarded me with
      their gratitude. There was no face which lowered at my approach, and no
      lips which uttered imprecations in my hearing. On the contrary, there was
      none, over whose fate I had exerted any influence, or to whom I was known
      by reputation, who did not greet me with smiles, and dismiss me with
      proofs of veneration; yet did not my senses assure me that a plot was laid
      against my life?
    </p>
    <p>
      I am not destitute of courage. I have shewn myself deliberative and calm
      in the midst of peril. I have hazarded my own life, for the preservation
      of another, but now was I confused and panic struck. I have not lived so
      as to fear death, yet to perish by an unseen and secret stroke, to be
      mangled by the knife of an assassin was a thought at which I shuddered;
      what had I done to deserve to be made the victim of malignant passions?
    </p>
    <p>
      But soft! was I not assured, that my life was safe in all places but one?
      And why was the treason limited to take effect in this spot? I was every
      where equally defenceless. My house and chamber were, at all times,
      accessible. Danger still impended over me; the bloody purpose was still
      entertained, but the hand that was to execute it, was powerless in all
      places but one!
    </p>
    <p>
      Here I had remained for the last four or five hours, without the means of
      resistance or defence, yet I had not been attacked. A human being was at
      hand, who was conscious of my presence, and warned me hereafter to avoid
      this retreat. His voice was not absolutely new, but had I never heard it
      but once before? But why did he prohibit me from relating this incident to
      others, and what species of death will be awarded if I disobey?
    </p>
    <p>
      He talked of my father. He intimated, that disclosure would pull upon my
      head, the same destruction. Was then the death of my father, portentous
      and inexplicable as it was, the consequence of human machinations? It
      should seem, that this being is apprised of the true nature of this event,
      and is conscious of the means that led to it. Whether it shall likewise
      fall upon me, depends upon the observance of silence. Was it the
      infraction of a similar command, that brought so horrible a penalty upon
      my father?
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were the reflections that haunted me during the night, and which
      effectually deprived me of sleep. Next morning, at breakfast, Pleyel
      related an event which my disappearance had hindered him from mentioning
      the night before. Early the preceding morning, his occasions called him to
      the city; he had stepped into a coffee-house to while away an hour; here
      he had met a person whose appearance instantly bespoke him to be the same
      whose hasty visit I have mentioned, and whose extraordinary visage and
      tones had so powerfully affected me. On an attentive survey, however, he
      proved, likewise, to be one with whom my friend had had some intercourse
      in Europe. This authorised the liberty of accosting him, and after some
      conversation, mindful, as Pleyel said, of the footing which this stranger
      had gained in my heart, he had ventured to invite him to Mettingen. The
      invitation had been cheerfully accepted, and a visit promised on the
      afternoon of the next day.
    </p>
    <p>
      This information excited no sober emotions in my breast. I was, of course,
      eager to be informed as to the circumstances of their ancient intercourse.
      When, and where had they met? What knew he of the life and character of
      this man?
    </p>
    <p>
      In answer to my inquiries, he informed me that, three years before, he was
      a traveller in Spain. He had made an excursion from Valencia to Murviedro,
      with a view to inspect the remains of Roman magnificence, scattered in the
      environs of that town. While traversing the scite of the theatre of old
      Saguntum, he lighted upon this man, seated on a stone, and deeply engaged
      in perusing the work of the deacon Marti. A short conversation ensued,
      which proved the stranger to be English. They returned to Valencia
      together.
    </p>
    <p>
      His garb, aspect, and deportment, were wholly Spanish. A residence of
      three years in the country, indefatigable attention to the language, and a
      studious conformity with the customs of the people, had made him
      indistinguishable from a native, when he chose to assume that character.
      Pleyel found him to be connected, on the footing of friendship and
      respect, with many eminent merchants in that city. He had embraced the
      catholic religion, and adopted a Spanish name instead of his own, which
      was CARWIN, and devoted himself to the literature and religion of his new
      country. He pursued no profession, but subsisted on remittances from
      England.
    </p>
    <p>
      While Pleyel remained in Valencia, Carwin betrayed no aversion to
      intercourse, and the former found no small attractions in the society of
      this new acquaintance. On general topics he was highly intelligent and
      communicative. He had visited every corner of Spain, and could furnish the
      most accurate details respecting its ancient and present state. On topics
      of religion and of his own history, previous to his TRANSFORMATION into a
      Spaniard, he was invariably silent. You could merely gather from his
      discourse that he was English, and that he was well acquainted with the
      neighbouring countries.
    </p>
    <p>
      His character excited considerable curiosity in this observer. It was not
      easy to reconcile his conversion to the Romish faith, with those proofs of
      knowledge and capacity that were exhibited by him on different occasions.
      A suspicion was, sometimes, admitted, that his belief was counterfeited
      for some political purpose. The most careful observation, however,
      produced no discovery. His manners were, at all times, harmless and
      inartificial, and his habits those of a lover of contemplation and
      seclusion. He appeared to have contracted an affection for Pleyel, who was
      not slow to return it.
    </p>
    <p>
      My friend, after a month's residence in this city, returned into France,
      and, since that period, had heard nothing concerning Carwin till his
      appearance at Mettingen.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this occasion Carwin had received Pleyel's greeting with a certain
      distance and solemnity to which the latter had not been accustomed. He had
      waved noticing the inquiries of Pleyel respecting his desertion of Spain,
      in which he had formerly declared that it was his purpose to spend his
      life. He had assiduously diverted the attention of the latter to
      indifferent topics, but was still, on every theme, as eloquent and
      judicious as formerly. Why he had assumed the garb of a rustic, Pleyel was
      unable to conjecture. Perhaps it might be poverty, perhaps he was swayed
      by motives which it was his interest to conceal, but which were connected
      with consequences of the utmost moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the sum of my friend's information. I was not sorry to be left
      alone during the greater part of this day. Every employment was irksome
      which did not leave me at liberty to meditate. I had now a new subject on
      which to exercise my thoughts. Before evening I should be ushered into his
      presence, and listen to those tones whose magical and thrilling power I
      had already experienced. But with what new images would he then be
      accompanied?
    </p>
    <p>
      Carwin was an adherent to the Romish faith, yet was an Englishman by
      birth, and, perhaps, a protestant by education. He had adopted Spain for
      his country, and had intimated a design to spend his days there, yet now
      was an inhabitant of this district, and disguised by the habiliments of a
      clown! What could have obliterated the impressions of his youth, and made
      him abjure his religion and his country? What subsequent events had
      introduced so total a change in his plans? In withdrawing from Spain, had
      he reverted to the religion of his ancestors; or was it true, that his
      former conversion was deceitful, and that his conduct had been swayed by
      motives which it was prudent to conceal?
    </p>
    <p>
      Hours were consumed in revolving these ideas. My meditations were intense;
      and, when the series was broken, I began to reflect with astonishment on
      my situation. From the death of my parents, till the commencement of this
      year, my life had been serene and blissful, beyond the ordinary portion of
      humanity; but, now, my bosom was corroded by anxiety. I was visited by
      dread of unknown dangers, and the future was a scene over which clouds
      rolled, and thunders muttered. I compared the cause with the effect, and
      they seemed disproportioned to each other. All unaware, and in a manner
      which I had no power to explain, I was pushed from my immoveable and lofty
      station, and cast upon a sea of troubles.
    </p>
    <p>
      I determined to be my brother's visitant on this evening, yet my resolves
      were not unattended with wavering and reluctance. Pleyel's insinuations
      that I was in love, affected, in no degree, my belief, yet the
      consciousness that this was the opinion of one who would, probably, be
      present at our introduction to each other, would excite all that confusion
      which the passion itself is apt to produce. This would confirm him in his
      error, and call forth new railleries. His mirth, when exerted upon this
      topic, was the source of the bitterest vexation. Had he been aware of its
      influence upon my happiness, his temper would not have allowed him to
      persist; but this influence, it was my chief endeavour to conceal. That
      the belief of my having bestowed my heart upon another, produced in my
      friend none but ludicrous sensations, was the true cause of my distress;
      but if this had been discovered by him, my distress would have been
      unspeakably aggravated.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter VIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      As soon as evening arrived, I performed my visit. Carwin made one of the
      company, into which I was ushered. Appearances were the same as when I
      before beheld him. His garb was equally negligent and rustic. I gazed upon
      his countenance with new curiosity. My situation was such as to enable me
      to bestow upon it a deliberate examination. Viewed at more leisure, it
      lost none of its wonderful properties. I could not deny my homage to the
      intelligence expressed in it, but was wholly uncertain, whether he were an
      object to be dreaded or adored, and whether his powers had been exerted to
      evil or to good.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was sparing in discourse; but whatever he said was pregnant with
      meaning, and uttered with rectitude of articulation, and force of
      emphasis, of which I had entertained no conception previously to my
      knowledge of him. Notwithstanding the uncouthness of his garb, his manners
      were not unpolished. All topics were handled by him with skill, and
      without pedantry or affectation. He uttered no sentiment calculated to
      produce a disadvantageous impression: on the contrary, his observations
      denoted a mind alive to every generous and heroic feeling. They were
      introduced without parade, and accompanied with that degree of earnestness
      which indicates sincerity.
    </p>
    <p>
      He parted from us not till late, refusing an invitation to spend the night
      here, but readily consented to repeat his visit. His visits were
      frequently repeated. Each day introduced us to a more intimate
      acquaintance with his sentiments, but left us wholly in the dark,
      concerning that about which we were most inquisitive. He studiously
      avoided all mention of his past or present situation. Even the place of
      his abode in the city he concealed from us.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our sphere, in this respect, being somewhat limited, and the intellectual
      endowments of this man being indisputably great, his deportment was more
      diligently marked, and copiously commented on by us, than you, perhaps,
      will think the circumstances warranted. Not a gesture, or glance, or
      accent, that was not, in our private assemblies, discussed, and inferences
      deduced from it. It may well be thought that he modelled his behaviour by
      an uncommon standard, when, with all our opportunities and accuracy of
      observation, we were able, for a long time, to gather no satisfactory
      information. He afforded us no ground on which to build even a plausible
      conjecture.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a degree of familiarity which takes place between constant
      associates, that justifies the negligence of many rules of which, in an
      earlier period of their intercourse, politeness requires the exact
      observance. Inquiries into our condition are allowable when they are
      prompted by a disinterested concern for our welfare; and this solicitude
      is not only pardonable, but may justly be demanded from those who chuse us
      for their companions. This state of things was more slow to arrive on this
      occasion than on most others, on account of the gravity and loftiness of
      this man's behaviour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pleyel, however, began, at length, to employ regular means for this end.
      He occasionally alluded to the circumstances in which they had formerly
      met, and remarked the incongruousness between the religion and habits of a
      Spaniard, with those of a native of Britain. He expressed his astonishment
      at meeting our guest in this corner of the globe, especially as, when they
      parted in Spain, he was taught to believe that Carwin should never leave
      that country. He insinuated, that a change so great must have been
      prompted by motives of a singular and momentous kind.
    </p>
    <p>
      No answer, or an answer wide of the purpose, was generally made to these
      insinuations. Britons and Spaniards, he said, are votaries of the same
      Deity, and square their faith by the same precepts; their ideas are drawn
      from the same fountains of literature, and they speak dialects of the same
      tongue; their government and laws have more resemblances than differences;
      they were formerly provinces of the same civil, and till lately, of the
      same religious, Empire.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to the motives which induce men to change the place of their abode,
      these must unavoidably be fleeting and mutable. If not bound to one spot
      by conjugal or parental ties, or by the nature of that employment to which
      we are indebted for subsistence, the inducements to change are far more
      numerous and powerful, than opposite inducements.
    </p>
    <p>
      He spoke as if desirous of shewing that he was not aware of the tendency
      of Pleyel's remarks; yet, certain tokens were apparent, that proved him by
      no means wanting in penetration. These tokens were to be read in his
      countenance, and not in his words. When any thing was said, indicating
      curiosity in us, the gloom of his countenance was deepened, his eyes sunk
      to the ground, and his wonted air was not resumed without visible
      struggle. Hence, it was obvious to infer, that some incidents of his life
      were reflected on by him with regret; and that, since these incidents were
      carefully concealed, and even that regret which flowed from them
      laboriously stifled, they had not been merely disastrous. The secrecy that
      was observed appeared not designed to provoke or baffle the inquisitive,
      but was prompted by the shame, or by the prudence of guilt.
    </p>
    <p>
      These ideas, which were adopted by Pleyel and my brother, as well as
      myself, hindered us from employing more direct means for accomplishing our
      wishes. Questions might have been put in such terms, that no room should
      be left for the pretence of misapprehension, and if modesty merely had
      been the obstacle, such questions would not have been wanting; but we
      considered, that, if the disclosure were productive of pain or disgrace,
      it was inhuman to extort it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amidst the various topics that were discussed in his presence, allusions
      were, of course, made to the inexplicable events that had lately happened.
      At those times, the words and looks of this man were objects of my
      particular attention. The subject was extraordinary; and any one whose
      experience or reflections could throw any light upon it, was entitled to
      my gratitude. As this man was enlightened by reading and travel, I
      listened with eagerness to the remarks which he should make.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first, I entertained a kind of apprehension, that the tale would be
      heard by him with incredulity and secret ridicule. I had formerly heard
      stories that resembled this in some of their mysterious circumstances, but
      they were, commonly, heard by me with contempt. I was doubtful, whether
      the same impression would not now be made on the mind of our guest; but I
      was mistaken in my fears.
    </p>
    <p>
      He heard them with seriousness, and without any marks either of surprize
      or incredulity. He pursued, with visible pleasure, that kind of
      disquisition which was naturally suggested by them. His fancy was
      eminently vigorous and prolific, and if he did not persuade us, that human
      beings are, sometimes, admitted to a sensible intercourse with the author
      of nature, he, at least, won over our inclination to the cause. He merely
      deduced, from his own reasonings, that such intercourse was probable; but
      confessed that, though he was acquainted with many instances somewhat
      similar to those which had been related by us, none of them were perfectly
      exempted from the suspicion of human agency.
    </p>
    <p>
      On being requested to relate these instances, he amused us with many
      curious details. His narratives were constructed with so much skill, and
      rehearsed with so much energy, that all the effects of a dramatic
      exhibition were frequently produced by them. Those that were most coherent
      and most minute, and, of consequence, least entitled to credit, were yet
      rendered probable by the exquisite art of this rhetorician. For every
      difficulty that was suggested, a ready and plausible solution was
      furnished. Mysterious voices had always a share in producing the
      catastrophe, but they were always to be explained on some known
      principles, either as reflected into a focus, or communicated through a
      tube. I could not but remark that his narratives, however complex or
      marvellous, contained no instance sufficiently parallel to those that had
      befallen ourselves, and in which the solution was applicable to our own
      case.
    </p>
    <p>
      My brother was a much more sanguine reasoner than our guest. Even in some
      of the facts which were related by Carwin, he maintained the probability
      of celestial interference, when the latter was disposed to deny it, and
      had found, as he imagined, footsteps of an human agent. Pleyel was by no
      means equally credulous. He scrupled not to deny faith to any testimony
      but that of his senses, and allowed the facts which had lately been
      supported by this testimony, not to mould his belief, but merely to give
      birth to doubts.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was soon observed that Carwin adopted, in some degree, a similar
      distinction. A tale of this kind, related by others, he would believe,
      provided it was explicable upon known principles; but that such notices
      were actually communicated by beings of an higher order, he would believe
      only when his own ears were assailed in a manner which could not be
      otherwise accounted for. Civility forbad him to contradict my brother or
      myself, but his understanding refused to acquiesce in our testimony.
      Besides, he was disposed to question whether the voices heard in the
      temple, at the foot of the hill, and in my closet, were not really uttered
      by human organs. On this supposition he was desired to explain how the
      effect was produced.
    </p>
    <p>
      He answered, that the power of mimickry was very common. Catharine's voice
      might easily be imitated by one at the foot of the hill, who would find no
      difficulty in eluding, by flight, the search of Wieland. The tidings of
      the death of the Saxon lady were uttered by one near at hand, who
      overheard the conversation, who conjectured her death, and whose
      conjecture happened to accord with the truth. That the voice appeared to
      come from the cieling was to be considered as an illusion of the fancy.
      The cry for help, heard in the hall on the night of my adventure, was to
      be ascribed to an human creature, who actually stood in the hall when he
      uttered it. It was of no moment, he said, that we could not explain by
      what motives he that made the signal was led hither. How imperfectly
      acquainted were we with the condition and designs of the beings that
      surrounded us? The city was near at hand, and thousands might there exist
      whose powers and purposes might easily explain whatever was mysterious in
      this transaction. As to the closet dialogue, he was obliged to adopt one
      of two suppositions, and affirm either that it was fashioned in my own
      fancy, or that it actually took place between two persons in the closet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was Carwin's mode of explaining these appearances. It is such,
      perhaps, as would commend itself as most plausible to the most sagacious
      minds, but it was insufficient to impart conviction to us. As to the
      treason that was meditated against me, it was doubtless just to conclude
      that it was either real or imaginary; but that it was real was attested by
      the mysterious warning in the summer-house, the secret of which I had
      hitherto locked up in my own breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      A month passed away in this kind of intercourse. As to Carwin, our
      ignorance was in no degree enlightened respecting his genuine character
      and views. Appearances were uniform. No man possessed a larger store of
      knowledge, or a greater degree of skill in the communication of it to
      others; Hence he was regarded as an inestimable addition to our society.
      Considering the distance of my brother's house from the city, he was
      frequently prevailed upon to pass the night where he spent the evening.
      Two days seldom elapsed without a visit from him; hence he was regarded as
      a kind of inmate of the house. He entered and departed without ceremony.
      When he arrived he received an unaffected welcome, and when he chose to
      retire, no importunities were used to induce him to remain.
    </p>
    <p>
      The temple was the principal scene of our social enjoyments; yet the
      felicity that we tasted when assembled in this asylum, was but the gleam
      of a former sun-shine. Carwin never parted with his gravity. The
      inscrutableness of his character, and the uncertainty whether his
      fellowship tended to good or to evil, were seldom absent from our minds.
      This circumstance powerfully contributed to sadden us.
    </p>
    <p>
      My heart was the seat of growing disquietudes. This change in one who had
      formerly been characterized by all the exuberances of soul, could not fail
      to be remarked by my friends. My brother was always a pattern of
      solemnity. My sister was clay, moulded by the circumstances in which she
      happened to be placed. There was but one whose deportment remains to be
      described as being of importance to our happiness. Had Pleyel likewise
      dismissed his vivacity?
    </p>
    <p>
      He was as whimsical and jestful as ever, but he was not happy. The truth,
      in this respect, was of too much importance to me not to make me a
      vigilant observer. His mirth was easily perceived to be the fruit of
      exertion. When his thoughts wandered from the company, an air of
      dissatisfaction and impatience stole across his features. Even the
      punctuality and frequency of his visits were somewhat lessened. It may be
      supposed that my own uneasiness was heightened by these tokens; but,
      strange as it may seem, I found, in the present state of my mind, no
      relief but in the persuasion that Pleyel was unhappy.
    </p>
    <p>
      That unhappiness, indeed, depended, for its value in my eyes, on the cause
      that produced it. It did not arise from the death of the Saxon lady: it
      was not a contagious emanation from the countenances of Wieland or Carwin.
      There was but one other source whence it could flow. A nameless ecstacy
      thrilled through my frame when any new proof occurred that the
      ambiguousness of my behaviour was the cause.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter IX
    </h2>
    <p>
      My brother had received a new book from Germany. It was a tragedy, and the
      first attempt of a Saxon poet, of whom my brother had been taught to
      entertain the highest expectations. The exploits of Zisca, the Bohemian
      hero, were woven into a dramatic series and connection. According to
      German custom, it was minute and diffuse, and dictated by an adventurous
      and lawless fancy. It was a chain of audacious acts, and unheard-of
      disasters. The moated fortress, and the thicket; the ambush and the
      battle; and the conflict of headlong passions, were pourtrayed in wild
      numbers, and with terrific energy. An afternoon was set apart to rehearse
      this performance. The language was familiar to all of us but Carwin, whose
      company, therefore, was tacitly dispensed with.
    </p>
    <p>
      The morning previous to this intended rehearsal, I spent at home. My mind
      was occupied with reflections relative to my own situation. The sentiment
      which lived with chief energy in my heart, was connected with the image of
      Pleyel. In the midst of my anguish, I had not been destitute of
      consolation. His late deportment had given spring to my hopes. Was not the
      hour at hand, which should render me the happiest of human creatures? He
      suspected that I looked with favorable eyes upon Carwin. Hence arose
      disquietudes, which he struggled in vain to conceal. He loved me, but was
      hopeless that his love would be compensated. Is it not time, said I, to
      rectify this error? But by what means is this to be effected? It can only
      be done by a change of deportment in me; but how must I demean myself for
      this purpose?
    </p>
    <p>
      I must not speak. Neither eyes, nor lips, must impart the information. He
      must not be assured that my heart is his, previous to the tender of his
      own; but he must be convinced that it has not been given to another; he
      must be supplied with space whereon to build a doubt as to the true state
      of my affections; he must be prompted to avow himself. The line of
      delicate propriety; how hard it is, not to fall short, and not to overleap
      it!
    </p>
    <p>
      This afternoon we shall meet at the temple. We shall not separate till
      late. It will be his province to accompany me home. The airy expanse is
      without a speck. This breeze is usually stedfast, and its promise of a
      bland and cloudless evening, may be trusted. The moon will rise at eleven,
      and at that hour, we shall wind along this bank. Possibly that hour may
      decide my fate. If suitable encouragement be given, Pleyel will reveal his
      soul to me; and I, ere I reach this threshold, will be made the happiest
      of beings. And is this good to be mine? Add wings to thy speed, sweet
      evening; and thou, moon, I charge thee, shroud thy beams at the moment
      when my Pleyel whispers love. I would not for the world, that the burning
      blushes, and the mounting raptures of that moment, should be visible.
    </p>
    <p>
      But what encouragement is wanting? I must be regardful of insurmountable
      limits. Yet when minds are imbued with a genuine sympathy, are not words
      and looks superfluous? Are not motion and touch sufficient to impart
      feelings such as mine? Has he not eyed me at moments, when the pressure of
      his hand has thrown me into tumults, and was it possible that he mistook
      the impetuosities of love, for the eloquence of indignation?
    </p>
    <p>
      But the hastening evening will decide. Would it were come! And yet I
      shudder at its near approach. An interview that must thus terminate, is
      surely to be wished for by me; and yet it is not without its terrors.
      Would to heaven it were come and gone!
    </p>
    <p>
      I feel no reluctance, my friends to be thus explicit. Time was, when these
      emotions would be hidden with immeasurable solicitude, from every human
      eye. Alas! these airy and fleeting impulses of shame are gone. My scruples
      were preposterous and criminal. They are bred in all hearts, by a perverse
      and vicious education, and they would still have maintained their place in
      my heart, had not my portion been set in misery. My errors have taught me
      thus much wisdom; that those sentiments which we ought not to disclose, it
      is criminal to harbour.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was proposed to begin the rehearsal at four o'clock; I counted the
      minutes as they passed; their flight was at once too rapid and too slow;
      my sensations were of an excruciating kind; I could taste no food, nor
      apply to any task, nor enjoy a moment's repose: when the hour arrived, I
      hastened to my brother's.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pleyel was not there. He had not yet come. On ordinary occasions, he was
      eminent for punctuality. He had testified great eagerness to share in the
      pleasures of this rehearsal. He was to divide the task with my brother,
      and, in tasks like these, he always engaged with peculiar zeal. His
      elocution was less sweet than sonorous; and, therefore, better adapted
      than the mellifluences of his friend, to the outrageous vehemence of this
      drama.
    </p>
    <p>
      What could detain him? Perhaps he lingered through forgetfulness. Yet this
      was incredible. Never had his memory been known to fail upon even more
      trivial occasions. Not less impossible was it, that the scheme had lost
      its attractions, and that he staid, because his coming would afford him no
      gratification. But why should we expect him to adhere to the minute?
    </p>
    <p>
      An half hour elapsed, but Pleyel was still at a distance. Perhaps he had
      misunderstood the hour which had been proposed. Perhaps he had conceived
      that to-morrow, and not to-day, had been selected for this purpose: but
      no. A review of preceding circumstances demonstrated that such
      misapprehension was impossible; for he had himself proposed this day, and
      this hour. This day, his attention would not otherwise be occupied; but
      to-morrow, an indispensible engagement was foreseen, by which all his time
      would be engrossed: his detention, therefore, must be owing to some
      unforeseen and extraordinary event. Our conjectures were vague,
      tumultuous, and sometimes fearful. His sickness and his death might
      possibly have detained him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tortured with suspense, we sat gazing at each other, and at the path which
      led from the road. Every horseman that passed was, for a moment, imagined
      to be him. Hour succeeded hour, and the sun, gradually declining, at
      length, disappeared. Every signal of his coming proved fallacious, and our
      hopes were at length dismissed. His absence affected my friends in no
      insupportable degree. They should be obliged, they said, to defer this
      undertaking till the morrow; and, perhaps, their impatient curiosity would
      compel them to dispense entirely with his presence. No doubt, some
      harmless occurrence had diverted him from his purpose; and they trusted
      that they should receive a satisfactory account of him in the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      It may be supposed that this disappointment affected me in a very
      different manner. I turned aside my head to conceal my tears. I fled into
      solitude, to give vent to my reproaches, without interruption or
      restraint. My heart was ready to burst with indignation and grief. Pleyel
      was not the only object of my keen but unjust upbraiding. Deeply did I
      execrate my own folly. Thus fallen into ruins was the gay fabric which I
      had reared! Thus had my golden vision melted into air!
    </p>
    <p>
      How fondly did I dream that Pleyel was a lover! If he were, would he have
      suffered any obstacle to hinder his coming? Blind and infatuated man! I
      exclaimed. Thou sportest with happiness. The good that is offered thee,
      thou hast the insolence and folly to refuse. Well, I will henceforth
      intrust my felicity to no one's keeping but my own.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first agonies of this disappointment would not allow me to be
      reasonable or just. Every ground on which I had built the persuasion that
      Pleyel was not unimpressed in my favor, appeared to vanish. It seemed as
      if I had been misled into this opinion, by the most palpable illusions.
    </p>
    <p>
      I made some trifling excuse, and returned, much earlier than I expected,
      to my own house. I retired early to my chamber, without designing to
      sleep. I placed myself at a window, and gave the reins to reflection.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hateful and degrading impulses which had lately controuled me were, in
      some degree, removed. New dejection succeeded, but was now produced by
      contemplating my late behaviour. Surely that passion is worthy to be
      abhorred which obscures our understanding, and urges us to the commission
      of injustice. What right had I to expect his attendance? Had I not
      demeaned myself like one indifferent to his happiness, and as having
      bestowed my regards upon another? His absence might be prompted by the
      love which I considered his absence as a proof that he wanted. He came not
      because the sight of me, the spectacle of my coldness or aversion,
      contributed to his despair. Why should I prolong, by hypocrisy or silence,
      his misery as well as my own? Why not deal with him explicitly, and assure
      him of the truth?
    </p>
    <p>
      You will hardly believe that, in obedience to this suggestion, I rose for
      the purpose of ordering a light, that I might instantly make this
      confession in a letter. A second thought shewed me the rashness of this
      scheme, and I wondered by what infirmity of mind I could be betrayed into
      a momentary approbation of it. I saw with the utmost clearness that a
      confession like that would be the most remediless and unpardonable outrage
      upon the dignity of my sex, and utterly unworthy of that passion which
      controuled me.
    </p>
    <p>
      I resumed my seat and my musing. To account for the absence of Pleyel
      became once more the scope of my conjectures. How many incidents might
      occur to raise an insuperable impediment in his way? When I was a child, a
      scheme of pleasure, in which he and his sister were parties, had been, in
      like manner, frustrated by his absence; but his absence, in that instance,
      had been occasioned by his falling from a boat into the river, in
      consequence of which he had run the most imminent hazard of being drowned.
      Here was a second disappointment endured by the same persons, and produced
      by his failure. Might it not originate in the same cause? Had he not
      designed to cross the river that morning to make some necessary purchases
      in Jersey? He had preconcerted to return to his own house to dinner; but,
      perhaps, some disaster had befallen him. Experience had taught me the
      insecurity of a canoe, and that was the only kind of boat which Pleyel
      used: I was, likewise, actuated by an hereditary dread of water. These
      circumstances combined to bestow considerable plausibility on this
      conjecture; but the consternation with which I began to be seized was
      allayed by reflecting, that if this disaster had happened my brother would
      have received the speediest information of it. The consolation which this
      idea imparted was ravished from me by a new thought. This disaster might
      have happened, and his family not be apprized of it. The first
      intelligence of his fate may be communicated by the livid corpse which the
      tide may cast, many days hence, upon the shore.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus was I distressed by opposite conjectures: thus was I tormented by
      phantoms of my own creation. It was not always thus. I can ascertain the
      date when my mind became the victim of this imbecility; perhaps it was
      coeval with the inroad of a fatal passion; a passion that will never rank
      me in the number of its eulogists; it was alone sufficient to the
      extermination of my peace: it was itself a plenteous source of calamity,
      and needed not the concurrence of other evils to take away the attractions
      of existence, and dig for me an untimely grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      The state of my mind naturally introduced a train of reflections upon the
      dangers and cares which inevitably beset an human being. By no violent
      transition was I led to ponder on the turbulent life and mysterious end of
      my father. I cherished, with the utmost veneration, the memory of this
      man, and every relique connected with his fate was preserved with the most
      scrupulous care. Among these was to be numbered a manuscript, containing
      memoirs of his own life. The narrative was by no means recommended by its
      eloquence; but neither did all its value flow from my relationship to the
      author. Its stile had an unaffected and picturesque simplicity. The great
      variety and circumstantial display of the incidents, together with their
      intrinsic importance, as descriptive of human manners and passions, made
      it the most useful book in my collection. It was late; but being sensible
      of no inclination to sleep, I resolved to betake myself to the perusal of
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      To do this it was requisite to procure a light. The girl had long since
      retired to her chamber: it was therefore proper to wait upon myself. A
      lamp, and the means of lighting it, were only to be found in the kitchen.
      Thither I resolved forthwith to repair; but the light was of use merely to
      enable me to read the book. I knew the shelf and the spot where it stood.
      Whether I took down the book, or prepared the lamp in the first place,
      appeared to be a matter of no moment. The latter was preferred, and,
      leaving my seat, I approached the closet in which, as I mentioned
      formerly, my books and papers were deposited.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly the remembrance of what had lately passed in this closet
      occurred. Whether midnight was approaching, or had passed, I knew not. I
      was, as then, alone, and defenceless. The wind was in that direction in
      which, aided by the deathlike repose of nature, it brought to me the
      murmur of the water-fall. This was mingled with that solemn and enchanting
      sound, which a breeze produces among the leaves of pines. The words of
      that mysterious dialogue, their fearful import, and the wild excess to
      which I was transported by my terrors, filled my imagination anew. My
      steps faultered, and I stood a moment to recover myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      I prevailed on myself at length to move towards the closet. I touched the
      lock, but my fingers were powerless; I was visited afresh by unconquerable
      apprehensions. A sort of belief darted into my mind, that some being was
      concealed within, whose purposes were evil. I began to contend with those
      fears, when it occurred to me that I might, without impropriety, go for a
      lamp previously to opening the closet. I receded a few steps; but before I
      reached my chamber door my thoughts took a new direction. Motion seemed to
      produce a mechanical influence upon me. I was ashamed of my weakness.
      Besides, what aid could be afforded me by a lamp?
    </p>
    <p>
      My fears had pictured to themselves no precise object. It would be
      difficult to depict, in words, the ingredients and hues of that phantom
      which haunted me. An hand invisible and of preternatural strength, lifted
      by human passions, and selecting my life for its aim, were parts of this
      terrific image. All places were alike accessible to this foe, or if his
      empire were restricted by local bounds, those bounds were utterly
      inscrutable by me. But had I not been told by some one in league with this
      enemy, that every place but the recess in the bank was exempt from danger?
      I returned to the closet, and once more put my hand upon the lock. O! may
      my ears lose their sensibility, ere they be again assailed by a shriek so
      terrible! Not merely my understanding was subdued by the sound: it acted
      on my nerves like an edge of steel. It appeared to cut asunder the fibres
      of my brain, and rack every joint with agony.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cry, loud and piercing as it was, was nevertheless human. No
      articulation was ever more distinct. The breath which accompanied it did
      not fan my hair, yet did every circumstance combine to persuade me that
      the lips which uttered it touched my very shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold! Hold!" were the words of this tremendous prohibition, in whose tone
      the whole soul seemed to be wrapped up, and every energy converted into
      eagerness and terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      Shuddering, I dashed myself against the wall, and by the same involuntary
      impulse, turned my face backward to examine the mysterious monitor. The
      moon-light streamed into each window, and every corner of the room was
      conspicuous, and yet I beheld nothing!
    </p>
    <p>
      The interval was too brief to be artificially measured, between the
      utterance of these words, and my scrutiny directed to the quarter whence
      they came. Yet if a human being had been there, could he fail to have been
      visible? Which of my senses was the prey of a fatal illusion? The shock
      which the sound produced was still felt in every part of my frame. The
      sound, therefore, could not but be a genuine commotion. But that I had
      heard it, was not more true than that the being who uttered it was
      stationed at my right ear; yet my attendant was invisible.
    </p>
    <p>
      I cannot describe the state of my thoughts at that moment. Surprize had
      mastered my faculties. My frame shook, and the vital current was
      congealed. I was conscious only to the vehemence of my sensations. This
      condition could not be lasting. Like a tide, which suddenly mounts to an
      overwhelming height, and then gradually subsides, my confusion slowly gave
      place to order, and my tumults to a calm. I was able to deliberate and
      move. I resumed my feet, and advanced into the midst of the room. Upward,
      and behind, and on each side, I threw penetrating glances. I was not
      satisfied with one examination. He that hitherto refused to be seen, might
      change his purpose, and on the next survey be clearly distinguishable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Solitude imposes least restraint upon the fancy. Dark is less fertile of
      images than the feeble lustre of the moon. I was alone, and the walls were
      chequered by shadowy forms. As the moon passed behind a cloud and emerged,
      these shadows seemed to be endowed with life, and to move. The apartment
      was open to the breeze, and the curtain was occasionally blown from its
      ordinary position. This motion was not unaccompanied with sound. I failed
      not to snatch a look, and to listen when this motion and this sound
      occurred. My belief that my monitor was posted near, was strong, and
      instantly converted these appearances to tokens of his presence, and yet I
      could discern nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      When my thoughts were at length permitted to revert to the past, the first
      idea that occurred was the resemblance between the words of the voice
      which I had just heard, and those which had terminated my dream in the
      summer-house. There are means by which we are able to distinguish a
      substance from a shadow, a reality from the phantom of a dream. The pit,
      my brother beckoning me forward, the seizure of my arm, and the voice
      behind, were surely imaginary. That these incidents were fashioned in my
      sleep, is supported by the same indubitable evidence that compels me to
      believe myself awake at present; yet the words and the voice were the
      same. Then, by some inexplicable contrivance, I was aware of the danger,
      while my actions and sensations were those of one wholly unacquainted with
      it. Now, was it not equally true that my actions and persuasions were at
      war? Had not the belief, that evil lurked in the closet, gained
      admittance, and had not my actions betokened an unwarrantable security? To
      obviate the effects of my infatuation, the same means had been used.
    </p>
    <p>
      In my dream, he that tempted me to my destruction, was my brother. Death
      was ambushed in my path. From what evil was I now rescued? What minister
      or implement of ill was shut up in this recess? Who was it whose
      suffocating grasp I was to feel, should I dare to enter it? What monstrous
      conception is this? my brother!
    </p>
    <p>
      No; protection, and not injury is his province. Strange and terrible
      chimera! Yet it would not be suddenly dismissed. It was surely no vulgar
      agency that gave this form to my fears. He to whom all parts of time are
      equally present, whom no contingency approaches, was the author of that
      spell which now seized upon me. Life was dear to me. No consideration was
      present that enjoined me to relinquish it. Sacred duty combined with every
      spontaneous sentiment to endear to me my being. Should I not shudder when
      my being was endangered? But what emotion should possess me when the arm
      lifted aginst me was Wieland's?
    </p>
    <p>
      Ideas exist in our minds that can be accounted for by no established laws.
      Why did I dream that my brother was my foe? Why but because an omen of my
      fate was ordained to be communicated? Yet what salutary end did it serve?
      Did it arm me with caution to elude, or fortitude to bear the evils to
      which I was reserved? My present thoughts were, no doubt, indebted for
      their hue to the similitude existing between these incidents and those of
      my dream. Surely it was phrenzy that dictated my deed. That a ruffian was
      hidden in the closet, was an idea, the genuine tendency of which was to
      urge me to flight. Such had been the effect formerly produced. Had my mind
      been simply occupied with this thought at present, no doubt, the same
      impulse would have been experienced; but now it was my brother whom I was
      irresistably persuaded to regard as the contriver of that ill of which I
      had been forewarned. This persuasion did not extenuate my fears or my
      danger. Why then did I again approach the closet and withdraw the bolt? My
      resolution was instantly conceived, and executed without faultering.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door was formed of light materials. The lock, of simple structure,
      easily forewent its hold. It opened into the room, and commonly moved upon
      its hinges, after being unfastened, without any effort of mine. This
      effort, however, was bestowed upon the present occasion. It was my purpose
      to open it with quickness, but the exertion which I made was ineffectual.
      It refused to open.
    </p>
    <p>
      At another time, this circumstance would not have looked with a face of
      mystery. I should have supposed some casual obstruction, and repeated my
      efforts to surmount it. But now my mind was accessible to no conjecture
      but one. The door was hindered from opening by human force. Surely, here
      was new cause for affright. This was confirmation proper to decide my
      conduct. Now was all ground of hesitation taken away. What could be
      supposed but that I deserted the chamber and the house? that I at least
      endeavoured no longer to withdraw the door?
    </p>
    <p>
      Have I not said that my actions were dictated by phrenzy? My reason had
      forborne, for a time, to suggest or to sway my resolves. I reiterated my
      endeavours. I exerted all my force to overcome the obstacle, but in vain.
      The strength that was exerted to keep it shut, was superior to mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      A casual observer might, perhaps, applaud the audaciousness of this
      conduct. Whence, but from an habitual defiance of danger, could my
      perseverance arise? I have already assigned, as distinctly as I am able,
      the cause of it. The frantic conception that my brother was within, that
      the resistance made to my design was exerted by him, had rooted itself in
      my mind. You will comprehend the height of this infatuation, when I tell
      you, that, finding all my exertions vain, I betook myself to exclamations.
      Surely I was utterly bereft of understanding.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now had I arrived at the crisis of my fate. "O! hinder not the door to
      open," I exclaimed, in a tone that had less of fear than of grief in it.
      "I know you well. Come forth, but harm me not. I beseech you come forth."
    </p>
    <p>
      I had taken my hand from the lock, and removed to a small distance from
      the door. I had scarcely uttered these words, when the door swung upon its
      hinges, and displayed to my view the interior of the closet. Whoever was
      within, was shrouded in darkness. A few seconds passed without
      interruption of the silence. I knew not what to expect or to fear. My eyes
      would not stray from the recess. Presently, a deep sigh was heard. The
      quarter from which it came heightened the eagerness of my gaze. Some one
      approached from the farther end. I quickly perceived the outlines of a
      human figure. Its steps were irresolute and slow. I recoiled as it
      advanced.
    </p>
    <p>
      By coming at length within the verge of the room, his form was clearly
      distinguishable. I had prefigured to myself a very different personage.
      The face that presented itself was the last that I should desire to meet
      at an hour, and in a place like this. My wonder was stifled by my fears.
      Assassins had lurked in this recess. Some divine voice warned me of
      danger, that at this moment awaited me. I had spurned the intimation, and
      challenged my adversary.
    </p>
    <p>
      I recalled the mysterious countenance and dubious character of Carwin.
      What motive but atrocious ones could guide his steps hither? I was alone.
      My habit suited the hour, and the place, and the warmth of the season. All
      succour was remote. He had placed himself between me and the door. My
      frame shook with the vehemence of my apprehensions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet I was not wholly lost to myself: I vigilantly marked his demeanour.
      His looks were grave, but not without perturbation. What species of
      inquietude it betrayed, the light was not strong enough to enable me to
      discover. He stood still; but his eyes wandered from one object to
      another. When these powerful organs were fixed upon me, I shrunk into
      myself. At length, he broke silence. Earnestness, and not embarrassment,
      was in his tone. He advanced close to me while he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What voice was that which lately addressed you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      He paused for an answer; but observing my trepidation, he resumed, with
      undiminished solemnity: "Be not terrified. Whoever he was, he hast done
      you an important service. I need not ask you if it were the voice of a
      companion. That sound was beyond the compass of human organs. The
      knowledge that enabled him to tell you who was in the closet, was obtained
      by incomprehensible means.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You knew that Carwin was there. Were you not apprized of his intents? The
      same power could impart the one as well as the other. Yet, knowing these,
      you persisted. Audacious girl! but, perhaps, you confided in his
      guardianship. Your confidence was just. With succour like this at hand you
      may safely defy me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is my eternal foe; the baffler of my best concerted schemes. Twice
      have you been saved by his accursed interposition. But for him I should
      long ere now have borne away the spoils of your honor."
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked at me with greater stedfastness than before. I became every
      moment more anxious for my safety. It was with difficulty I stammered out
      an entreaty that he would instantly depart, or suffer me to do so. He paid
      no regard to my request, but proceeded in a more impassioned manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What is it you fear? Have I not told you, you are safe? Has not one in
      whom you more reasonably place trust assured you of it? Even if I execute
      my purpose, what injury is done? Your prejudices will call it by that
      name, but it merits it not. I was impelled by a sentiment that does you
      honor; a sentiment, that would sanctify my deed; but, whatever it be, you
      are safe. Be this chimera still worshipped; I will do nothing to pollute
      it." There he stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      The accents and gestures of this man left me drained of all courage.
      Surely, on no other occasion should I have been thus pusillanimous. My
      state I regarded as a hopeless one. I was wholly at the mercy of this
      being. Whichever way I turned my eyes, I saw no avenue by which I might
      escape. The resources of my personal strength, my ingenuity, and my
      eloquence, I estimated at nothing. The dignity of virtue, and the force of
      truth, I had been accustomed to celebrate; and had frequently vaunted of
      the conquests which I should make with their assistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      I used to suppose that certain evils could never befall a being in
      possession of a sound mind; that true virtue supplies us with energy which
      vice can never resist; that it was always in our power to obstruct, by his
      own death, the designs of an enemy who aimed at less than our life. How
      was it that a sentiment like despair had now invaded me, and that I
      trusted to the protection of chance, or to the pity of my persecutor?
    </p>
    <p>
      His words imparted some notion of the injury which he had meditated. He
      talked of obstacles that had risen in his way. He had relinquished his
      design. These sources supplied me with slender consolation. There was no
      security but in his absence. When I looked at myself, when I reflected on
      the hour and the place, I was overpowered by horror and dejection.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was silent, museful, and inattentive to my situation, yet made no
      motion to depart. I was silent in my turn. What could I say? I was
      confident that reason in this contest would be impotent. I must owe my
      safety to his own suggestions. Whatever purpose brought him hither, he had
      changed it. Why then did he remain? His resolutions might fluctuate, and
      the pause of a few minutes restore to him his first resolutions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet was not this the man whom we had treated with unwearied kindness?
      Whose society was endeared to us by his intellectual elevation and
      accomplishments? Who had a thousand times expatiated on the usefulness and
      beauty of virtue? Why should such a one be dreaded? If I could have
      forgotten the circumstances in which our interview had taken place, I
      might have treated his words as jests. Presently, he resumed:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fear me not: the space that severs us is small, and all visible succour
      is distant. You believe yourself completely in my power; that you stand
      upon the brink of ruin. Such are your groundless fears. I cannot lift a
      finger to hurt you. Easier it would be to stop the moon in her course than
      to injure you. The power that protects you would crumble my sinews, and
      reduce me to a heap of ashes in a moment, if I were to harbour a thought
      hostile to your safety. Thus are appearances at length solved. Little did
      I expect that they originated hence. What a portion is assigned to you?
      Scanned by the eyes of this intelligence, your path will be without pits
      to swallow, or snares to entangle you. Environed by the arms of this
      protection, all artifices will be frustrated, and all malice repelled."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here succeeded a new pause. I was still observant of every gesture and
      look. The tranquil solemnity that had lately possessed his countenance
      gave way to a new expression. All now was trepidation and anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I must be gone," said he in a faltering accent. "Why do I linger here? I
      will not ask your forgiveness. I see that your terrors are invincible.
      Your pardon will be extorted by fear, and not dictated by compassion. I
      must fly from you forever. He that could plot against your honor, must
      expect from you and your friends persecution and death. I must doom myself
      to endless exile."
    </p>
    <p>
      Saying this, he hastily left the room. I listened while he descended the
      stairs, and, unbolting the outer door, went forth. I did not follow him
      with my eyes, as the moon-light would have enabled me to do. Relieved by
      his absence, and exhausted by the conflict of my fears, I threw myself on
      a chair, and resigned myself to those bewildering ideas which incidents
      like these could not fail to produce.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter X
    </h2>
    <p>
      Order could not readily be introduced into my thoughts. The voice still
      rung in my ears. Every accent that was uttered by Carwin was fresh in my
      remembrance. His unwelcome approach, the recognition of his person, his
      hasty departure, produced a complex impression on my mind which no words
      can delineate. I strove to give a slower motion to my thoughts, and to
      regulate a confusion which became painful; but my efforts were nugatory. I
      covered my eyes with my hand, and sat, I know not how long, without power
      to arrange or utter my conceptions.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had remained for hours, as I believed, in absolute solitude. No thought
      of personal danger had molested my tranquillity. I had made no preparation
      for defence. What was it that suggested the design of perusing my father's
      manuscript? If, instead of this, I had retired to bed, and to sleep, to
      what fate might I not have been reserved? The ruffian, who must almost
      have suppressed his breathing to screen himself from discovery, would have
      noticed this signal, and I should have awakened only to perish with
      affright, and to abhor myself. Could I have remained unconscious of my
      danger? Could I have tranquilly slept in the midst of so deadly a snare?
    </p>
    <p>
      And who was he that threatened to destroy me? By what means could he hide
      himself in this closet? Surely he is gifted with supernatural power. Such
      is the enemy of whose attempts I was forewarned. Daily I had seen him and
      conversed with him. Nothing could be discerned through the impenetrable
      veil of his duplicity. When busied in conjectures, as to the author of the
      evil that was threatened, my mind did not light, for a moment, upon his
      image. Yet has he not avowed himself my enemy? Why should he be here if he
      had not meditated evil?
    </p>
    <p>
      He confesses that this has been his second attempt. What was the scene of
      his former conspiracy? Was it not he whose whispers betrayed him? Am I
      deceived; or was there not a faint resemblance between the voice of this
      man and that which talked of grasping my throat, and extinguishing my life
      in a moment? Then he had a colleague in his crime; now he is alone. Then
      death was the scope of his thoughts; now an injury unspeakably more
      dreadful. How thankful should I be to the power that has interposed to
      save me!
    </p>
    <p>
      That power is invisible. It is subject to the cognizance of one of my
      senses. What are the means that will inform me of what nature it is? He
      has set himself to counterwork the machinations of this man, who had
      menaced destruction to all that is dear to me, and whose cunning had
      surmounted every human impediment. There was none to rescue me from his
      grasp. My rashness even hastened the completion of his scheme, and
      precluded him from the benefits of deliberation. I had robbed him of the
      power to repent and forbear. Had I been apprized of the danger, I should
      have regarded my conduct as the means of rendering my escape from it
      impossible. Such, likewise, seem to have been the fears of my invisible
      protector. Else why that startling intreaty to refrain from opening the
      closet? By what inexplicable infatuation was I compelled to proceed?
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet my conduct was wise. Carwin, unable to comprehend my folly, ascribed
      my behaviour to my knowledge. He conceived himself previously detected,
      and such detection being possible to flow only from MY heavenly friend,
      and HIS enemy, his fears acquired additional strength.
    </p>
    <p>
      He is apprized of the nature and intentions of this being. Perhaps he is a
      human agent. Yet, on that supposition his atchievements are incredible.
      Why should I be selected as the object of his care; or, if a mere mortal,
      should I not recognize some one, whom, benefits imparted and received had
      prompted to love me? What were the limits and duration of his
      guardianship? Was the genius of my birth entrusted by divine benignity
      with this province? Are human faculties adequate to receive stronger
      proofs of the existence of unfettered and beneficent intelligences than I
      have received?
    </p>
    <p>
      But who was this man's coadjutor? The voice that acknowledged an alliance
      in treachery with Carwin warned me to avoid the summer-house. He assured
      me that there only my safety was endangered. His assurance, as it now
      appears, was fallacious. Was there not deceit in his admonition? Was his
      compact really annulled? Some purpose was, perhaps, to be accomplished by
      preventing my future visits to that spot. Why was I enjoined silence to
      others, on the subject of this admonition, unless it were for some
      unauthorized and guilty purpose?
    </p>
    <p>
      No one but myself was accustomed to visit it. Backward, it was hidden from
      distant view by the rock, and in front, it was screened from all
      examination, by creeping plants, and the branches of cedars. What recess
      could be more propitious to secrecy? The spirit which haunted it formerly
      was pure and rapturous. It was a fane sacred to the memory of infantile
      days, and to blissful imaginations of the future! What a gloomy reverse
      had succeeded since the ominous arrival of this stranger! Now, perhaps, it
      is the scene of his meditations. Purposes fraught with horror, that shun
      the light, and contemplate the pollution of innocence, are here
      engendered, and fostered, and reared to maturity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were the ideas that, during the night, were tumultuously revolved by
      me. I reviewed every conversation in which Carwin had borne a part. I
      studied to discover the true inferences deducible from his deportment and
      words with regard to his former adventures and actual views. I pondered on
      the comments which he made on the relation which I had given of the closet
      dialogue. No new ideas suggested themselves in the course of this review.
      My expectation had, from the first, been disappointed on the small degree
      of surprize which this narrative excited in him. He never explicitly
      declared his opinion as to the nature of those voices, or decided whether
      they were real or visionary. He recommended no measures of caution or
      prevention.
    </p>
    <p>
      But what measures were now to be taken? Was the danger which threatened me
      at an end? Had I nothing more to fear? I was lonely, and without means of
      defence. I could not calculate the motives and regulate the footsteps of
      this person. What certainty was there, that he would not re-assume his
      purposes, and swiftly return to the execution of them?
    </p>
    <p>
      This idea covered me once more with dismay. How deeply did I regret the
      solitude in which I was placed, and how ardently did I desire the return
      of day! But neither of these inconveniencies were susceptible of remedy.
      At first, it occurred to me to summon my servant, and make her spend the
      night in my chamber; but the inefficacy of this expedient to enhance my
      safety was easily seen. Once I resolved to leave the house, and retire to
      my brother's, but was deterred by reflecting on the unseasonableness of
      the hour, on the alarm which my arrival, and the account which I should be
      obliged to give, might occasion, and on the danger to which I might expose
      myself in the way thither. I began, likewise, to consider Carwin's return
      to molest me as exceedingly improbable. He had relinquished, of his own
      accord, his design, and departed without compulsion. "Surely," said I,
      "there is omnipotence in the cause that changed the views of a man like
      Carwin. The divinity that shielded me from his attempts will take suitable
      care of my future safety. Thus to yield to my fears is to deserve that
      they should be real."
    </p>
    <p>
      Scarcely had I uttered these words, when my attention was startled by the
      sound of footsteps. They denoted some one stepping into the piazza in
      front of my house. My new-born confidence was extinguished in a moment.
      Carwin, I thought, had repented his departure, and was hastily returning.
      The possibility that his return was prompted by intentions consistent with
      my safety, found no place in my mind. Images of violation and murder
      assailed me anew, and the terrors which succeeded almost incapacitated me
      from taking any measures for my defence. It was an impulse of which I was
      scarcely conscious, that made me fasten the lock and draw the bolts of my
      chamber door. Having done this, I threw myself on a seat; for I trembled
      to a degree which disabled me from standing, and my soul was so perfectly
      absorbed in the act of listening, that almost the vital motions were
      stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door below creaked on its hinges. It was not again thrust to, but
      appeared to remain open. Footsteps entered, traversed the entry, and began
      to mount the stairs. How I detested the folly of not pursuing the man when
      he withdrew, and bolting after him the outer door! Might he not conceive
      this omission to be a proof that my angel had deserted me, and be thereby
      fortified in guilt?
    </p>
    <p>
      Every step on the stairs, which brought him nearer to my chamber, added
      vigor to my desperation. The evil with which I was menaced was to be at
      any rate eluded. How little did I preconceive the conduct which, in an
      exigence like this, I should be prone to adopt. You will suppose that
      deliberation and despair would have suggested the same course of action,
      and that I should have, unhesitatingly, resorted to the best means of
      personal defence within my power. A penknife lay open upon my table. I
      remembered that it was there, and seized it. For what purpose you will
      scarcely inquire. It will be immediately supposed that I meant it for my
      last refuge, and that if all other means should fail, I should plunge it
      into the heart of my ravisher.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have lost all faith in the stedfastness of human resolves. It was thus
      that in periods of calm I had determined to act. No cowardice had been
      held by me in greater abhorrence than that which prompted an injured
      female to destroy, not her injurer ere the injury was perpetrated, but
      herself when it was without remedy. Yet now this penknife appeared to me
      of no other use than to baffle my assailant, and prevent the crime by
      destroying myself. To deliberate at such a time was impossible; but among
      the tumultuous suggestions of the moment, I do not recollect that it once
      occurred to me to use it as an instrument of direct defence. The steps had
      now reached the second floor. Every footfall accelerated the completion,
      without augmenting, the certainty of evil. The consciousness that the door
      was fast, now that nothing but that was interposed between me and danger,
      was a source of some consolation. I cast my eye towards the window. This,
      likewise, was a new suggestion. If the door should give way, it was my
      sudden resolution to throw myself from the window. Its height from the
      ground, which was covered beneath by a brick pavement, would insure my
      destruction; but I thought not of that.
    </p>
    <p>
      When opposite to my door the footsteps ceased. Was he listening whether my
      fears were allayed, and my caution were asleep? Did he hope to take me by
      surprize? Yet, if so, why did he allow so many noisy signals to betray his
      approach? Presently the steps were again heard to approach the door. An
      hand was laid upon the lock, and the latch pulled back. Did he imagine it
      possible that I should fail to secure the door? A slight effort was made
      to push it open, as if all bolts being withdrawn, a slight effort only was
      required.
    </p>
    <p>
      I no sooner perceived this, than I moved swiftly towards the window.
      Carwin's frame might be said to be all muscle. His strength and activity
      had appeared, in various instances, to be prodigious. A slight exertion of
      his force would demolish the door. Would not that exertion be made? Too
      surely it would; but, at the same moment that this obstacle should yield,
      and he should enter the apartment, my determination was formed to leap
      from the window. My senses were still bound to this object. I gazed at the
      door in momentary expectation that the assault would be made. The pause
      continued. The person without was irresolute and motionless.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly, it occurred to me that Carwin might conceive me to have fled.
      That I had not betaken myself to flight was, indeed, the least probable of
      all conclusions. In this persuasion he must have been confirmed on finding
      the lower door unfastened, and the chamber door locked. Was it not wise to
      foster this persuasion? Should I maintain deep silence, this, in addition
      to other circumstances, might encourage the belief, and he would once more
      depart. Every new reflection added plausibility to this reasoning. It was
      presently more strongly enforced, when I noticed footsteps withdrawing
      from the door. The blood once more flowed back to my heart, and a dawn of
      exultation began to rise: but my joy was short lived. Instead of
      descending the stairs, he passed to the door of the opposite chamber,
      opened it, and having entered, shut it after him with a violence that
      shook the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      How was I to interpret this circumstance? For what end could he have
      entered this chamber? Did the violence with which he closed the door
      testify the depth of his vexation? This room was usually occupied by
      Pleyel. Was Carwin aware of his absence on this night? Could he be
      suspected of a design so sordid as pillage? If this were his view there
      were no means in my power to frustrate it. It behoved me to seize the
      first opportunity to escape; but if my escape were supposed by my enemy to
      have been already effected, no asylum was more secure than the present.
      How could my passage from the house be accomplished without noises that
      might incite him to pursue me?
    </p>
    <p>
      Utterly at a loss to account for his going into Pleyel's chamber, I waited
      in instant expectation of hearing him come forth. All, however, was
      profoundly still. I listened in vain for a considerable period, to catch
      the sound of the door when it should again be opened. There was no other
      avenue by which he could escape, but a door which led into the girl's
      chamber. Would any evil from this quarter befall the girl?
    </p>
    <p>
      Hence arose a new train of apprehensions. They merely added to the
      turbulence and agony of my reflections. Whatever evil impended over her, I
      had no power to avert it. Seclusion and silence were the only means of
      saving myself from the perils of this fatal night. What solemn vows did I
      put up, that if I should once more behold the light of day, I would never
      trust myself again within the threshold of this dwelling!
    </p>
    <p>
      Minute lingered after minute, but no token was given that Carwin had
      returned to the passage. What, I again asked, could detain him in this
      room? Was it possible that he had returned, and glided, unperceived, away?
      I was speedily aware of the difficulty that attended an enterprize like
      this; and yet, as if by that means I were capable of gaining any
      information on that head, I cast anxious looks from the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      The object that first attracted my attention was an human figure standing
      on the edge of the bank. Perhaps my penetration was assisted by my hopes.
      Be that as it will, the figure of Carwin was clearly distinguishable. From
      the obscurity of my station, it was impossible that I should be discerned
      by him, and yet he scarcely suffered me to catch a glimpse of him. He
      turned and went down the steep, which, in this part, was not difficult to
      be scaled.
    </p>
    <p>
      My conjecture then had been right. Carwin has softly opened the door,
      descended the stairs, and issued forth. That I should not have overheard
      his steps, was only less incredible than that my eyes had deceived me. But
      what was now to be done? The house was at length delivered from this
      detested inmate. By one avenue might he again re-enter. Was it not wise to
      bar the lower door? Perhaps he had gone out by the kitchen door. For this
      end, he must have passed through Judith's chamber. These entrances being
      closed and bolted, as great security was gained as was compatible with my
      lonely condition.
    </p>
    <p>
      The propriety of these measures was too manifest not to make me struggle
      successfully with my fears. Yet I opened my own door with the utmost
      caution, and descended as if I were afraid that Carwin had been still
      immured in Pleyel's chamber. The outer door was a-jar. I shut, with
      trembling eagerness, and drew every bolt that appended to it. I then
      passed with light and less cautious steps through the parlour, but was
      surprized to discover that the kitchen door was secure. I was compelled to
      acquiesce in the first conjecture that Carwin had escaped through the
      entry.
    </p>
    <p>
      My heart was now somewhat eased of the load of apprehension. I returned
      once more to my chamber, the door of which I was careful to lock. It was
      no time to think of repose. The moon-light began already to fade before
      the light of the day. The approach of morning was betokened by the usual
      signals. I mused upon the events of this night, and determined to take up
      my abode henceforth at my brother's. Whether I should inform him of what
      had happened was a question which seemed to demand some consideration. My
      safety unquestionably required that I should abandon my present
      habitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      As my thoughts began to flow with fewer impediments, the image of Pleyel,
      and the dubiousness of his condition, again recurred to me. I again ran
      over the possible causes of his absence on the preceding day. My mind was
      attuned to melancholy. I dwelt, with an obstinacy for which I could not
      account, on the idea of his death. I painted to myself his struggles with
      the billows, and his last appearance. I imagined myself a midnight
      wanderer on the shore, and to have stumbled on his corpse, which the tide
      had cast up. These dreary images affected me even to tears. I endeavoured
      not to restrain them. They imparted a relief which I had not anticipated.
      The more copiously they flowed, the more did my general sensations appear
      to subside into calm, and a certain restlessness give way to repose.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps, relieved by this effusion, the slumber so much wanted might have
      stolen on my senses, had there been no new cause of alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XI
    </h2>
    <p>
      I was aroused from this stupor by sounds that evidently arose in the next
      chamber. Was it possible that I had been mistaken in the figure which I
      had seen on the bank? or had Carwin, by some inscrutable means, penetrated
      once more into this chamber? The opposite door opened; footsteps came
      forth, and the person, advancing to mine, knocked.
    </p>
    <p>
      So unexpected an incident robbed me of all presence of mind, and, starting
      up, I involuntarily exclaimed, "Who is there?" An answer was immediately
      given. The voice, to my inexpressible astonishment, was Pleyel's.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is I. Have you risen? If you have not, make haste; I want three
      minutes conversation with you in the parlour&mdash;I will wait for you
      there." Saying this he retired from the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Should I confide in the testimony of my ears? If that were true, it was
      Pleyel that had been hitherto immured in the opposite chamber: he whom my
      rueful fancy had depicted in so many ruinous and ghastly shapes: he whose
      footsteps had been listened to with such inquietude! What is man, that
      knowledge is so sparingly conferred upon him! that his heart should be
      wrung with distress, and his frame be exanimated with fear, though his
      safety be encompassed with impregnable walls! What are the bounds of human
      imbecility! He that warned me of the presence of my foe refused the
      intimation by which so many racking fears would have been precluded.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet who would have imagined the arrival of Pleyel at such an hour? His
      tone was desponding and anxious. Why this unseasonable summons? and why
      this hasty departure? Some tidings he, perhaps, bears of mysterious and
      unwelcome import.
    </p>
    <p>
      My impatience would not allow me to consume much time in deliberation: I
      hastened down. Pleyel I found standing at a window, with eyes cast down as
      in meditation, and arms folded on his breast. Every line in his
      countenance was pregnant with sorrow. To this was added a certain wanness
      and air of fatigue. The last time I had seen him appearances had been the
      reverse of these. I was startled at the change. The first impulse was to
      question him as to the cause. This impulse was supplanted by some degree
      of confusion, flowing from a consciousness that love had too large, and,
      as it might prove, a perceptible share in creating this impulse. I was
      silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently he raised his eyes and fixed them upon me. I read in them an
      anguish altogether ineffable. Never had I witnessed a like demeanour in
      Pleyel. Never, indeed, had I observed an human countenance in which grief
      was more legibly inscribed. He seemed struggling for utterance; but his
      struggles being fruitless, he shook his head and turned away from me.
    </p>
    <p>
      My impatience would not allow me to be longer silent: "What," said I, "for
      heaven's sake, my friend, what is the matter?"
    </p>
    <p>
      He started at the sound of my voice. His looks, for a moment, became
      convulsed with an emotion very different from grief. His accents were
      broken with rage.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The matter&mdash;O wretch!&mdash;thus exquisitely fashioned&mdash;on whom
      nature seemed to have exhausted all her graces; with charms so awful and
      so pure! how art thou fallen! From what height fallen! A ruin so complete&mdash;so
      unheard of!"
    </p>
    <p>
      His words were again choaked by emotion. Grief and pity were again mingled
      in his features. He resumed, in a tone half suffocated by sobs:
    </p>
    <p>
      "But why should I upbraid thee? Could I restore to thee what thou hast
      lost; efface this cursed stain; snatch thee from the jaws of this fiend; I
      would do it. Yet what will avail my efforts? I have not arms with which to
      contend with so consummate, so frightful a depravity.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Evidence less than this would only have excited resentment and scorn. The
      wretch who should have breathed a suspicion injurious to thy honor, would
      have been regarded without anger; not hatred or envy could have prompted
      him; it would merely be an argument of madness. That my eyes, that my
      ears, should bear witness to thy fall! By no other way could detestible
      conviction be imparted.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why do I summon thee to this conference? Why expose myself to thy
      derision? Here admonition and entreaty are vain. Thou knowest him already,
      for a murderer and thief. I had thought to have been the first to disclose
      to thee his infamy; to have warned thee of the pit to which thou art
      hastening; but thy eyes are open in vain. O foul and insupportable
      disgrace!
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is but one path. I know you will disappear together. In thy ruin,
      how will the felicity and honor of multitudes be involved! But it must
      come. This scene shall not be blotted by his presence. No doubt thou wilt
      shortly see thy detested paramour. This scene will be again polluted by a
      midnight assignation. Inform him of his danger; tell him that his crimes
      are known; let him fly far and instantly from this spot, if he desires to
      avoid the fate which menaced him in Ireland.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And wilt thou not stay behind?&mdash;But shame upon my weakness. I know
      not what I would say.&mdash;I have done what I purposed. To stay longer,
      to expostulate, to beseech, to enumerate the consequences of thy act&mdash;what
      end can it serve but to blazon thy infamy and embitter our woes? And yet,
      O think, think ere it be too late, on the distresses which thy flight will
      entail upon us; on the base, grovelling, and atrocious character of the
      wretch to whom thou hast sold thy honor. But what is this? Is not thy
      effrontery impenetrable, and thy heart thoroughly cankered? O most
      specious, and most profligate of women!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Saying this, he rushed out of the house. I saw him in a few moments
      hurrying along the path which led to my brother's. I had no power to
      prevent his going, or to recall, or to follow him. The accents I had heard
      were calculated to confound and bewilder. I looked around me to assure
      myself that the scene was real. I moved that I might banish the doubt that
      I was awake. Such enormous imputations from the mouth of Pleyel! To be
      stigmatized with the names of wanton and profligate! To be charged with
      the sacrifice of honor! with midnight meetings with a wretch known to be a
      murderer and thief! with an intention to fly in his company!
    </p>
    <p>
      What I had heard was surely the dictate of phrenzy, or it was built upon
      some fatal, some incomprehensible mistake. After the horrors of the night;
      after undergoing perils so imminent from this man, to be summoned to an
      interview like this; to find Pleyel fraught with a belief that, instead of
      having chosen death as a refuge from the violence of this man, I had
      hugged his baseness to my heart, had sacrificed for him my purity, my
      spotless name, my friendships, and my fortune! that even madness could
      engender accusations like these was not to be believed.
    </p>
    <p>
      What evidence could possibly suggest conceptions so wild? After the
      unlooked-for interview with Carwin in my chamber, he retired. Could Pleyel
      have observed his exit? It was not long after that Pleyel himself entered.
      Did he build on this incident, his odious conclusions? Could the long
      series of my actions and sentiments grant me no exemption from suspicions
      so foul? Was it not more rational to infer that Carwin's designs had been
      illicit; that my life had been endangered by the fury of one whom, by some
      means, he had discovered to be an assassin and robber; that my honor had
      been assailed, not by blandishments, but by violence?
    </p>
    <p>
      He has judged me without hearing. He has drawn from dubious appearances,
      conclusions the most improbable and unjust. He has loaded me with all
      outrageous epithets. He has ranked me with prostitutes and thieves. I
      cannot pardon thee, Pleyel, for this injustice. Thy understanding must be
      hurt. If it be not, if thy conduct was sober and deliberate, I can never
      forgive an outrage so unmanly, and so gross.
    </p>
    <p>
      These thoughts gradually gave place to others. Pleyel was possessed by
      some momentary phrenzy: appearances had led him into palpable errors.
      Whence could his sagacity have contracted this blindness? Was it not love?
      Previously assured of my affection for Carwin, distracted with grief and
      jealousy, and impelled hither at that late hour by some unknown
      instigation, his imagination transformed shadows into monsters, and
      plunged him into these deplorable errors.
    </p>
    <p>
      This idea was not unattended with consolation. My soul was divided between
      indignation at his injustice, and delight on account of the source from
      which I conceived it to spring. For a long time they would allow admission
      to no other thoughts. Surprize is an emotion that enfeebles, not
      invigorates. All my meditations were accompanied with wonder. I rambled
      with vagueness, or clung to one image with an obstinacy which sufficiently
      testified the maddening influence of late transactions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gradually I proceeded to reflect upon the consequences of Pleyel's
      mistake, and on the measures I should take to guard myself against future
      injury from Carwin. Should I suffer this mistake to be detected by time?
      When his passion should subside, would he not perceive the flagrancy of
      his injustice, and hasten to atone for it? Did it not become my character
      to testify resentment for language and treatment so opprobrious? Wrapt up
      in the consciousness of innocence, and confiding in the influence of time
      and reflection to confute so groundless a charge, it was my province to be
      passive and silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to the violences meditated by Carwin, and the means of eluding them,
      the path to be taken by me was obvious. I resolved to tell the tale to my
      brother, and regulate myself by his advice. For this end, when the morning
      was somewhat advanced, I took the way to his house. My sister was engaged
      in her customary occupations. As soon as I appeared, she remarked a change
      in my looks. I was not willing to alarm her by the information which I had
      to communicate. Her health was in that condition which rendered a
      disastrous tale particularly unsuitable. I forbore a direct answer to her
      inquiries, and inquired, in my turn, for Wieland.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why," said she, "I suspect something mysterious and unpleasant has
      happened this morning. Scarcely had we risen when Pleyel dropped among us.
      What could have prompted him to make us so early and so unseasonable a
      visit I cannot tell. To judge from the disorder of his dress, and his
      countenance, something of an extraordinary nature has occurred. He
      permitted me merely to know that he had slept none, nor even undressed,
      during the past night. He took your brother to walk with him. Some topic
      must have deeply engaged them, for Wieland did not return till the
      breakfast hour was passed, and returned alone. His disturbance was
      excessive; but he would not listen to my importunities, or tell me what
      had happened. I gathered from hints which he let fall, that your situation
      was, in some way, the cause: yet he assured me that you were at your own
      house, alive, in good health, and in perfect safety. He scarcely ate a
      morsel, and immediately after breakfast went out again. He would not
      inform me whither he was going, but mentioned that he probably might not
      return before night."
    </p>
    <p>
      I was equally astonished and alarmed by this information. Pleyel had told
      his tale to my brother, and had, by a plausible and exaggerated picture,
      instilled into him unfavorable thoughts of me. Yet would not the more
      correct judgment of Wieland perceive and expose the fallacy of his
      conclusions? Perhaps his uneasiness might arise from some insight into the
      character of Carwin, and from apprehensions for my safety. The appearances
      by which Pleyel had been misled, might induce him likewise to believe that
      I entertained an indiscreet, though not dishonorable affection for Carwin.
      Such were the conjectures rapidly formed. I was inexpressibly anxious to
      change them into certainty. For this end an interview with my brother was
      desirable. He was gone, no one knew whither, and was not expected speedily
      to return. I had no clue by which to trace his footsteps.
    </p>
    <p>
      My anxieties could not be concealed from my sister. They heightened her
      solicitude to be acquainted with the cause. There were many reasons
      persuading me to silence: at least, till I had seen my brother, it would
      be an act of inexcusable temerity to unfold what had lately passed. No
      other expedient for eluding her importunities occurred to me, but that of
      returning to my own house. I recollected my determination to become a
      tenant of this roof. I mentioned it to her. She joyfully acceded to this
      proposal, and suffered me, with less reluctance, to depart, when I told
      her that it was with a view to collect and send to my new dwelling what
      articles would be immediately useful to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once more I returned to the house which had been the scene of so much
      turbulence and danger. I was at no great distance from it when I observed
      my brother coming out. On seeing me he stopped, and after ascertaining, as
      it seemed, which way I was going, he returned into the house before me. I
      sincerely rejoiced at this event, and I hastened to set things, if
      possible, on their right footing.
    </p>
    <p>
      His brow was by no means expressive of those vehement emotions with which
      Pleyel had been agitated. I drew a favorable omen from this circumstance.
      Without delay I began the conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have been to look for you," said I, "but was told by Catharine that
      Pleyel had engaged you on some important and disagreeable affair. Before
      his interview with you he spent a few minutes with me. These minutes he
      employed in upbraiding me for crimes and intentions with which I am by no
      means chargeable. I believe him to have taken up his opinions on very
      insufficient grounds. His behaviour was in the highest degree precipitate
      and unjust, and, until I receive some atonement, I shall treat him, in my
      turn, with that contempt which he justly merits: meanwhile I am fearful
      that he has prejudiced my brother against me. That is an evil which I most
      anxiously deprecate, and which I shall indeed exert myself to remove. Has
      he made me the subject of this morning's conversation?"
    </p>
    <p>
      My brother's countenance testified no surprize at my address. The
      benignity of his looks were no wise diminished.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is true," said he, "your conduct was the subject of our discourse. I
      am your friend, as well as your brother. There is no human being whom I
      love with more tenderness, and whose welfare is nearer my heart. Judge
      then with what emotions I listened to Pleyel's story. I expect and desire
      you to vindicate yourself from aspersions so foul, if vindication be
      possible."
    </p>
    <p>
      The tone with which he uttered the last words affected me deeply. "If
      vindication be possible!" repeated I. "From what you know, do you deem a
      formal vindication necessary? Can you harbour for a moment the belief of
      my guilt?"
    </p>
    <p>
      He shook his head with an air of acute anguish. "I have struggled," said
      he, "to dismiss that belief. You speak before a judge who will profit by
      any pretence to acquit you: who is ready to question his own senses when
      they plead against you."
    </p>
    <p>
      These words incited a new set of thoughts in my mind. I began to suspect
      that Pleyel had built his accusations on some foundation unknown to me. "I
      may be a stranger to the grounds of your belief. Pleyel loaded me with
      indecent and virulent invectives, but he withheld from me the facts that
      generated his suspicions. Events took place last night of which some of
      the circumstances were of an ambiguous nature. I conceived that these
      might possibly have fallen under his cognizance, and that, viewed through
      the mists of prejudice and passion, they supplied a pretence for his
      conduct, but believed that your more unbiassed judgment would estimate
      them at their just value. Perhaps his tale has been different from what I
      suspect it to be. Listen then to my narrative. If there be any thing in
      his story inconsistent with mine, his story is false."
    </p>
    <p>
      I then proceeded to a circumstantial relation of the incidents of the last
      night. Wieland listened with deep attention. Having finished, "This,"
      continued I, "is the truth; you see in what circumstances an interview
      took place between Carwin and me. He remained for hours in my closet, and
      for some minutes in my chamber. He departed without haste or interruption.
      If Pleyel marked him as he left the house, and it is not impossible that
      he did, inferences injurious to my character might suggest themselves to
      him. In admitting them, he gave proofs of less discernment and less candor
      than I once ascribed to him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "His proofs," said Wieland, after a considerable pause, "are different.
      That he should be deceived, is not possible. That he himself is not the
      deceiver, could not be believed, if his testimony were not inconsistent
      with yours; but the doubts which I entertained are now removed. Your tale,
      some parts of it, is marvellous; the voice which exclaimed against your
      rashness in approaching the closet, your persisting notwithstanding that
      prohibition, your belief that I was the ruffian, and your subsequent
      conduct, are believed by me, because I have known you from childhood,
      because a thousand instances have attested your veracity, and because
      nothing less than my own hearing and vision would convince me, in
      opposition to her own assertions, that my sister had fallen into
      wickedness like this."
    </p>
    <p>
      I threw my arms around him, and bathed his cheek with my tears. "That,"
      said I, "is spoken like my brother. But what are the proofs?"
    </p>
    <p>
      He replied&mdash;"Pleyel informed me that, in going to your house, his
      attention was attracted by two voices. The persons speaking sat beneath
      the bank out of sight. These persons, judging by their voices, were Carwin
      and you. I will not repeat the dialogue. If my sister was the female,
      Pleyel was justified in concluding you to be, indeed, one of the most
      profligate of women. Hence, his accusations of you, and his efforts to
      obtain my concurrence to a plan by which an eternal separation should be
      brought about between my sister and this man."
    </p>
    <p>
      I made Wieland repeat this recital. Here, indeed, was a tale to fill me
      with terrible foreboding. I had vainly thought that my safety could be
      sufficiently secured by doors and bars, but this is a foe from whose grasp
      no power of divinity can save me! His artifices will ever lay my fame and
      happiness at his mercy. How shall I counterwork his plots, or detect his
      coadjutor? He has taught some vile and abandoned female to mimic my voice.
      Pleyel's ears were the witnesses of my dishonor. This is the midnight
      assignation to which he alluded. Thus is the silence he maintained when
      attempting to open the door of my chamber, accounted for. He supposed me
      absent, and meant, perhaps, had my apartment been accessible, to leave in
      it some accusing memorial.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pleyel was no longer equally culpable. The sincerity of his anguish, the
      depth of his despair, I remembered with some tendencies to gratitude. Yet
      was he not precipitate? Was the conjecture that my part was played by some
      mimic so utterly untenable? Instances of this faculty are common. The
      wickedness of Carwin must, in his opinion, have been adequate to such
      contrivances, and yet the supposition of my guilt was adopted in
      preference to that.
    </p>
    <p>
      But how was this error to be unveiled? What but my own assertion had I to
      throw in the balance against it? Would this be permitted to outweigh the
      testimony of his senses? I had no witnesses to prove my existence in
      another place. The real events of that night are marvellous. Few, to whom
      they should be related, would scruple to discredit them. Pleyel is
      sceptical in a transcendant degree. I cannot summon Carwin to my bar, and
      make him the attestor of my innocence, and the accuser of himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      My brother saw and comprehended my distress. He was unacquainted, however,
      with the full extent of it. He knew not by how many motives I was incited
      to retrieve the good opinion of Pleyel. He endeavored to console me. Some
      new event, he said, would occur to disentangle the maze. He did not
      question the influence of my eloquence, if I thought proper to exert it.
      Why not seek an interview with Pleyel, and exact from him a minute
      relation, in which something may be met with serving to destroy the
      probability of the whole?
    </p>
    <p>
      I caught, with eagerness, at this hope; but my alacrity was damped by new
      reflections. Should I, perfect in this respect, and unblemished as I was,
      thrust myself, uncalled, into his presence, and make my felicity depend
      upon his arbitrary verdict?
    </p>
    <p>
      "If you chuse to seek an interview," continued Wieland, "you must make
      haste, for Pleyel informed me of his intention to set out this evening or
      to-morrow on a long journey."
    </p>
    <p>
      No intelligence was less expected or less welcome than this. I had thrown
      myself in a window seat; but now, starting on my feet, I exclaimed, "Good
      heavens! what is it you say? a journey? whither? when?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot say whither. It is a sudden resolution I believe. I did not hear
      of it till this morning. He promises to write to me as soon as he is
      settled."
    </p>
    <p>
      I needed no further information as to the cause and issue of this journey.
      The scheme of happiness to which he had devoted his thoughts was blasted
      by the discovery of last night. My preference of another, and my
      unworthiness to be any longer the object of his adoration, were evinced by
      the same act and in the same moment. The thought of utter desertion, a
      desertion originating in such a cause, was the prelude to distraction.
      That Pleyel should abandon me forever, because I was blind to his
      excellence, because I coveted pollution, and wedded infamy, when, on the
      contrary, my heart was the shrine of all purity, and beat only for his
      sake, was a destiny which, as long as my life was in my own hands, I would
      by no means consent to endure.
    </p>
    <p>
      I remembered that this evil was still preventable; that this fatal journey
      it was still in my power to procrastinate, or, perhaps, to occasion it to
      be laid aside. There were no impediments to a visit: I only dreaded lest
      the interview should be too long delayed. My brother befriended my
      impatience, and readily consented to furnish me with a chaise and servant
      to attend me. My purpose was to go immediately to Pleyel's farm, where his
      engagements usually detained him during the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XII
    </h2>
    <p>
      My way lay through the city. I had scarcely entered it when I was seized
      with a general sensation of sickness. Every object grew dim and swam
      before my sight. It was with difficulty I prevented myself from sinking to
      the bottom of the carriage. I ordered myself to be carried to Mrs.
      Baynton's, in hope that an interval of repose would invigorate and refresh
      me. My distracted thoughts would allow me but little rest. Growing
      somewhat better in the afternoon, I resumed my journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      My contemplations were limited to a few objects. I regarded my success, in
      the purpose which I had in view, as considerably doubtful. I depended, in
      some degree, on the suggestions of the moment, and on the materials which
      Pleyel himself should furnish me. When I reflected on the nature of the
      accusation, I burned with disdain. Would not truth, and the consciousness
      of innocence, render me triumphant? Should I not cast from me, with
      irresistible force, such atrocious imputations?
    </p>
    <p>
      What an entire and mournful change has been effected in a few hours! The
      gulf that separates man from insects is not wider than that which severs
      the polluted from the chaste among women. Yesterday and to-day I am the
      same. There is a degree of depravity to which it is impossible for me to
      sink; yet, in the apprehension of another, my ancient and intimate
      associate, the perpetual witness of my actions, and partaker of my
      thoughts, I had ceased to be the same. My integrity was tarnished and
      withered in his eyes. I was the colleague of a murderer, and the paramour
      of a thief!
    </p>
    <p>
      His opinion was not destitute of evidence: yet what proofs could
      reasonably avail to establish an opinion like this? If the sentiments
      corresponded not with the voice that was heard, the evidence was
      deficient; but this want of correspondence would have been supposed by me
      if I had been the auditor and Pleyel the criminal. But mimicry might still
      more plausibly have been employed to explain the scene. Alas! it is the
      fate of Clara Wieland to fall into the hands of a precipitate and
      inexorable judge.
    </p>
    <p>
      But what, O man of mischief! is the tendency of thy thoughts? Frustrated
      in thy first design, thou wilt not forego the immolation of thy victim. To
      exterminate my reputation was all that remained to thee, and this my
      guardian has permitted. To dispossess Pleyel of this prejudice may be
      impossible; but if that be effected, it cannot be supposed that thy wiles
      are exhausted; thy cunning will discover innumerable avenues to the
      accomplishment of thy malignant purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      Why should I enter the lists against thee? Would to heaven I could disarm
      thy vengeance by my deprecations! When I think of all the resources with
      which nature and education have supplied thee; that thy form is a
      combination of steely fibres and organs of exquisite ductility and
      boundless compass, actuated by an intelligence gifted with infinite
      endowments, and comprehending all knowledge, I perceive that my doom is
      fixed. What obstacle will be able to divert thy zeal or repel thy efforts?
      That being who has hitherto protected me has borne testimony to the
      formidableness of thy attempts, since nothing less than supernatural
      interference could check thy career.
    </p>
    <p>
      Musing on these thoughts, I arrived, towards the close of the day, at
      Pleyel's house. A month before, I had traversed the same path; but how
      different were my sensations! Now I was seeking the presence of one who
      regarded me as the most degenerate of human kind. I was to plead the cause
      of my innocence, against witnesses the most explicit and unerring, of
      those which support the fabric of human knowledge. The nearer I approached
      the crisis, the more did my confidence decay. When the chaise stopped at
      the door, my strength refused to support me, and I threw myself into the
      arms of an ancient female domestic. I had not courage to inquire whether
      her master was at home. I was tormented with fears that the projected
      journey was already undertaken. These fears were removed, by her asking me
      whether she should call her young master, who had just gone into his own
      room. I was somewhat revived by this intelligence, and resolved
      immediately to seek him there.
    </p>
    <p>
      In my confusion of mind, I neglected to knock at the door, but entered his
      apartment without previous notice. This abruptness was altogether
      involuntary. Absorbed in reflections of such unspeakable moment, I had no
      leisure to heed the niceties of punctilio. I discovered him standing with
      his back towards the entrance. A small trunk, with its lid raised, was
      before him in which it seemed as if he had been busy in packing his
      clothes. The moment of my entrance, he was employed in gazing at something
      which he held in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      I imagined that I fully comprehended this scene. The image which he held
      before him, and by which his attention was so deeply engaged, I doubted
      not to be my own. These preparations for his journey, the cause to which
      it was to be imputed, the hopelessness of success in the undertaking on
      which I had entered, rushed at once upon my feelings, and dissolved me
      into a flood of tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Startled by this sound, he dropped the lid of the trunk and turned. The
      solemn sadness that previously overspread his countenance, gave sudden way
      to an attitude and look of the most vehement astonishment. Perceiving me
      unable to uphold myself, he stepped towards me without speaking, and
      supported me by his arm. The kindness of this action called forth a new
      effusion from my eyes. Weeping was a solace to which, at that time, I had
      not grown familiar, and which, therefore, was peculiarly delicious.
      Indignation was no longer to be read in the features of my friend. They
      were pregnant with a mixture of wonder and pity. Their expression was
      easily interpreted. This visit, and these tears, were tokens of my
      penitence. The wretch whom he had stigmatized as incurably and obdurately
      wicked, now shewed herself susceptible of remorse, and had come to confess
      her guilt.
    </p>
    <p>
      This persuasion had no tendency to comfort me. It only shewed me, with new
      evidence, the difficulty of the task which I had assigned myself. We were
      mutually silent. I had less power and less inclination than ever to speak.
      I extricated myself from his hold, and threw myself on a sofa. He placed
      himself by my side, and appeared to wait with impatience and anxiety for
      some beginning of the conversation. What could I say? If my mind had
      suggested any thing suitable to the occasion, my utterance was suffocated
      by tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Frequently he attempted to speak, but seemed deterred by some degree of
      uncertainty as to the true nature of the scene. At length, in faltering
      accents he spoke:
    </p>
    <p>
      "My friend! would to heaven I were still permitted to call you by that
      name. The image that I once adored existed only in my fancy; but though I
      cannot hope to see it realized, you may not be totally insensible to the
      horrors of that gulf into which you are about to plunge. What heart is
      forever exempt from the goadings of compunction and the influx of laudable
      propensities?
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thought you accomplished and wise beyond the rest of women. Not a
      sentiment you uttered, not a look you assumed, that were not, in my
      apprehension, fraught with the sublimities of rectitude and the
      illuminations of genius. Deceit has some bounds. Your education could not
      be without influence. A vigorous understanding cannot be utterly devoid of
      virtue; but you could not counterfeit the powers of invention and
      reasoning. I was rash in my invectives. I will not, but with life,
      relinquish all hopes of you. I will shut out every proof that would tell
      me that your heart is incurably diseased.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You come to restore me once more to happiness; to convince me that you
      have torn her mask from vice, and feel nothing but abhorrence for the part
      you have hitherto acted."
    </p>
    <p>
      At these words my equanimity forsook me. For a moment I forgot the
      evidence from which Pleyel's opinions were derived, the benevolence of his
      remonstrances, and the grief which his accents bespoke; I was filled with
      indignation and horror at charges so black; I shrunk back and darted at
      him a look of disdain and anger. My passion supplied me with words.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What detestable infatuation was it that led me hither! Why do I patiently
      endure these horrible insults! My offences exist only in your own
      distempered imagination: you are leagued with the traitor who assailed my
      life: you have vowed the destruction of my peace and honor. I deserve
      infamy for listening to calumnies so base!"
    </p>
    <p>
      These words were heard by Pleyel without visible resentment. His
      countenance relapsed into its former gloom; but he did not even look at
      me. The ideas which had given place to my angry emotions returned, and
      once more melted me into tears. "O!" I exclaimed, in a voice broken by
      sobs, "what a task is mine! Compelled to hearken to charges which I feel
      to be false, but which I know to be believed by him that utters them;
      believed too not without evidence, which, though fallacious, is not
      unplausible.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I came hither not to confess, but to vindicate. I know the source of your
      opinions. Wieland has informed me on what your suspicions are built. These
      suspicions are fostered by you as certainties; the tenor of my life, of
      all my conversations and letters, affords me no security; every sentiment
      that my tongue and my pen have uttered, bear testimony to the rectitude of
      my mind; but this testimony is rejected. I am condemned as brutally
      profligate: I am classed with the stupidly and sordidly wicked.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And where are the proofs that must justify so foul and so improbable an
      accusation? You have overheard a midnight conference. Voices have saluted
      your ear, in which you imagine yourself to have recognized mine, and that
      of a detected villain. The sentiments expressed were not allowed to
      outweigh the casual or concerted resemblance of voice. Sentiments the
      reverse of all those whose influence my former life had attested, denoting
      a mind polluted by grovelling vices, and entering into compact with that
      of a thief and a murderer. The nature of these sentiments did not enable
      you to detect the cheat, did not suggest to you the possibility that my
      voice had been counterfeited by another.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You were precipitate and prone to condemn. Instead of rushing on the
      impostors, and comparing the evidence of sight with that of hearing, you
      stood aloof, or you fled. My innocence would not now have stood in need of
      vindication, if this conduct had been pursued. That you did not pursue it,
      your present thoughts incontestibly prove. Yet this conduct might surely
      have been expected from Pleyel. That he would not hastily impute the
      blackest of crimes, that he would not couple my name with infamy, and
      cover me with ruin for inadequate or slight reasons, might reasonably have
      been expected." The sobs which convulsed my bosom would not suffer me to
      proceed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pleyel was for a moment affected. He looked at me with some expression of
      doubt; but this quickly gave place to a mournful solemnity. He fixed his
      eyes on the floor as in reverie, and spoke:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Two hours hence I am gone. Shall I carry away with me the sorrow that is
      now my guest? or shall that sorrow be accumulated tenfold? What is she
      that is now before me? Shall every hour supply me with new proofs of a
      wickedness beyond example? Already I deem her the most abandoned and
      detestable of human creatures. Her coming and her tears imparted a gleam
      of hope, but that gleam has vanished."
    </p>
    <p>
      He now fixed his eyes upon me, and every muscle in his face trembled. His
      tone was hollow and terrible&mdash;"Thou knowest that I was a witness of
      your interview, yet thou comest hither to upbraid me for injustice! Thou
      canst look me in the face and say that I am deceived!&mdash;An inscrutable
      providence has fashioned thee for some end. Thou wilt live, no doubt, to
      fulfil the purposes of thy maker, if he repent not of his workmanship, and
      send not his vengeance to exterminate thee, ere the measure of thy days be
      full. Surely nothing in the shape of man can vie with thee!
    </p>
    <p>
      "But I thought I had stifled this fury. I am not constituted thy judge. My
      office is to pity and amend, and not to punish and revile. I deemed myself
      exempt from all tempestuous passions. I had almost persuaded myself to
      weep over thy fall; but I am frail as dust, and mutable as water; I am
      calm, I am compassionate only in thy absence.&mdash;Make this house, this
      room, thy abode as long as thou wilt, but forgive me if I prefer solitude
      for the short time during which I shall stay." Saying this, he motioned as
      if to leave the apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stormy passions of this man affected me by sympathy. I ceased to weep.
      I was motionless and speechless with agony. I sat with my hands clasped,
      mutely gazing after him as he withdrew. I desired to detain him, but was
      unable to make any effort for that purpose, till he had passed out of the
      room. I then uttered an involuntary and piercing cry&mdash;"Pleyel! Art
      thou gone? Gone forever?"
    </p>
    <p>
      At this summons he hastily returned. He beheld me wild, pale, gasping for
      breath, and my head already sinking on my bosom. A painful dizziness
      seized me, and I fainted away.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I recovered, I found myself stretched on a bed in the outer
      apartment, and Pleyel, with two female servants standing beside it. All
      the fury and scorn which the countenance of the former lately expressed,
      had now disappeared, and was succeeded by the most tender anxiety. As soon
      as he perceived that my senses were returned to me, he clasped his hands,
      and exclaimed, "God be thanked! you are once more alive. I had almost
      despaired of your recovery. I fear I have been precipitate and unjust. My
      senses must have been the victims of some inexplicable and momentary
      phrenzy. Forgive me, I beseech you, forgive my reproaches. I would
      purchase conviction of your purity, at the price of my existence here and
      hereafter."
    </p>
    <p>
      He once more, in a tone of the most fervent tenderness, besought me to be
      composed, and then left me to the care of the women.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      Here was wrought a surprizing change in my friend. What was it that had
      shaken conviction so firm? Had any thing occurred during my fit, adequate
      to produce so total an alteration? My attendants informed me that he had
      not left my apartment; that the unusual duration of my fit, and the
      failure, for a time, of all the means used for my recovery, had filled him
      with grief and dismay. Did he regard the effect which his reproaches had
      produced as a proof of my sincerity?
    </p>
    <p>
      In this state of mind, I little regarded my languors of body. I rose and
      requested an interview with him before my departure, on which I was
      resolved, notwithstanding his earnest solicitation to spend the night at
      his house. He complied with my request. The tenderness which he had lately
      betrayed, had now disappeared, and he once more relapsed into a chilling
      solemnity.
    </p>
    <p>
      I told him that I was preparing to return to my brother's; that I had come
      hither to vindicate my innocence from the foul aspersions which he had
      cast upon it. My pride had not taken refuge in silence or distance. I had
      not relied upon time, or the suggestion of his cooler thoughts, to confute
      his charges. Conscious as I was that I was perfectly guiltless, and
      entertaining some value for his good opinion, I could not prevail upon
      myself to believe that my efforts to make my innocence manifest, would be
      fruitless. Adverse appearances might be numerous and specious, but they
      were unquestionably false. I was willing to believe him sincere, that he
      made no charges which he himself did not believe; but these charges were
      destitute of truth. The grounds of his opinion were fallacious; and I
      desired an opportunity of detecting their fallacy. I entreated him to be
      explicit, and to give me a detail of what he had heard, and what he had
      seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      At these words, my companion's countenance grew darker. He appeared to be
      struggling with his rage. He opened his lips to speak, but his accents
      died away ere they were formed. This conflict lasted for some minutes, but
      his fortitude was finally successful. He spoke as follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would fain put an end to this hateful scene: what I shall say, will be
      breath idly and unprofitably consumed. The clearest narrative will add
      nothing to your present knowledge. You are acquainted with the grounds of
      my opinion, and yet you avow yourself innocent: Why then should I rehearse
      these grounds? You are apprized of the character of Carwin: Why then
      should I enumerate the discoveries which I have made respecting him? Yet,
      since it is your request; since, considering the limitedness of human
      faculties, some error may possibly lurk in those appearances which I have
      witnessed, I will briefly relate what I know.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Need I dwell upon the impressions which your conversation and deportment
      originally made upon me? We parted in childhood; but our intercourse, by
      letter, was copious and uninterrupted. How fondly did I anticipate a
      meeting with one whom her letters had previously taught me to consider as
      the first of women, and how fully realized were the expectations that I
      had formed!
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here, said I, is a being, after whom sages may model their transcendent
      intelligence, and painters, their ideal beauty. Here is exemplified, that
      union between intellect and form, which has hitherto existed only in the
      conceptions of the poet. I have watched your eyes; my attention has hung
      upon your lips. I have questioned whether the enchantments of your voice
      were more conspicuous in the intricacies of melody, or the emphasis of
      rhetoric. I have marked the transitions of your discourse, the felicities
      of your expression, your refined argumentation, and glowing imagery; and
      been forced to acknowledge, that all delights were meagre and
      contemptible, compared with those connected with the audience and sight of
      you. I have contemplated your principles, and been astonished at the
      solidity of their foundation, and the perfection of their structure. I
      have traced you to your home. I have viewed you in relation to your
      servants, to your family, to your neighbours, and to the world. I have
      seen by what skilful arrangements you facilitate the performance of the
      most arduous and complicated duties; what daily accessions of strength
      your judicious discipline bestowed upon your memory; what correctness and
      abundance of knowledge was daily experienced by your unwearied application
      to books, and to writing. If she that possesses so much in the bloom of
      youth, will go on accumulating her stores, what, said I, is the picture
      she will display at a mature age?
    </p>
    <p>
      "You know not the accuracy of my observation. I was desirous that others
      should profit by an example so rare. I therefore noted down, in writing,
      every particular of your conduct. I was anxious to benefit by an
      opportunity so seldom afforded us. I laboured not to omit the slightest
      shade, or the most petty line in your portrait. Here there was no other
      task incumbent on me but to copy; there was no need to exaggerate or
      overlook, in order to produce a more unexceptionable pattern. Here was a
      combination of harmonies and graces, incapable of diminution or accession
      without injury to its completeness.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I found no end and no bounds to my task. No display of a scene like this
      could be chargeable with redundancy or superfluity. Even the colour of a
      shoe, the knot of a ribband, or your attitude in plucking a rose, were of
      moment to be recorded. Even the arrangements of your breakfast-table and
      your toilet have been amply displayed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know that mankind are more easily enticed to virtue by example than by
      precept. I know that the absoluteness of a model, when supplied by
      invention, diminishes its salutary influence, since it is useless, we
      think, to strive after that which we know to be beyond our reach. But the
      picture which I drew was not a phantom; as a model, it was devoid of
      imperfection; and to aspire to that height which had been really attained,
      was by no means unreasonable. I had another and more interesting object in
      view. One existed who claimed all my tenderness. Here, in all its parts,
      was a model worthy of assiduous study, and indefatigable imitation. I
      called upon her, as she wished to secure and enhance my esteem, to mould
      her thoughts, her words, her countenance, her actions, by this pattern.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The task was exuberant of pleasure, and I was deeply engaged in it, when
      an imp of mischief was let loose in the form of Carwin. I admired his
      powers and accomplishments. I did not wonder that they were admired by
      you. On the rectitude of your judgement, however, I relied to keep this
      admiration within discreet and scrupulous bounds. I assured myself, that
      the strangeness of his deportment, and the obscurity of his life, would
      teach you caution. Of all errors, my knowledge of your character informed
      me that this was least likely to befall you.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You were powerfully affected by his first appearance; you were bewitched
      by his countenance and his tones; your description was ardent and
      pathetic: I listened to you with some emotions of surprize. The portrait
      you drew in his absence, and the intensity with which you mused upon it,
      were new and unexpected incidents. They bespoke a sensibility somewhat too
      vivid; but from which, while subjected to the guidance of an understanding
      like yours, there was nothing to dread.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A more direct intercourse took place between you. I need not apologize
      for the solicitude which I entertained for your safety. He that gifted me
      with perception of excellence, compelled me to love it. In the midst of
      danger and pain, my contemplations have ever been cheered by your image.
      Every object in competition with you, was worthless and trivial. No price
      was too great by which your safety could be purchased. For that end, the
      sacrifice of ease, of health, and even of life, would cheerfully have been
      made by me. What wonder then, that I scrutinized the sentiments and
      deportment of this man with ceaseless vigilance; that I watched your words
      and your looks when he was present; and that I extracted cause for the
      deepest inquietudes, from every token which you gave of having put your
      happiness into this man's keeping?
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was cautious in deciding. I recalled the various conversations in which
      the topics of love and marriage had been discussed. As a woman, young,
      beautiful, and independent, it behoved you to have fortified your mind
      with just principles on this subject. Your principles were eminently just.
      Had not their rectitude and their firmness been attested by your treatment
      of that specious seducer Dashwood? These principles, I was prone to
      believe, exempted you from danger in this new state of things. I was not
      the last to pay my homage to the unrivalled capacity, insinuation, and
      eloquence of this man. I have disguised, but could never stifle the
      conviction, that his eyes and voice had a witchcraft in them, which
      rendered him truly formidable: but I reflected on the ambiguous expression
      of his countenance&mdash;an ambiguity which you were the first to remark;
      on the cloud which obscured his character; and on the suspicious nature of
      that concealment which he studied; and concluded you to be safe. I denied
      the obvious construction to appearances. I referred your conduct to some
      principle which had not been hitherto disclosed, but which was
      reconcileable with those already known.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was not suffered to remain long in this suspence. One evening, you may
      recollect, I came to your house, where it was my purpose, as usual, to
      lodge, somewhat earlier than ordinary. I spied a light in your chamber as
      I approached from the outside, and on inquiring of Judith, was informed
      that you were writing. As your kinsman and friend, and fellow-lodger, I
      thought I had a right to be familiar. You were in your chamber, but your
      employment and the time were such as to make it no infraction of decorum
      to follow you thither. The spirit of mischievous gaiety possessed me. I
      proceeded on tiptoe. You did not perceive my entrance; and I advanced
      softly till I was able to overlook your shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I had gone thus far in error, and had no power to recede. How cautiously
      should we guard against the first inroads of temptation! I knew that to
      pry into your papers was criminal; but I reflected that no sentiment of
      yours was of a nature which made it your interest to conceal it. You wrote
      much more than you permitted your friends to peruse. My curiosity was
      strong, and I had only to throw a glance upon the paper, to secure its
      gratification. I should never have deliberately committed an act like
      this. The slightest obstacle would have repelled me; but my eye glanced
      almost spontaneously upon the paper. I caught only parts of sentences; but
      my eyes comprehended more at a glance, because the characters were
      short-hand. I lighted on the words SUMMER-HOUSE, MIDNIGHT, and made out a
      passage which spoke of the propriety and of the effects to be expected
      from ANOTHER interview. All this passed in less than a moment. I then
      checked myself, and made myself known to you, by a tap upon your shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I could pardon and account for some trifling alarm; but your trepidation
      and blushes were excessive. You hurried the paper out of sight, and seemed
      too anxious to discover whether I knew the contents to allow yourself to
      make any inquiries. I wondered at these appearances of consternation, but
      did not reason on them until I had retired. When alone, these incidents
      suggested themselves to my reflections anew.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To what scene, or what interview, I asked, did you allude? Your
      disappearance on a former evening, my tracing you to the recess in the
      bank, your silence on my first and second call, your vague answers and
      invincible embarrassment, when you, at length, ascended the hill, I
      recollected with new surprize. Could this be the summerhouse alluded to? A
      certain timidity and consciousness had generally attended you, when this
      incident and this recess had been the subjects of conversation. Nay, I
      imagined that the last time that adventure was mentioned, which happened
      in the presence of Carwin, the countenance of the latter betrayed some
      emotion. Could the interview have been with him?
    </p>
    <p>
      "This was an idea calculated to rouse every faculty to contemplation. An
      interview at that hour, in this darksome retreat, with a man of this
      mysterious but formidable character; a clandestine interview, and one
      which you afterwards endeavoured with so much solicitude to conceal! It
      was a fearful and portentous occurrence. I could not measure his power, or
      fathom his designs. Had he rifled from you the secret of your love, and
      reconciled you to concealment and noctural meetings? I scarcely ever spent
      a night of more inquietude.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I knew not how to act. The ascertainment of this man's character and
      views seemed to be, in the first place, necessary. Had he openly preferred
      his suit to you, we should have been impowered to make direct inquiries;
      but since he had chosen this obscure path, it seemed reasonable to infer
      that his character was exceptionable. It, at least, subjected us to the
      necessity of resorting to other means of information. Yet the
      improbability that you should commit a deed of such rashness, made me
      reflect anew upon the insufficiency of those grounds on which my
      suspicions had been built, and almost to condemn myself for harbouring
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Though it was mere conjecture that the interview spoken of had taken
      place with Carwin, yet two ideas occurred to involve me in the most
      painful doubts. This man's reasonings might be so specious, and his
      artifices so profound, that, aided by the passion which you had conceived
      for him, he had finally succeeded; or his situation might be such as to
      justify the secrecy which you maintained. In neither case did my wildest
      reveries suggest to me, that your honor had been forfeited.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I could not talk with you on this subject. If the imputation was false,
      its atrociousness would have justly drawn upon me your resentment, and I
      must have explained by what facts it had been suggested. If it were true,
      no benefit would follow from the mention of it. You had chosen to conceal
      it for some reasons, and whether these reasons were true or false, it was
      proper to discover and remove them in the first place. Finally, I
      acquiesced in the least painful supposition, trammelled as it was with
      perplexities, that Carwin was upright, and that, if the reasons of your
      silence were known, they would be found to be just."
    </p>
    <p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XIV
    </h2>
    <p>
      "Three days have elapsed since this occurrence. I have been haunted by
      perpetual inquietude. To bring myself to regard Carwin without terror, and
      to acquiesce in the belief of your safety, was impossible. Yet to put an
      end to my doubts, seemed to be impracticable. If some light could be
      reflected on the actual situation of this man, a direct path would present
      itself. If he were, contrary to the tenor of his conversation, cunning and
      malignant, to apprize you of this, would be to place you in security. If
      he were merely unfortunate and innocent, most readily would I espouse his
      cause; and if his intentions were upright with regard to you, most eagerly
      would I sanctify your choice by my approbation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It would be vain to call upon Carwin for an avowal of his deeds. It was
      better to know nothing, than to be deceived by an artful tale. What he was
      unwilling to communicate, and this unwillingness had been repeatedly
      manifested, could never be extorted from him. Importunity might be
      appeased, or imposture effected by fallacious representations. To the rest
      of the world he was unknown. I had often made him the subject of
      discourse; but a glimpse of his figure in the street was the sum of their
      knowledge who knew most. None had ever seen him before, and received as
      new, the information which my intercourse with him in Valencia, and my
      present intercourse, enabled me to give.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Wieland was your brother. If he had really made you the object of his
      courtship, was not a brother authorized to interfere and demand from him
      the confession of his views? Yet what were the grounds on which I had
      reared this supposition? Would they justify a measure like this? Surely
      not.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the course of my restless meditations, it occurred to me, at length,
      that my duty required me to speak to you, to confess the indecorum of
      which I had been guilty, and to state the reflections to which it had led
      me. I was prompted by no mean or selfish views. The heart within my breast
      was not more precious than your safety: most cheerfully would I have
      interposed my life between you and danger. Would you cherish resentment at
      my conduct? When acquainted with the motive which produced it, it would
      not only exempt me from censure, but entitle me to gratitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yesterday had been selected for the rehearsal of the newly-imported
      tragedy. I promised to be present. The state of my thoughts but little
      qualified me for a performer or auditor in such a scene; but I reflected
      that, after it was finished, I should return home with you, and should
      then enjoy an opportunity of discoursing with you fully on this topic. My
      resolution was not formed without a remnant of doubt, as to its propriety.
      When I left this house to perform the visit I had promised, my mind was
      full of apprehension and despondency. The dubiousness of the event of our
      conversation, fear that my interference was too late to secure your peace,
      and the uncertainty to which hope gave birth, whether I had not erred in
      believing you devoted to this man, or, at least, in imagining that he had
      obtained your consent to midnight conferences, distracted me with
      contradictory opinions, and repugnant emotions.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can assign no reason for calling at Mrs. Baynton's. I had seen her in
      the morning, and knew her to be well. The concerted hour had nearly
      arrived, and yet I turned up the street which leads to her house, and
      dismounted at her door. I entered the parlour and threw myself in a chair.
      I saw and inquired for no one. My whole frame was overpowered by dreary
      and comfortless sensations. One idea possessed me wholly; the
      inexpressible importance of unveiling the designs and character of Carwin,
      and the utter improbability that this ever would be effected. Some
      instinct induced me to lay my hand upon a newspaper. I had perused all the
      general intelligence it contained in the morning, and at the same spot.
      The act was rather mechanical than voluntary.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I threw a languid glance at the first column that presented itself. The
      first words which I read, began with the offer of a reward of three
      hundred guineas for the apprehension of a convict under sentence of death,
      who had escaped from Newgate prison in Dublin. Good heaven! how every
      fibre of my frame tingled when I proceeded to read that the name of the
      criminal was Francis Carwin!
    </p>
    <p>
      "The descriptions of his person and address were minute. His stature,
      hair, complexion, the extraordinary position and arrangement of his
      features, his aukward and disproportionate form, his gesture and gait,
      corresponded perfectly with those of our mysterious visitant. He had been
      found guilty in two indictments. One for the murder of the Lady Jane
      Conway, and the other for a robbery committed on the person of the
      honorable Mr. Ludloe.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I repeatedly perused this passage. The ideas which flowed in upon my
      mind, affected me like an instant transition from death to life. The
      purpose dearest to my heart was thus effected, at a time and by means the
      least of all others within the scope of my foresight. But what purpose?
      Carwin was detected. Acts of the blackest and most sordid guilt had been
      committed by him. Here was evidence which imparted to my understanding the
      most luminous certainty. The name, visage, and deportment, were the same.
      Between the time of his escape, and his appearance among us, there was a
      sufficient agreement. Such was the man with whom I suspected you to
      maintain a clandestine correspondence. Should I not haste to snatch you
      from the talons of this vulture? Should I see you rushing to the verge of
      a dizzy precipice, and not stretch forth a hand to pull you back? I had no
      need to deliberate. I thrust the paper in my pocket, and resolved to
      obtain an immediate conference with you. For a time, no other image made
      its way to my understanding. At length, it occurred to me, that though the
      information I possessed was, in one sense, sufficient, yet if more could
      be obtained, more was desirable. This passage was copied from a British
      paper; part of it only, perhaps, was transcribed. The printer was in
      possession of the original.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Towards his house I immediately turned my horse's head. He produced the
      paper, but I found nothing more than had already been seen. While busy in
      perusing it, the printer stood by my side. He noticed the object of which
      I was in search. "Aye," said he, "that is a strange affair. I should never
      have met with it, had not Mr. Hallet sent to me the paper, with a
      particular request to republish that advertisement."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mr. Hallet! What reasons could he have for making this request? Had the
      paper sent to him been accompanied by any information respecting the
      convict? Had he personal or extraordinary reasons for desiring its
      republication? This was to be known only in one way. I speeded to his
      house. In answer to my interrogations, he told me that Ludloe had formerly
      been in America, and that during his residence in this city, considerable
      intercourse had taken place between them. Hence a confidence arose, which
      has since been kept alive by occasional letters. He had lately received a
      letter from him, enclosing the newspaper from which this extract had been
      made. He put it into my hands, and pointed out the passages which related
      to Carwin.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ludloe confirms the facts of his conviction and escape; and adds, that he
      had reason to believe him to have embarked for America. He describes him
      in general terms, as the most incomprehensible and formidable among men;
      as engaged in schemes, reasonably suspected to be, in the highest degree,
      criminal, but such as no human intelligence is able to unravel: that his
      ends are pursued by means which leave it in doubt whether he be not in
      league with some infernal spirit: that his crimes have hitherto been
      perpetrated with the aid of some unknown but desperate accomplices: that
      he wages a perpetual war against the happiness of mankind, and sets his
      engines of destruction at work against every object that presents itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is the substance of the letter. Hallet expressed some surprize at
      the curiosity which was manifested by me on this occasion. I was too much
      absorbed by the ideas suggested by this letter, to pay attention to his
      remarks. I shuddered with the apprehension of the evil to which our
      indiscreet familiarity with this man had probably exposed us. I burnt with
      impatience to see you, and to do what in me lay to avert the calamity
      which threatened us. It was already five o'clock. Night was hastening, and
      there was no time to be lost. On leaving Mr. Hallet's house, who should
      meet me in the street, but Bertrand, the servant whom I left in Germany.
      His appearance and accoutrements bespoke him to have just alighted from a
      toilsome and long journey. I was not wholly without expectation of seeing
      him about this time, but no one was then more distant from my thoughts.
      You know what reasons I have for anxiety respecting scenes with which this
      man was conversant. Carwin was for a moment forgotten. In answer to my
      vehement inquiries, Bertrand produced a copious packet. I shall not at
      present mention its contents, nor the measures which they obliged me to
      adopt. I bestowed a brief perusal on these papers, and having given some
      directions to Bertrand, resumed my purpose with regard to you. My horse I
      was obliged to resign to my servant, he being charged with a commission
      that required speed. The clock had struck ten, and Mettingen was five
      miles distant. I was to Journey thither on foot. These circumstances only
      added to my expedition.
    </p>
    <p>
      "As I passed swiftly along, I reviewed all the incidents accompanying the
      appearance and deportment of that man among us. Late events have been
      inexplicable and mysterious beyond any of which I have either read or
      heard. These events were coeval with Carwin's introduction. I am unable to
      explain their origin and mutual dependance; but I do not, on that account,
      believe them to have a supernatural origin. Is not this man the agent?
      Some of them seem to be propitious; but what should I think of those
      threats of assassination with which you were lately alarmed? Bloodshed is
      the trade, and horror is the element of this man. The process by which the
      sympathies of nature are extinguished in our hearts, by which evil is made
      our good, and by which we are made susceptible of no activity but in the
      infliction, and no joy but in the spectacle of woes, is an obvious
      process. As to an alliance with evil geniuses, the power and the malice of
      daemons have been a thousand times exemplified in human beings. There are
      no devils but those which are begotten upon selfishness, and reared by
      cunning.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, indeed, the scene was changed. It was not his secret poniard that I
      dreaded. It was only the success of his efforts to make you a confederate
      in your own destruction, to make your will the instrument by which he
      might bereave you of liberty and honor.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I took, as usual, the path through your brother's ground. I ranged with
      celerity and silence along the bank. I approached the fence, which divides
      Wieland's estate from yours. The recess in the bank being near this line,
      it being necessary for me to pass near it, my mind being tainted with
      inveterate suspicions concerning you; suspicions which were indebted for
      their strength to incidents connected with this spot; what wonder that it
      seized upon my thoughts! "I leaped on the fence; but before I descended on
      the opposite side, I paused to survey the scene. Leaves dropping with dew,
      and glistening in the moon's rays, with no moving object to molest the
      deep repose, filled me with security and hope. I left the station at
      length, and tended forward. You were probably at rest. How should I
      communicate without alarming you, the intelligence of my arrival? An
      immediate interview was to be procured. I could not bear to think that a
      minute should be lost by remissness or hesitation. Should I knock at the
      door? or should I stand under your chamber windows, which I perceived to
      be open, and awaken you by my calls?
    </p>
    <p>
      "These reflections employed me, as I passed opposite to the summer-house.
      I had scarcely gone by, when my ear caught a sound unusual at this time
      and place. It was almost too faint and too transient to allow me a
      distinct perception of it. I stopped to listen; presently it was heard
      again, and now it was somewhat in a louder key. It was laughter; and
      unquestionably produced by a female voice. That voice was familiar to my
      senses. It was yours.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Whence it came, I was at first at a loss to conjecture; but this
      uncertainty vanished when it was heard the third time. I threw back my
      eyes towards the recess. Every other organ and limb was useless to me. I
      did not reason on the subject. I did not, in a direct manner, draw my
      conclusions from the hour, the place, the hilarity which this sound
      betokened, and the circumstance of having a companion, which it no less
      incontestably proved. In an instant, as it were, my heart was invaded with
      cold, and the pulses of life at a stand.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why should I go further? Why should I return? Should I not hurry to a
      distance from a sound, which, though formerly so sweet and delectable, was
      now more hideous than the shrieks of owls?
    </p>
    <p>
      "I had no time to yield to this impulse. The thought of approaching and
      listening occurred to me. I had no doubt of which I was conscious. Yet my
      certainty was capable of increase. I was likewise stimulated by a
      sentiment that partook of rage. I was governed by an half-formed and
      tempestuous resolution to break in upon your interview, and strike you
      dead with my upbraiding.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I approached with the utmost caution. When I reached the edge of the bank
      immediately above the summer-house, I thought I heard voices from below,
      as busy in conversation. The steps in the rock are clear of bushy
      impediments. They allowed me to descend into a cavity beside the building
      without being detected. Thus to lie in wait could only be justified by the
      momentousness of the occasion."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Pleyel paused in his narrative, and fixed his eyes upon me. Situated
      as I was, my horror and astonishment at this tale gave way to compassion
      for the anguish which the countenance of my friend betrayed. I reflected
      on his force of understanding. I reflected on the powers of my enemy. I
      could easily divine the substance of the conversation that was overheard.
      Carwin had constructed his plot in a manner suited to the characters of
      those whom he had selected for his victims. I saw that the convictions of
      Pleyel were immutable. I forbore to struggle against the storm, because I
      saw that all struggles would be fruitless. I was calm; but my calmness was
      the torpor of despair, and not the tranquillity of fortitude. It was
      calmness invincible by any thing that his grief and his fury could suggest
      to Pleyel. He resumed&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Woman! wilt thou hear me further? Shall I go on to repeat the
      conversation? Is it shame that makes thee tongue-tied? Shall I go on? or
      art thou satisfied with what has been already said?"
    </p>
    <p>
      I bowed my head. "Go on," said I. "I make not this request in the hope of
      undeceiving you. I shall no longer contend with my own weakness. The storm
      is let loose, and I shall peaceably submit to be driven by its fury. But
      go on. This conference will end only with affording me a clearer foresight
      of my destiny; but that will be some satisfaction, and I will not part
      without it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Why, on hearing these words, did Pleyel hesitate? Did some unlooked-for
      doubt insinuate itself into his mind? Was his belief suddenly shaken by my
      looks, or my words, or by some newly recollected circumstance?
      Whencesoever it arose, it could not endure the test of deliberation. In a
      few minutes the flame of resentment was again lighted up in his bosom. He
      proceeded with his accustomed vehemence&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "I hate myself for this folly. I can find no apology for this tale. Yet I
      am irresistibly impelled to relate it. She that hears me is apprized of
      every particular. I have only to repeat to her her own words. She will
      listen with a tranquil air, and the spectacle of her obduracy will drive
      me to some desperate act. Why then should I persist! yet persist I must."
    </p>
    <p>
      Again he paused. "No," said he, "it is impossible to repeat your avowals
      of love, your appeals to former confessions of your tenderness, to former
      deeds of dishonor, to the circumstances of the first interview that took
      place between you. It was on that night when I traced you to this recess.
      Thither had he enticed you, and there had you ratified an unhallowed
      compact by admitting him&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Great God! Thou witnessedst the agonies that tore my bosom at that
      moment! Thou witnessedst my efforts to repel the testimony of my ears! It
      was in vain that you dwelt upon the confusion which my unlooked-for
      summons excited in you; the tardiness with which a suitable excuse
      occurred to you; your resentment that my impertinent intrusion had put an
      end to that charming interview: A disappointment for which you endeavoured
      to compensate yourself, by the frequency and duration of subsequent
      meetings.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In vain you dwelt upon incidents of which you only could be conscious;
      incidents that occurred on occasions on which none beside your own family
      were witnesses. In vain was your discourse characterized by peculiarities
      inimitable of sentiment and language. My conviction was effected only by
      an accumulation of the same tokens. I yielded not but to evidence which
      took away the power to withhold my faith.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My sight was of no use to me. Beneath so thick an umbrage, the darkness
      was intense. Hearing was the only avenue to information, which the
      circumstances allowed to be open. I was couched within three feet of you.
      Why should I approach nearer? I could not contend with your betrayer. What
      could be the purpose of a contest? You stood in no need of a protector.
      What could I do, but retire from the spot overwhelmed with confusion and
      dismay? I sought my chamber, and endeavoured to regain my composure. The
      door of the house, which I found open, your subsequent entrance, closing,
      and fastening it, and going into your chamber, which had been thus long
      deserted, were only confirmations of the truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why should I paint the tempestuous fluctuation of my thoughts between
      grief and revenge, between rage and despair? Why should I repeat my vows
      of eternal implacability and persecution, and the speedy recantation of
      these vows?
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have said enough. You have dismissed me from a place in your esteem.
      What I think, and what I feel, is of no importance in your eyes. May the
      duty which I owe myself enable me to forget your existence. In a few
      minutes I go hence. Be the maker of your fortune, and may adversity
      instruct you in that wisdom, which education was unable to impart to you."
    </p>
    <p>
      Those were the last words which Pleyel uttered. He left the room, and my
      new emotions enabled me to witness his departure without any apparent loss
      of composure. As I sat alone, I ruminated on these incidents. Nothing was
      more evident than that I had taken an eternal leave of happiness. Life was
      a worthless thing, separate from that good which had now been wrested from
      me; yet the sentiment that now possessed me had no tendency to palsy my
      exertions, and overbear my strength. I noticed that the light was
      declining, and perceived the propriety of leaving this house. I placed
      myself again in the chaise, and returned slowly towards the city.
    </p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XV
    </h2>
    <p>
      Before I reached the city it was dusk. It was my purpose to spend the
      night at Mettingen. I was not solicitous, as long as I was attended by a
      faithful servant, to be there at an early hour. My exhausted strength
      required me to take some refreshment. With this view, and in order to pay
      respect to one whose affection for me was truly maternal, I stopped at
      Mrs. Baynton's. She was absent from home; but I had scarcely entered the
      house when one of her domestics presented me a letter. I opened and read
      as follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      "To Clara Wieland,
    </p>
    <p>
      "What shall I say to extenuate the misconduct of last night? It is my duty
      to repair it to the utmost of my power, but the only way in which it can
      be repaired, you will not, I fear, be prevailed on to adopt. It is by
      granting me an interview, at your own house, at eleven o'clock this night.
      I have no means of removing any fears that you may entertain of my
      designs, but my simple and solemn declarations. These, after what has
      passed between us, you may deem unworthy of confidence. I cannot help it.
      My folly and rashness has left me no other resource. I will be at your
      door by that hour. If you chuse to admit me to a conference, provided that
      conference has no witnesses, I will disclose to you particulars, the
      knowledge of which is of the utmost importance to your happiness.
      Farewell.
    </p>
    <p>
      "CARWIN."
    </p>
    <p>
      What a letter was this! A man known to be an assassin and robber; one
      capable of plotting against my life and my fame; detected lurking in my
      chamber, and avowing designs the most flagitious and dreadful, now
      solicits me to grant him a midnight interview! To admit him alone into my
      presence! Could he make this request with the expectation of my
      compliance? What had he seen in me, that could justify him in admitting so
      wild a belief? Yet this request is preferred with the utmost gravity. It
      is not accompanied by an appearance of uncommon earnestness. Had the
      misconduct to which he alludes been a slight incivility, and the interview
      requested to take place in the midst of my friends, there would have been
      no extravagance in the tenor of this letter; but, as it was, the writer
      had surely been bereft of his reason.
    </p>
    <p>
      I perused this epistle frequently. The request it contained might be
      called audacious or stupid, if it had been made by a different person; but
      from Carwin, who could not be unaware of the effect which it must
      naturally produce, and of the manner in which it would unavoidably be
      treated, it was perfectly inexplicable. He must have counted on the
      success of some plot, in order to extort my assent. None of those motives
      by which I am usually governed would ever have persuaded me to meet any
      one of his sex, at the time and place which he had prescribed. Much less
      would I consent to a meeting with a man, tainted with the most detestable
      crimes, and by whose arts my own safety had been so imminently endangered,
      and my happiness irretrievably destroyed. I shuddered at the idea that
      such a meeting was possible. I felt some reluctance to approach a spot
      which he still visited and haunted.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were the ideas which first suggested themselves on the perusal of the
      letter. Meanwhile, I resumed my journey. My thoughts still dwelt upon the
      same topic. Gradually from ruminating on this epistle, I reverted to my
      interview with Pleyel. I recalled the particulars of the dialogue to which
      he had been an auditor. My heart sunk anew on viewing the inextricable
      complexity of this deception, and the inauspicious concurrence of events,
      which tended to confirm him in his error. When he approached my chamber
      door, my terror kept me mute. He put his ear, perhaps, to the crevice, but
      it caught the sound of nothing human. Had I called, or made any token that
      denoted some one to be within, words would have ensued; and as
      omnipresence was impossible, this discovery, and the artless narrative of
      what had just passed, would have saved me from his murderous invectives.
      He went into his chamber, and after some interval, I stole across the
      entry and down the stairs, with inaudible steps. Having secured the outer
      doors, I returned with less circumspection. He heard me not when I
      descended; but my returning steps were easily distinguished. Now he
      thought was the guilty interview at an end. In what other way was it
      possible for him to construe these signals?
    </p>
    <p>
      How fallacious and precipitate was my decision! Carwin's plot owed its
      success to a coincidence of events scarcely credible. The balance was
      swayed from its equipoise by a hair. Had I even begun the conversation
      with an account of what befel me in my chamber, my previous interview with
      Wieland would have taught him to suspect me of imposture; yet, if I were
      discoursing with this ruffian, when Pleyel touched the lock of my chamber
      door, and when he shut his own door with so much violence, how, he might
      ask, should I be able to relate these incidents? Perhaps he had withheld
      the knowledge of these circumstances from my brother, from whom,
      therefore, I could not obtain it, so that my innocence would have thus
      been irresistibly demonstrated.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first impulse which flowed from these ideas was to return upon my
      steps, and demand once more an interview; but he was gone: his parting
      declarations were remembered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pleyel, I exclaimed, thou art gone for ever! Are thy mistakes beyond the
      reach of detection? Am I helpless in the midst of this snare? The plotter
      is at hand. He even speaks in the style of penitence. He solicits an
      interview which he promises shall end in the disclosure of something
      momentous to my happiness. What can he say which will avail to turn aside
      this evil? But why should his remorse be feigned? I have done him no
      injury. His wickedness is fertile only of despair; and the billows of
      remorse will some time overbear him. Why may not this event have already
      taken place? Why should I refuse to see him?
    </p>
    <p>
      This idea was present, as it were, for a moment. I suddenly recoiled from
      it, confounded at that frenzy which could give even momentary harbour to
      such a scheme; yet presently it returned. At length I even conceived it to
      deserve deliberation. I questioned whether it was not proper to admit, at
      a lonely spot, in a sacred hour, this man of tremendous and inscrutable
      attributes, this performer of horrid deeds, and whose presence was
      predicted to call down unheard-of and unutterable horrors.
    </p>
    <p>
      What was it that swayed me? I felt myself divested of the power to will
      contrary to the motives that determined me to seek his presence. My mind
      seemed to be split into separate parts, and these parts to have entered
      into furious and implacable contention. These tumults gradually subsided.
      The reasons why I should confide in that interposition which had hitherto
      defended me; in those tokens of compunction which this letter contained;
      in the efficacy of this interview to restore its spotlessness to my
      character, and banish all illusions from the mind of my friend,
      continually acquired new evidence and new strength.
    </p>
    <p>
      What should I fear in his presence? This was unlike an artifice intended
      to betray me into his hands. If it were an artifice, what purpose would it
      serve? The freedom of my mind was untouched, and that freedom would defy
      the assaults of blandishments or magic. Force was I not able to repel. On
      the former occasion my courage, it is true, had failed at the imminent
      approach of danger; but then I had not enjoyed opportunities of
      deliberation; I had foreseen nothing; I was sunk into imbecility by my
      previous thoughts; I had been the victim of recent disappointments and
      anticipated ills: Witness my infatuation in opening the closet in
      opposition to divine injunctions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, perhaps, my courage was the offspring of a no less erring principle.
      Pleyel was for ever lost to me. I strove in vain to assume his person, and
      suppress my resentment; I strove in vain to believe in the assuaging
      influence of time, to look forward to the birth-day of new hopes, and the
      re-exaltation of that luminary, of whose effulgencies I had so long and so
      liberally partaken.
    </p>
    <p>
      What had I to suffer worse than was already inflicted?
    </p>
    <p>
      Was not Carwin my foe? I owed my untimely fate to his treason. Instead of
      flying from his presence, ought I not to devote all my faculties to the
      gaining of an interview, and compel him to repair the ills of which he has
      been the author? Why should I suppose him impregnable to argument? Have I
      not reason on my side, and the power of imparting conviction? Cannot he be
      made to see the justice of unravelling the maze in which Pleyel is
      bewildered?
    </p>
    <p>
      He may, at least, be accessible to fear. Has he nothing to fear from the
      rage of an injured woman? But suppose him inaccessible to such
      inducements; suppose him to persist in all his flagitious purposes; are
      not the means of defence and resistance in my power?
    </p>
    <p>
      In the progress of such thoughts, was the resolution at last formed. I
      hoped that the interview was sought by him for a laudable end; but, be
      that as it would, I trusted that, by energy of reasoning or of action, I
      should render it auspicious, or, at least, harmless.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such a determination must unavoidably fluctuate. The poet's chaos was no
      unapt emblem of the state of my mind. A torment was awakened in my bosom,
      which I foresaw would end only when this interview was past, and its
      consequences fully experienced. Hence my impatience for the arrival of the
      hour which had been prescribed by Carwin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, my meditations were tumultuously active. New impediments to the
      execution of the scheme were speedily suggested. I had apprized Catharine
      of my intention to spend this and many future nights with her. Her husband
      was informed of this arrangement, and had zealously approved it. Eleven
      o'clock exceeded their hour of retiring. What excuse should I form for
      changing my plan? Should I shew this letter to Wieland, and submit myself
      to his direction? But I knew in what way he would decide. He would
      fervently dissuade me from going. Nay, would he not do more? He was
      apprized of the offences of Carwin, and of the reward offered for his
      apprehension. Would he not seize this opportunity of executing justice on
      a criminal?
    </p>
    <p>
      This idea was new. I was plunged once more into doubt. Did not equity
      enjoin me thus to facilitate his arrest? No. I disdained the office of
      betrayer. Carwin was unapprized of his danger, and his intentions were
      possibly beneficent. Should I station guards about the house, and make an
      act, intended perhaps for my benefit, instrumental to his own destruction?
      Wieland might be justified in thus employing the knowledge which I should
      impart, but I, by imparting it, should pollute myself with more hateful
      crimes than those undeservedly imputed to me. This scheme, therefore, I
      unhesitatingly rejected. The views with which I should return to my own
      house, it would therefore be necessary to conceal. Yet some pretext must
      be invented. I had never been initiated into the trade of lying. Yet what
      but falshood was a deliberate suppression of the truth? To deceive by
      silence or by words is the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet what would a lie avail me? What pretext would justify this change in
      my plan? Would it not tend to confirm the imputations of Pleyel? That I
      should voluntarily return to an house in which honor and life had so
      lately been endangered, could be explained in no way favorable to my
      integrity.
    </p>
    <p>
      These reflections, if they did not change, at least suspended my decision.
      In this state of uncertainty I alighted at the HUT. We gave this name to
      the house tenanted by the farmer and his servants, and which was situated
      on the verge of my brother's ground, and at a considerable distance from
      the mansion. The path to the mansion was planted by a double row of
      walnuts. Along this path I proceeded alone. I entered the parlour, in
      which was a light just expiring in the socket. There was no one in the
      room. I perceived by the clock that stood against the wall, that it was
      near eleven. The lateness of the hour startled me. What had become of the
      family? They were usually retired an hour before this; but the
      unextinguished taper, and the unbarred door were indications that they had
      not retired. I again returned to the hall, and passed from one room to
      another, but still encountered not a human being.
    </p>
    <p>
      I imagined that, perhaps, the lapse of a few minutes would explain these
      appearances. Meanwhile I reflected that the preconcerted hour had arrived.
      Carwin was perhaps waiting my approach. Should I immediately retire to my
      own house, no one would be apprized of my proceeding. Nay, the interview
      might pass, and I be enabled to return in half an hour. Hence no necessity
      would arise for dissimulation.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was so far influenced by these views that I rose to execute this design;
      but again the unusual condition of the house occurred to me, and some
      vague solicitude as to the condition of the family. I was nearly certain
      that my brother had not retired; but by what motives he could be induced
      to desert his house thus unseasonably I could by no means divine. Louisa
      Conway, at least, was at home and had, probably, retired to her chamber;
      perhaps she was able to impart the information I wanted.
    </p>
    <p>
      I went to her chamber, and found her asleep. She was delighted and
      surprized at my arrival, and told me with how much impatience and anxiety
      my brother and his wife had waited my coming. They were fearful that some
      mishap had befallen me, and had remained up longer than the usual period.
      Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, Catharine would not resign the
      hope of seeing me. Louisa said she had left them both in the parlour, and
      she knew of no cause for their absence.
    </p>
    <p>
      As yet I was not without solicitude on account of their personal safety. I
      was far from being perfectly at ease on that head, but entertained no
      distinct conception of the danger that impended over them. Perhaps to
      beguile the moments of my long protracted stay, they had gone to walk upon
      the bank. The atmosphere, though illuminated only by the star-light, was
      remarkably serene. Meanwhile the desirableness of an interview with Carwin
      again returned, and I finally resolved to seek it.
    </p>
    <p>
      I passed with doubting and hasty steps along the path. My dwelling, seen
      at a distance, was gloomy and desolate. It had no inhabitant, for my
      servant, in consequence of my new arrangement, had gone to Mettingen. The
      temerity of this attempt began to shew itself in more vivid colours to my
      understanding. Whoever has pointed steel is not without arms; yet what
      must have been the state of my mind when I could meditate, without
      shuddering, on the use of a murderous weapon, and believe myself secure
      merely because I was capable of being made so by the death of another? Yet
      this was not my state. I felt as if I was rushing into deadly toils,
      without the power of pausing or receding.
    </p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XVI
    </h2>
    <p>
      As soon as I arrived in sight of the front of the house, my attention was
      excited by a light from the window of my own chamber. No appearance could
      be less explicable. A meeting was expected with Carwin, but that he
      pre-occupied my chamber, and had supplied himself with light, was not to
      be believed. What motive could influence him to adopt this conduct? Could
      I proceed until this was explained? Perhaps, if I should proceed to a
      distance in front, some one would be visible. A sidelong but feeble beam
      from the window, fell upon the piny copse which skirted the bank. As I
      eyed it, it suddenly became mutable, and after flitting to and fro, for a
      short time, it vanished. I turned my eye again toward the window, and
      perceived that the light was still there; but the change which I had
      noticed was occasioned by a change in the position of the lamp or candle
      within. Hence, that some person was there was an unavoidable inference.
    </p>
    <p>
      I paused to deliberate on the propriety of advancing. Might I not advance
      cautiously, and, therefore, without danger? Might I not knock at the door,
      or call, and be apprized of the nature of my visitant before I entered? I
      approached and listened at the door, but could hear nothing. I knocked at
      first timidly, but afterwards with loudness. My signals were unnoticed. I
      stepped back and looked, but the light was no longer discernible. Was it
      suddenly extinguished by a human agent? What purpose but concealment was
      intended? Why was the illumination produced, to be thus suddenly brought
      to an end? And why, since some one was there, had silence been observed?
    </p>
    <p>
      These were questions, the solution of which may be readily supposed to be
      entangled with danger. Would not this danger, when measured by a woman's
      fears, expand into gigantic dimensions? Menaces of death; the stunning
      exertions of a warning voice; the known and unknown attributes of Carwin;
      our recent interview in this chamber; the pre-appointment of a meeting at
      this place and hour, all thronged into my memory. What was to be done?
    </p>
    <p>
      Courage is no definite or stedfast principle. Let that man who shall
      purpose to assign motives to the actions of another, blush at his folly
      and forbear. Not more presumptuous would it be to attempt the
      classification of all nature, and the scanning of supreme intelligence. I
      gazed for a minute at the window, and fixed my eyes, for a second minute,
      on the ground. I drew forth from my pocket, and opened, a penknife. This,
      said I, be my safe-guard and avenger. The assailant shall perish, or
      myself shall fall. I had locked up the house in the morning, but had the
      key of the kitchen door in my pocket. I, therefore, determined to gain
      access behind. Thither I hastened, unlocked and entered. All was lonely,
      darksome, and waste. Familiar as I was with every part of my dwelling, I
      easily found my way to a closet, drew forth a taper, a flint, tinder, and
      steel, and, in a moment as it were, gave myself the guidance and
      protection of light.
    </p>
    <p>
      What purpose did I meditate? Should I explore my way to my chamber, and
      confront the being who had dared to intrude into this recess, and had
      laboured for concealment? By putting out the light did he seek to hide
      himself, or mean only to circumvent my incautious steps? Yet was it not
      more probable that he desired my absence by thus encouraging the
      supposition that the house was unoccupied? I would see this man in spite
      of all impediments; ere I died, I would see his face, and summon him to
      penitence and retribution; no matter at what cost an interview was
      purchased. Reputation and life might be wrested from me by another, but my
      rectitude and honor were in my own keeping, and were safe.
    </p>
    <p>
      I proceeded to the foot of the stairs. At such a crisis my thoughts may be
      supposed at no liberty to range; yet vague images rushed into my mind, of
      the mysterious interposition which had been experienced on the last night.
      My case, at present, was not dissimilar; and, if my angel were not weary
      of fruitless exertions to save, might not a new warning be expected? Who
      could say whether his silence were ascribable to the absence of danger, or
      to his own absence?
    </p>
    <p>
      In this state of mind, no wonder that a shivering cold crept through my
      veins; that my pause was prolonged; and, that a fearful glance was thrown
      backward.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alas! my heart droops, and my fingers are enervated; my ideas are vivid,
      but my language is faint: now know I what it is to entertain
      incommunicable sentiments. The chain of subsequent incidents is drawn
      through my mind, and being linked with those which forewent, by turns
      rouse up agonies and sink me into hopelessness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet I will persist to the end. My narrative may be invaded by inaccuracy
      and confusion; but if I live no longer, I will, at least, live to complete
      it. What but ambiguities, abruptnesses, and dark transitions, can be
      expected from the historian who is, at the same time, the sufferer of
      these disasters?
    </p>
    <p>
      I have said that I cast a look behind. Some object was expected to be
      seen, or why should I have gazed in that direction? Two senses were at
      once assailed. The same piercing exclamation of HOLD! HOLD! was uttered
      within the same distance of my ear. This it was that I heard. The airy
      undulation, and the shock given to my nerves, were real. Whether the
      spectacle which I beheld existed in my fancy or without, might be doubted.
      I had not closed the door of the apartment I had just left. The
      stair-case, at the foot of which I stood, was eight or ten feet from the
      door, and attached to the wall through which the door led. My view,
      therefore, was sidelong, and took in no part of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through this aperture was an head thrust and drawn back with so much
      swiftness, that the immediate conviction was, that thus much of a form,
      ordinarily invisible, had been unshrowded. The face was turned towards me.
      Every muscle was tense; the forehead and brows were drawn into vehement
      expression; the lips were stretched as in the act of shrieking, and the
      eyes emitted sparks, which, no doubt, if I had been unattended by a light,
      would have illuminated like the coruscations of a meteor. The sound and
      the vision were present, and departed together at the same instant; but
      the cry was blown into my ear, while the face was many paces distant.
    </p>
    <p>
      This face was well suited to a being whose performances exceeded the
      standard of humanity, and yet its features were akin to those I had before
      seen. The image of Carwin was blended in a thousand ways with the stream
      of my thoughts. This visage was, perhaps, pourtrayed by my fancy. If so,
      it will excite no surprize that some of his lineaments were now
      discovered. Yet affinities were few and unconspicuous, and were lost
      amidst the blaze of opposite qualities.
    </p>
    <p>
      What conclusion could I form? Be the face human or not, the intimation was
      imparted from above. Experience had evinced the benignity of that being
      who gave it. Once he had interposed to shield me from harm, and subsequent
      events demonstrated the usefulness of that interposition. Now was I again
      warned to forbear. I was hurrying to the verge of the same gulf, and the
      same power was exerted to recall my steps. Was it possible for me not to
      obey? Was I capable of holding on in the same perilous career? Yes. Even
      of this I was capable!
    </p>
    <p>
      The intimation was imperfect: it gave no form to my danger, and prescribed
      no limits to my caution. I had formerly neglected it, and yet escaped.
      Might I not trust to the same issue? This idea might possess, though
      imperceptibly, some influence. I persisted; but it was not merely on this
      account. I cannot delineate the motives that led me on. I now speak as if
      no remnant of doubt existed in my mind as to the supernal origin of these
      sounds; but this is owing to the imperfection of my language, for I only
      mean that the belief was more permanent, and visited more frequently my
      sober meditations than its opposite. The immediate effects served only to
      undermine the foundations of my judgment and precipitate my resolutions.
    </p>
    <p>
      I must either advance or return. I chose the former, and began to ascend
      the stairs. The silence underwent no second interruption. My chamber door
      was closed, but unlocked, and, aided by vehement efforts of my courage, I
      opened and looked in.
    </p>
    <p>
      No hideous or uncommon object was discernible. The danger, indeed, might
      easily have lurked out of sight, have sprung upon me as I entered, and
      have rent me with his iron talons; but I was blind to this fate, and
      advanced, though cautiously, into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still every thing wore its accustomed aspect. Neither lamp nor candle was
      to be found. Now, for the first time, suspicions were suggested as to the
      nature of the light which I had seen. Was it possible to have been the
      companion of that supernatural visage; a meteorous refulgence producible
      at the will of him to whom that visage belonged, and partaking of the
      nature of that which accompanied my father's death?
    </p>
    <p>
      The closet was near, and I remembered the complicated horrors of which it
      had been productive. Here, perhaps, was inclosed the source of my peril,
      and the gratification of my curiosity. Should I adventure once more to
      explore its recesses? This was a resolution not easily formed. I was
      suspended in thought: when glancing my eye on a table, I perceived a
      written paper. Carwin's hand was instantly recognized, and snatching up
      the paper, I read as follows:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "There was folly in expecting your compliance with my invitation. Judge
      how I was disappointed in finding another in your place. I have waited,
      but to wait any longer would be perilous. I shall still seek an interview,
      but it must be at a different time and place: meanwhile, I will write this&mdash;How
      will you bear&mdash;How inexplicable will be this transaction!&mdash;An
      event so unexpected&mdash;a sight so horrible!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was this abrupt and unsatisfactory script. The ink was yet moist, the
      hand was that of Carwin. Hence it was to be inferred that he had this
      moment left the apartment, or was still in it. I looked back, on the
      sudden expectation of seeing him behind me.
    </p>
    <p>
      What other did he mean? What transaction had taken place adverse to my
      expectations? What sight was about to be exhibited? I looked around me
      once more, but saw nothing which indicated strangeness. Again I remembered
      the closet, and was resolved to seek in that the solution of these
      mysteries. Here, perhaps, was inclosed the scene destined to awaken my
      horrors and baffle my foresight.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have already said, that the entrance into this closet was beside my bed,
      which, on two sides, was closely shrowded by curtains. On that side
      nearest the closet, the curtain was raised. As I passed along I cast my
      eye thither. I started, and looked again. I bore a light in my hand, and
      brought it nearer my eyes, in order to dispel any illusive mists that
      might have hovered before them. Once more I fixed my eyes upon the bed, in
      hope that this more stedfast scrutiny would annihilate the object which
      before seemed to be there.
    </p>
    <p>
      This then was the sight which Carwin had predicted! This was the event
      which my understanding was to find inexplicable! This was the fate which
      had been reserved for me, but which, by some untoward chance, had befallen
      on another!
    </p>
    <p>
      I had not been terrified by empty menaces. Violation and death awaited my
      entrance into this chamber. Some inscrutable chance had led HER hither
      before me, and the merciless fangs of which I was designed to be the prey,
      had mistaken their victim, and had fixed themselves in HER heart. But
      where was my safety? Was the mischief exhausted or flown? The steps of the
      assassin had just been here; they could not be far off; in a moment he
      would rush into my presence, and I should perish under the same polluting
      and suffocating grasp!
    </p>
    <p>
      My frame shook, and my knees were unable to support me. I gazed
      alternately at the closet door and at the door of my room. At one of these
      avenues would enter the exterminator of my honor and my life. I was
      prepared for defence; but now that danger was imminent, my means of
      defence, and my power to use them were gone. I was not qualified, by
      education and experience, to encounter perils like these: or, perhaps, I
      was powerless because I was again assaulted by surprize, and had not
      fortified my mind by foresight and previous reflection against a scene
      like this.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fears for my own safety again yielded place to reflections on the scene
      before me. I fixed my eyes upon her countenance. My sister's well-known
      and beloved features could not be concealed by convulsion or lividness.
      What direful illusion led thee hither? Bereft of thee, what hold on
      happiness remains to thy offspring and thy spouse? To lose thee by a
      common fate would have been sufficiently hard; but thus suddenly to perish&mdash;to
      become the prey of this ghastly death! How will a spectacle like this be
      endured by Wieland? To die beneath his grasp would not satisfy thy enemy.
      This was mercy to the evils which he previously made thee suffer! After
      these evils death was a boon which thou besoughtest him to grant. He
      entertained no enmity against thee: I was the object of his treason; but
      by some tremendous mistake his fury was misplaced. But how comest thou
      hither? and where was Wieland in thy hour of distress?
    </p>
    <p>
      I approached the corpse: I lifted the still flexible hand, and kissed the
      lips which were breathless. Her flowing drapery was discomposed. I
      restored it to order, and seating myself on the bed, again fixed stedfast
      eyes upon her countenance. I cannot distinctly recollect the ruminations
      of that moment. I saw confusedly, but forcibly, that every hope was
      extinguished with the life of CATHARINE. All happiness and dignity must
      henceforth be banished from the house and name of Wieland: all that
      remained was to linger out in agonies a short existence; and leave to the
      world a monument of blasted hopes and changeable fortune. Pleyel was
      already lost to me; yet, while Catharine lived life was not a detestable
      possession: but now, severed from the companion of my infancy, the
      partaker of all my thoughts, my cares, and my wishes, I was like one set
      afloat upon a stormy sea, and hanging his safety upon a plank; night was
      closing upon him, and an unexpected surge had torn him from his hold and
      overwhelmed him forever.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XVII
    </h2>
    <p>
      I had no inclination nor power to move from this spot. For more than an
      hour, my faculties and limbs seemed to be deprived of all activity. The
      door below creaked on its hinges, and steps ascended the stairs. My
      wandering and confused thoughts were instantly recalled by these sounds,
      and dropping the curtain of the bed, I moved to a part of the room where
      any one who entered should be visible; such are the vibrations of
      sentiment, that notwithstanding the seeming fulfilment of my fears, and
      increase of my danger, I was conscious, on this occasion, to no turbulence
      but that of curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length he entered the apartment, and I recognized my brother. It was
      the same Wieland whom I had ever seen. Yet his features were pervaded by a
      new expression. I supposed him unacquainted with the fate of his wife, and
      his appearance confirmed this persuasion. A brow expanding into exultation
      I had hitherto never seen in him, yet such a brow did he now wear. Not
      only was he unapprized of the disaster that had happened, but some joyous
      occurrence had betided. What a reverse was preparing to annihilate his
      transitory bliss! No husband ever doated more fondly, for no wife ever
      claimed so boundless a devotion. I was not uncertain as to the effects to
      flow from the discovery of her fate. I confided not at all in the efforts
      of his reason or his piety. There were few evils which his modes of
      thinking would not disarm of their sting; but here, all opiates to grief,
      and all compellers of patience were vain. This spectacle would be
      unavoidably followed by the outrages of desperation, and a rushing to
      death.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the present, I neglected to ask myself what motive brought him hither.
      I was only fearful of the effects to flow from the sight of the dead. Yet
      could it be long concealed from him? Some time and speedily he would
      obtain this knowledge. No stratagems could considerably or usefully
      prolong his ignorance. All that could be sought was to take away the
      abruptness of the change, and shut out the confusion of despair, and the
      inroads of madness: but I knew my brother, and knew that all exertions to
      console him would be fruitless.
    </p>
    <p>
      What could I say? I was mute, and poured forth those tears on his account,
      which my own unhappiness had been unable to extort. In the midst of my
      tears, I was not unobservant of his motions. These were of a nature to
      rouse some other sentiment than grief or, at least, to mix with it a
      portion of astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      His countenance suddenly became troubled. His hands were clasped with a
      force that left the print of his nails in his flesh. His eyes were fixed
      on my feet. His brain seemed to swell beyond its continent. He did not
      cease to breathe, but his breath was stifled into groans. I had never
      witnessed the hurricane of human passions. My element had, till lately,
      been all sunshine and calm. I was unconversant with the altitudes and
      energies of sentiment, and was transfixed with inexplicable horror by the
      symptoms which I now beheld.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a silence and a conflict which I could not interpret, he lifted his
      eyes to heaven, and in broken accents exclaimed, "This is too much! Any
      victim but this, and thy will be done. Have I not sufficiently attested my
      faith and my obedience? She that is gone, they that have perished, were
      linked with my soul by ties which only thy command would have broken; but
      here is sanctity and excellence surpassing human. This workmanship is
      thine, and it cannot be thy will to heap it into ruins."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here suddenly unclasping his hands, he struck one of them against his
      forehead, and continued&mdash;"Wretch! who made thee quicksighted in the
      councils of thy Maker? Deliverance from mortal fetters is awarded to this
      being, and thou art the minister of this decree."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, Wieland advanced towards me. His words and his motions were
      without meaning, except on one supposition. The death of Catharine was
      already known to him, and that knowledge, as might have been suspected,
      had destroyed his reason. I had feared nothing less; but now that I beheld
      the extinction of a mind the most luminous and penetrating that ever
      dignified the human form, my sensations were fraught with new and
      insupportable anguish.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had not time to reflect in what way my own safety would be effected by
      this revolution, or what I had to dread from the wild conceptions of a
      madman. He advanced towards me. Some hollow noises were wafted by the
      breeze. Confused clamours were succeeded by many feet traversing the
      grass, and then crowding intO the piazza.
    </p>
    <p>
      These sounds suspended my brother's purpose, and he stood to listen. The
      signals multiplied and grew louder; perceiving this, he turned from me,
      and hurried out of my sight. All about me was pregnant with motives to
      astonishment. My sister's corpse, Wieland's frantic demeanour, and, at
      length, this crowd of visitants so little accorded with my foresight, that
      my mental progress was stopped. The impulse had ceased which was
      accustomed to give motion and order to my thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      Footsteps thronged upon the stairs, and presently many faces shewed
      themselves within the door of my apartment. These looks were full of alarm
      and watchfulness. They pryed into corners as if in search of some
      fugitive; next their gaze was fixed upon me, and betokened all the
      vehemence of terror and pity. For a time I questioned whether these were
      not shapes and faces like that which I had seen at the bottom of the
      stairs, creatures of my fancy or airy existences. My eye wandered from one
      to another, till at length it fell on a countenance which I well knew. It
      was that of Mr. Hallet. This man was a distant kinsman of my mother,
      venerable for his age, his uprightness, and sagacity. He had long
      discharged the functions of a magistrate and good citizen. If any terrors
      remained, his presence was sufficient to dispel them.
    </p>
    <p>
      He approached, took my hand with a compassionate air, and said in a low
      voice, "Where, my dear Clara, are your brother and sister?" I made no
      answer, but pointed to the bed. His attendants drew aside the curtain, and
      while their eyes glared with horror at the spectacle which they beheld,
      those of Mr. Hallet overflowed with tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      After considerable pause, he once more turned to me. "My dear girl, this
      sight is not for you. Can you confide in my care, and that of Mrs.
      Baynton's? We will see performed all that circumstances require."
    </p>
    <p>
      I made strenuous opposition to this request. I insisted on remaining near
      her till she were interred. His remonstrances, however, and my own
      feelings, shewed me the propriety of a temporary dereliction. Louisa stood
      in need of a comforter, and my brother's children of a nurse. My unhappy
      brother was himself an object of solicitude and care. At length, I
      consented to relinquish the corpse, and go to my brother's, whose house, I
      said, would need mistress, and his children a parent.
    </p>
    <p>
      During this discourse, my venerable friend struggled with his tears, but
      my last intimation called them forth with fresh violence. Meanwhile, his
      attendants stood round in mournful silence, gazing on me and at each
      other. I repeated my resolution, and rose to execute it; but he took my
      hand to detain me. His countenance betrayed irresolution and reluctance. I
      requested him to state the reason of his opposition to this measure. I
      entreated him to be explicit. I told him that my brother had just been
      there, and that I knew his condition. This misfortune had driven him to
      madness, and his offspring must not want a protector. If he chose, I would
      resign Wieland to his care; but his innocent and helpless babes stood in
      instant need of nurse and mother, and these offices I would by no means
      allow another to perform while I had life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every word that I uttered seemed to augment his perplexity and distress.
      At last he said, "I think, Clara, I have entitled myself to some regard
      from you. You have professed your willingness to oblige me. Now I call
      upon you to confer upon me the highest obligation in your power. Permit
      Mrs. Baynton to have the management of your brother's house for two or
      three days; then it shall be yours to act in it as you please. No matter
      what are my motives in making this request: perhaps I think your age, your
      sex, or the distress which this disaster must occasion, incapacitates you
      for the office. Surely you have no doubt of Mrs. Baynton's tenderness or
      discretion." New ideas now rushed into my mind. I fixed my eyes stedfastly
      on Mr. Hallet. "Are they well?" said I. "Is Louisa well? Are Benjamin, and
      William, and Constantine, and Little Clara, are they safe? Tell me truly,
      I beseech you!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "They are well," he replied; "they are perfectly safe."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fear no effeminate weakness in me: I can bear to hear the truth. Tell me
      truly, are they well?"
    </p>
    <p>
      He again assured me that they were well.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What then," resumed I, "do you fear? Is it possible for any calamity to
      disqualify me for performing my duty to these helpless innocents? I am
      willing to divide the care of them with Mrs. Baynton; I shall be grateful
      for her sympathy and aid; but what should I be to desert them at an hour
      like this!"
    </p>
    <p>
      I will cut short this distressful dialogue. I still persisted in my
      purpose, and he still persisted in his opposition. This excited my
      suspicions anew; but these were removed by solemn declarations of their
      safety. I could not explain this conduct in my friend; but at length
      consented to go to the city, provided I should see them for a few minutes
      at present, and should return on the morrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even this arrangement was objected to. At length he told me they were
      removed to the city. Why were they removed, I asked, and whither? My
      importunities would not now be eluded. My suspicions were roused, and no
      evasion or artifice was sufficient to allay them. Many of the audience
      began to give vent to their emotions in tears. Mr. Hallet himself seemed
      as if the conflict were too hard to be longer sustained. Something
      whispered to my heart that havoc had been wider than I now witnessed. I
      suspected this concealment to arise from apprehensions of the effects
      which a knowledge of the truth would produce in me. I once more entreated
      him to inform me truly of their state. To enforce my entreaties, I put on
      an air of insensibility. "I can guess," said I, "what has happened&mdash;They
      are indeed beyond the reach of injury, for they are dead! Is it not so?"
      My voice faltered in spite of my courageous efforts.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," said he, "they are dead! Dead by the same fate, and by the same
      hand, with their mother!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dead!" replied I; "what, all?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "All!" replied he: "he spared NOT ONE!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Allow me, my friends, to close my eyes upon the after-scene. Why should I
      protract a tale which I already begin to feel is too long? Over this scene
      at least let me pass lightly. Here, indeed, my narrative would be
      imperfect. All was tempestuous commotion in my heart and in my brain. I
      have no memory for ought but unconscious transitions and rueful sights. I
      was ingenious and indefatigable in the invention of torments. I would not
      dispense with any spectacle adapted to exasperate my grief. Each pale and
      mangled form I crushed to my bosom. Louisa, whom I loved with so ineffable
      a passion, was denied to me at first, but my obstinacy conquered their
      reluctance.
    </p>
    <p>
      They led the way into a darkened hall. A lamp pendant from the ceiling was
      uncovered, and they pointed to a table. The assassin had defrauded me of
      my last and miserable consolation. I sought not in her visage, for the
      tinge of the morning, and the lustre of heaven. These had vanished with
      life; but I hoped for liberty to print a last kiss upon her lips. This was
      denied me; for such had been the merciless blow that destroyed her, that
      not a LINEAMENT REMAINED!
    </p>
    <p>
      I was carried hence to the city. Mrs. Hallet was my companion and my
      nurse. Why should I dwell upon the rage of fever, and the effusions of
      delirium? Carwin was the phantom that pursued my dreams, the giant
      oppressor under whose arm I was for ever on the point of being crushed.
      Strenuous muscles were required to hinder my flight, and hearts of steel
      to withstand the eloquence of my fears. In vain I called upon them to look
      upward, to mark his sparkling rage and scowling contempt. All I sought was
      to fly from the stroke that was lifted. Then I heaped upon my guards the
      most vehement reproaches, or betook myself to wailings on the haplessness
      of my condition.
    </p>
    <p>
      This malady, at length, declined, and my weeping friends began to look for
      my restoration. Slowly, and with intermitted beams, memory revisited me.
      The scenes that I had witnessed were revived, became the theme of
      deliberation and deduction, and called forth the effusions of more
      rational sorrow.
    </p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XVIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      I had imperfectly recovered my strength, when I was informed of the
      arrival of my mother's brother, Thomas Cambridge. Ten years since, he went
      to Europe, and was a surgeon in the British forces in Germany, during the
      whole of the late war. After its conclusion, some connection that he had
      formed with an Irish officer, made him retire into Ireland. Intercourse
      had been punctually maintained by letters with his sister's children, and
      hopes were given that he would shortly return to his native country, and
      pass his old age in our society. He was now in an evil hour arrived.
    </p>
    <p>
      I desired an interview with him for numerous and urgent reasons. With the
      first returns of my understanding I had anxiously sought information of
      the fate of my brother. During the course of my disease I had never seen
      him; and vague and unsatisfactory answers were returned to all my
      inquires. I had vehemently interrogated Mrs. Hallet and her husband, and
      solicited an interview with this unfortunate man; but they mysteriously
      insinuated that his reason was still unsettled, and that his circumstances
      rendered an interview impossible. Their reserve on the particulars of this
      destruction, and the author of it, was equally invincible.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some time, finding all my efforts fruitless, I had desisted from
      direct inquiries and solicitations, determined, as soon as my strength was
      sufficiently renewed, to pursue other means of dispelling my uncertainty.
      In this state of things my uncle's arrival and intention to visit me were
      announced. I almost shuddered to behold the face of this man. When I
      reflected on the disasters that had befallen us, I was half unwilling to
      witness that dejection and grief which would be disclosed in his
      countenance. But I believed that all transactions had been thoroughly
      disclosed to him, and confided in my importunity to extort from him the
      knowledge that I sought.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had no doubt as to the person of our enemy; but the motives that urged
      him to perpetrate these horrors, the means that he used, and his present
      condition, were totally unknown. It was reasonable to expect some
      information on this head, from my uncle. I therefore waited his coming
      with impatience. At length, in the dusk of the evening, and in my solitary
      chamber, this meeting took place.
    </p>
    <p>
      This man was our nearest relation, and had ever treated us with the
      affection of a parent. Our meeting, therefore, could not be without
      overflowing tenderness and gloomy joy. He rather encouraged than
      restrained the tears that I poured out in his arms, and took upon himself
      the task of comforter. Allusions to recent disasters could not be long
      omitted. One topic facilitated the admission of another. At length, I
      mentioned and deplored the ignorance in which I had been kept respecting
      my brother's destiny, and the circumstances of our misfortunes. I
      entreated him to tell me what was Wieland's condition, and what progress
      had been made in detecting or punishing the author of this unheard-of
      devastation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The author!" said he; "Do you know the author?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Alas!" I answered, "I am too well acquainted with him. The story of the
      grounds of my suspicions would be painful and too long. I am not apprized
      of the extent of your present knowledge. There are none but Wieland,
      Pleyel, and myself, who are able to relate certain facts."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Spare yourself the pain," said he. "All that Wieland and Pleyel can
      communicate, I know already. If any thing of moment has fallen within your
      own exclusive knowledge, and the relation be not too arduous for your
      present strength, I confess I am desirous of hearing it. Perhaps you
      allude to one by the name of Carwin. I will anticipate your curiosity by
      saying, that since these disasters, no one has seen or heard of him. His
      agency is, therefore, a mystery still unsolved."
    </p>
    <p>
      I readily complied with his request, and related as distinctly as I could,
      though in general terms, the events transacted in the summer-house and my
      chamber. He listened without apparent surprize to the tale of Pleyel's
      errors and suspicions, and with augmented seriousness, to my narrative of
      the warnings and inexplicable vision, and the letter found upon the table.
      I waited for his comments.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You gather from this," said he, "that Carwin is the author of all this
      misery."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is it not," answered I, "an unavoidable inference? But what know you
      respecting it? Was it possible to execute this mischief without witness or
      coadjutor? I beseech you to relate to me, when and why Mr. Hallet was
      summoned to the scene, and by whom this disaster was first suspected or
      discovered. Surely, suspicion must have fallen upon some one, and pursuit
      was made."
    </p>
    <p>
      My uncle rose from his seat, and traversed the floor with hasty steps. His
      eyes were fixed upon the ground, and he seemed buried in perplexity. At
      length he paused, and said with an emphatic tone, "It is true; the
      instrument is known. Carwin may have plotted, but the execution was
      another's. That other is found, and his deed is ascertained."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Good heaven!" I exclaimed, "what say you? Was not Carwin the assassin?
      Could any hand but his have carried into act this dreadful purpose?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Have I not said," returned he, "that the performance was another's?
      Carwin, perhaps, or heaven, or insanity, prompted the murderer; but Carwin
      is unknown. The actual performer has, long since, been called to judgment
      and convicted, and is, at this moment, at the bottom of a dungeon loaded
      with chains."
    </p>
    <p>
      I lifted my hands and eyes. "Who then is this assassin? By what means, and
      whither was he traced? What is the testimony of his guilt?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "His own, corroborated with that of a servant-maid who spied the murder of
      the children from a closet where she was concealed. The magistrate
      returned from your dwelling to your brother's. He was employed in hearing
      and recording the testimony of the only witness, when the criminal
      himself, unexpected, unsolicited, unsought, entered the hall, acknowledged
      his guilt, and rendered himself up to justice.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He has since been summoned to the bar. The audience was composed of
      thousands whom rumours of this wonderful event had attracted from the
      greatest distance. A long and impartial examination was made, and the
      prisoner was called upon for his defence. In compliance with this call he
      delivered an ample relation of his motives and actions." There he stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      I besought him to say who this criminal was, and what the instigations
      that compelled him. My uncle was silent. I urged this inquiry with new
      force. I reverted to my own knowledge, and sought in this some basis to
      conjecture. I ran over the scanty catalogue of the men whom I knew; I
      lighted on no one who was qualified for ministering to malice like this.
      Again I resorted to importunity. Had I ever seen the criminal? Was it
      sheer cruelty, or diabolical revenge that produced this overthrow?
    </p>
    <p>
      He surveyed me, for a considerable time, and listened to my interrogations
      in silence. At length he spoke: "Clara, I have known thee by report, and
      in some degree by observation. Thou art a being of no vulgar sort. Thy
      friends have hitherto treated thee as a child. They meant well, but,
      perhaps, they were unacquainted with thy strength. I assure myself that
      nothing will surpass thy fortitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art anxious to know the destroyer of thy family, his actions, and
      his motives. Shall I call him to thy presence, and permit him to confess
      before thee? Shall I make him the narrator of his own tale?"
    </p>
    <p>
      I started on my feet, and looked round me with fearful glances, as if the
      murderer was close at hand. "What do you mean?" said I; "put an end, I
      beseech you, to this suspence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be not alarmed; you will never more behold the face of this criminal,
      unless he be gifted with supernatural strength, and sever like threads the
      constraint of links and bolts. I have said that the assassin was arraigned
      at the bar, and that the trial ended with a summons from the judge to
      confess or to vindicate his actions. A reply was immediately made with
      significance of gesture, and a tranquil majesty, which denoted less of
      humanity than godhead. Judges, advocates and auditors were panic-struck
      and breathless with attention. One of the hearers faithfully recorded the
      speech. There it is," continued he, putting a roll of papers in my hand,
      "you may read it at your leisure."
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words my uncle left me alone. My curiosity refused me a
      moment's delay. I opened the papers, and read as follows.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XIX
    </h2>
    <p>
      "Theodore Wieland, the prisoner at the bar, was now called upon for his
      defence. He looked around him for some time in silence, and with a mild
      countenance. At length he spoke:
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is strange; I am known to my judges and my auditors. Who is there
      present a stranger to the character of Wieland? who knows him not as an
      husband&mdash;as a father&mdash;as a friend? yet here am I arraigned as
      criminal. I am charged with diabolical malice; I am accused of the murder
      of my wife and my children!
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is true, they were slain by me; they all perished by my hand. The task
      of vindication is ignoble. What is it that I am called to vindicate? and
      before whom?
    </p>
    <p>
      "You know that they are dead, and that they were killed by me. What more
      would you have? Would you extort from me a statement of my motives? Have
      you failed to discover them already? You charge me with malice; but your
      eyes are not shut; your reason is still vigorous; your memory has not
      forsaken you. You know whom it is that you thus charge. The habits of his
      life are known to you; his treatment of his wife and his offspring is
      known to you; the soundness of his integrity, and the unchangeableness of
      his principles, are familiar to your apprehension; yet you persist in this
      charge! You lead me hither manacled as a felon; you deem me worthy of a
      vile and tormenting death!
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who are they whom I have devoted to death? My wife&mdash;the little ones,
      that drew their being from me&mdash;that creature who, as she surpassed
      them in excellence, claimed a larger affection than those whom natural
      affinities bound to my heart. Think ye that malice could have urged me to
      this deed? Hide your audacious fronts from the scrutiny of heaven. Take
      refuge in some cavern unvisited by human eyes. Ye may deplore your
      wickedness or folly, but ye cannot expiate it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Think not that I speak for your sakes. Hug to your hearts this detestable
      infatuation. Deem me still a murderer, and drag me to untimely death. I
      make not an effort to dispel your illusion: I utter not a word to cure you
      of your sanguinary folly: but there are probably some in this assembly who
      have come from far: for their sakes, whose distance has disabled them from
      knowing me, I will tell what I have done, and why.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is needless to say that God is the object of my supreme passion. I
      have cherished, in his presence, a single and upright heart. I have
      thirsted for the knowledge of his will. I have burnt with ardour to
      approve my faith and my obedience.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My days have been spent in searching for the revelation of that will; but
      my days have been mournful, because my search failed. I solicited
      direction: I turned on every side where glimmerings of light could be
      discovered. I have not been wholly uninformed; but my knowledge has always
      stopped short of certainty. Dissatisfaction has insinuated itself into all
      my thoughts. My purposes have been pure; my wishes indefatigable; but not
      till lately were these purposes thoroughly accomplished, and these wishes
      fully gratified.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thank thee, my father, for thy bounty; that thou didst not ask a less
      sacrifice than this; that thou placedst me in a condition to testify my
      submission to thy will! What have I withheld which it was thy pleasure to
      exact? Now may I, with dauntless and erect eye, claim my reward, since I
      have given thee the treasure of my soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was at my own house: it was late in the evening: my sister had gone to
      the city, but proposed to return. It was in expectation of her return that
      my wife and I delayed going to bed beyond the usual hour; the rest of the
      family, however, were retired.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My mind was contemplative and calm; not wholly devoid of apprehension on
      account of my sister's safety. Recent events, not easily explained, had
      suggested the existence of some danger; but this danger was without a
      distinct form in our imagination, and scarcely ruffled our tranquillity.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Time passed, and my sister did not arrive; her house is at some distance
      from mine, and though her arrangements had been made with a view to
      residing with us, it was possible that, through forgetfulness, or the
      occurrence of unforeseen emergencies, she had returned to her own
      dwelling.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hence it was conceived proper that I should ascertain the truth by going
      thither. I went. On my way my mind was full of these ideas which related
      to my intellectual condition. In the torrent of fervid conceptions, I lost
      sight of my purpose. Some times I stood still; some times I wandered from
      my path, and experienced some difficulty, on recovering from my fit of
      musing, to regain it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The series of my thoughts is easily traced. At first every vein beat with
      raptures known only to the man whose parental and conjugal love is without
      limits, and the cup of whose desires, immense as it is, overflows with
      gratification. I know not why emotions that were perpetual visitants
      should now have recurred with unusual energy. The transition was not new
      from sensations of joy to a consciousness of gratitude. The author of my
      being was likewise the dispenser of every gift with which that being was
      embellished. The service to which a benefactor like this was entitled,
      could not be circumscribed. My social sentiments were indebted to their
      alliance with devotion for all their value. All passions are base, all
      joys feeble, all energies malignant, which are not drawn from this source.
    </p>
    <p>
      "For a time, my contemplations soared above earth and its inhabitants. I
      stretched forth my hands; I lifted my eyes, and exclaimed, O! that I might
      be admitted to thy presence; that mine were the supreme delight of knowing
      thy will, and of performing it! The blissful privilege of direct
      communication with thee, and of listening to the audible enunciation of
      thy pleasure!
    </p>
    <p>
      "What task would I not undertake, what privation would I not cheerfully
      endure, to testify my love of thee? Alas! thou hidest thyself from my
      view: glimpses only of thy excellence and beauty are afforded me. Would
      that a momentary emanation from thy glory would visit me! that some
      unambiguous token of thy presence would salute my senses!
    </p>
    <p>
      "In this mood, I entered the house of my sister. It was vacant. Scarcely
      had I regained recollection of the purpose that brought me hither.
      Thoughts of a different tendency had such absolute possession of my mind,
      that the relations of time and space were almost obliterated from my
      understanding. These wanderings, however, were restrained, and I ascended
      to her chamber.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I had no light, and might have known by external observation, that the
      house was without any inhabitant. With this, however, I was not satisfied.
      I entered the room, and the object of my search not appearing, I prepared
      to return.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The darkness required some caution in descending the stair. I stretched
      my hand to seize the balustrade by which I might regulate my steps. How
      shall I describe the lustre, which, at that moment, burst upon my vision!
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was dazzled. My organs were bereaved of their activity. My eye-lids
      were half-closed, and my hands withdrawn from the balustrade. A nameless
      fear chilled my veins, and I stood motionless. This irradiation did not
      retire or lessen. It seemed as if some powerful effulgence covered me like
      a mantle.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I opened my eyes and found all about me luminous and glowing. It was the
      element of heaven that flowed around. Nothing but a fiery stream was at
      first visible; but, anon, a shrill voice from behind called upon me to
      attend.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I turned: It is forbidden to describe what I saw: Words, indeed, would be
      wanting to the task. The lineaments of that being, whose veil was now
      lifted, and whose visage beamed upon my sight, no hues of pencil or of
      language can pourtray.
    </p>
    <p>
      "As it spoke, the accents thrilled to my heart. "Thy prayers are heard. In
      proof of thy faith, render me thy wife. This is the victim I chuse. Call
      her hither, and here let her fall."&mdash;The sound, and visage, and light
      vanished at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What demand was this? The blood of Catharine was to be shed! My wife was
      to perish by my hand! I sought opportunity to attest my virtue. Little did
      I expect that a proof like this would have been demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My wife! I exclaimed: O God! substitute some other victim. Make me not
      the butcher of my wife. My own blood is cheap. This will I pour out before
      thee with a willing heart; but spare, I beseech thee, this precious life,
      or commission some other than her husband to perform the bloody deed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In vain. The conditions were prescribed; the decree had gone forth, and
      nothing remained but to execute it. I rushed out of the house and across
      the intermediate fields, and stopped not till I entered my own parlour.
      "My wife had remained here during my absence, in anxious expectation of my
      return with some tidings of her sister. I had none to communicate. For a
      time, I was breathless with my speed: This, and the tremors that shook my
      frame, and the wildness of my looks, alarmed her. She immediately
      suspected some disaster to have happened to her friend, and her own speech
      was as much overpowered by emotion as mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      "She was silent, but her looks manifested her impatience to hear what I
      had to communicate. I spoke, but with so much precipitation as scarcely to
      be understood; catching her, at the same time, by the arm, and forcibly
      pulling her from her seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come along with me: fly: waste not a moment: time will be lost, and the
      deed will be omitted. Tarry not; question not; but fly with me!
    </p>
    <p>
      "This deportment added afresh to her alarms. Her eyes pursued mine, and
      she said, "What is the matter? For God's sake what is the matter? Where
      would you have me go?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "My eyes were fixed upon her countenance while she spoke. I thought upon
      her virtues; I viewed her as the mother of my babes: as my wife: I
      recalled the purpose for which I thus urged her attendance. My heart
      faltered, and I saw that I must rouse to this work all my faculties. The
      danger of the least delay was imminent.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I looked away from her, and again exerting my force, drew her towards the
      door&mdash;'You must go with me&mdash;indeed you must.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "In her fright she half-resisted my efforts, and again exclaimed, 'Good
      heaven! what is it you mean? Where go? What has happened? Have you found
      Clara?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Follow me, and you will see," I answered, still urging her reluctant
      steps forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What phrenzy has seized you? Something must needs have happened. Is she
      sick? Have you found her?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come and see. Follow me, and know for yourself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Still she expostulated and besought me to explain this mysterious
      behaviour. I could not trust myself to answer her; to look at her; but
      grasping her arm, I drew her after me. She hesitated, rather through
      confusion of mind than from unwillingness to accompany me. This confusion
      gradually abated, and she moved forward, but with irresolute footsteps,
      and continual exclamations of wonder and terror. Her interrogations Of
      "what was the matter?" and "whither was I going?" were ceaseless and
      vehement.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was the scope of my efforts not to think; to keep up a conflict and
      uproar in my mind in which all order and distinctness should be lost; to
      escape from the sensations produced by her voice. I was, therefore,
      silent. I strove to abridge this interval by my haste, and to waste all my
      attention in furious gesticulations.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In this state of mind we reached my sister's door. She looked at the
      windows and saw that all was desolate&mdash;"Why come we here? There is no
      body here. I will not go in."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Still I was dumb; but opening the door, I drew her into the entry. This
      was the allotted scene: here she was to fall. I let go her hand, and
      pressing my palms against my forehead, made one mighty effort to work up
      my soul to the deed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In vain; it would not be; my courage was appalled; my arms nerveless: I
      muttered prayers that my strength might be aided from above. They availed
      nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Horror diffused itself over me. This conviction of my cowardice, my
      rebellion, fastened upon me, and I stood rigid and cold as marble. From
      this state I was somewhat relieved by my wife's voice, who renewed her
      supplications to be told why we came hither, and what was the fate of my
      sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What could I answer? My words were broken and inarticulate. Her fears
      naturally acquired force from the observation of these symptoms; but these
      fears were misplaced. The only inference she deduced from my conduct was,
      that some terrible mishap had befallen Clara.
    </p>
    <p>
      "She wrung her hands, and exclaimed in an agony, "O tell me, where is she?
      What has become of her? Is she sick? Dead? Is she in her chamber? O let me
      go thither and know the worst!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "This proposal set my thoughts once more in motion. Perhaps what my
      rebellious heart refused to perform here, I might obtain strength enough
      to execute elsewhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come then," said I, "let us go."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will, but not in the dark. We must first procure a light."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fly then and procure it; but I charge you, linger not. I will await for
      your return.
    </p>
    <p>
      "While she was gone, I strode along the entry. The fellness of a gloomy
      hurricane but faintly resembled the discord that reigned in my mind. To
      omit this sacrifice must not be; yet my sinews had refused to perform it.
      No alternative was offered. To rebel against the mandate was impossible;
      but obedience would render me the executioner of my wife. My will was
      strong, but my limbs refused their office.
    </p>
    <p>
      "She returned with a light; I led the way to the chamber; she looked round
      her; she lifted the curtain of the bed; she saw nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      "At length, she fixed inquiring eyes upon me. The light now enabled her to
      discover in my visage what darkness had hitherto concealed. Her cares were
      now transferred from my sister to myself, and she said in a tremulous
      voice, "Wieland! you are not well: What ails you? Can I do nothing for
      you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That accents and looks so winning should disarm me of my resolution, was
      to be expected. My thoughts were thrown anew into anarchy. I spread my
      hand before my eyes that I might not see her, and answered only by groans.
      She took my other hand between her's, and pressing it to her heart, spoke
      with that voice which had ever swayed my will, and wafted away sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My friend! my soul's friend! tell me thy cause of grief. Do I not merit
      to partake with thee in thy cares? Am I not thy wife?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "This was too much. I broke from her embrace, and retired to a corner of
      the room. In this pause, courage was once more infused into me. I resolved
      to execute my duty. She followed me, and renewed her passionate entreaties
      to know the cause of my distress.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I raised my head and regarded her with stedfast looks. I muttered
      something about death, and the injunctions of my duty. At these words she
      shrunk back, and looked at me with a new expression of anguish. After a
      pause, she clasped her hands, and exclaimed&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "O Wieland! Wieland! God grant that I am mistaken; but surely something is
      wrong. I see it: it is too plain: thou art undone&mdash;lost to me and to
      thyself." At the same time she gazed on my features with intensest
      anxiety, in hope that different symptoms would take place. I replied to
      her with vehemence&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Undone! No; my duty is known, and I thank my God that my cowardice is now
      vanquished, and I have power to fulfil it. Catharine! I pity the weakness
      of thy nature: I pity thee, but must not spare. Thy life is claimed from
      my hands: thou must die!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fear was now added to her grief. 'What mean you? Why talk you of death?
      Bethink yourself, Wieland: bethink yourself, and this fit will pass. O why
      came I hither! Why did you drag me hither?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "I brought thee hither to fulfil a divine command. I am appointed thy
      destroyer, and destroy thee I must." Saying this I seized her wrists. She
      shrieked aloud, and endeavoured to free herself from my grasp; but her
      efforts were vain.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Surely, surely Wieland, thou dost not mean it. Am I not thy wife? and
      wouldst thou kill me? Thou wilt not; and yet&mdash;I see&mdash;thou art
      Wieland no longer! A fury resistless and horrible possesses thee&mdash;Spare
      me&mdash;spare&mdash;help&mdash;help&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Till her breath was stopped she shrieked for help&mdash;for mercy. When
      she could speak no longer, her gestures, her looks appealed to my
      compassion. My accursed hand was irresolute and tremulous. I meant thy
      death to be sudden, thy struggles to be brief. Alas! my heart was infirm;
      my resolves mutable. Thrice I slackened my grasp, and life kept its hold,
      though in the midst of pangs. Her eye-balls started from their sockets.
      Grimness and distortion took place of all that used to bewitch me into
      transport, and subdue me into reverence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was commissioned to kill thee, but not to torment thee with the
      foresight of thy death; not to multiply thy fears, and prolong thy
      agonies. Haggard, and pale, and lifeless, at length thou ceasedst to
      contend with thy destiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This was a moment of triumph. Thus had I successfully subdued the
      stubbornness of human passions: the victim which had been demanded was
      given: the deed was done past recal.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I lifted the corpse in my arms and laid it on the bed. I gazed upon it
      with delight. Such was the elation of my thoughts, that I even broke into
      laughter. I clapped my hands and exclaimed, 'It is done! My sacred duty is
      fulfilled! To that I have sacrificed, O my God! thy last and best gift, my
      wife!'
    </p>
    <p>
      "For a while I thus soared above frailty. I imagined I had set myself
      forever beyond the reach of selfishness; but my imaginations were false.
      This rapture quickly subsided. I looked again at my wife. My joyous
      ebullitions vanished, and I asked myself who it was whom I saw? Methought
      it could not be Catharine. It could not be the woman who had lodged for
      years in my heart; who had slept, nightly, in my bosom; who had borne in
      her womb, who had fostered at her breast, the beings who called me father;
      whom I had watched with delight, and cherished with a fondness ever new
      and perpetually growing: it could not be the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where was her bloom! These deadly and blood-suffused orbs but ill
      resemble the azure and exstatic tenderness of her eyes. The lucid stream
      that meandered over that bosom, the glow of love that was wont to sit upon
      that cheek, are much unlike these livid stains and this hideous deformity.
      Alas! these were the traces of agony; the gripe of the assassin had been
      here!
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will not dwell upon my lapse into desperate and outrageous sorrow. The
      breath of heaven that sustained me was withdrawn and I sunk into MERE MAN.
      I leaped from the floor: I dashed my head against the wall: I uttered
      screams of horror: I panted after torment and pain. Eternal fire, and the
      bickerings of hell, compared with what I felt, were music and a bed of
      roses.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thank my God that this degeneracy was transient, that he deigned once
      more to raise me aloft. I thought upon what I had done as a sacrifice to
      duty, and WAS CALM. My wife was dead; but I reflected, that though this
      source of human consolation was closed, yet others were still open. If the
      transports of an husband were no more, the feelings of a father had still
      scope for exercise. When remembrance of their mother should excite too
      keen a pang, I would look upon them, and BE COMFORTED.
    </p>
    <p>
      "While I revolved these ideas, new warmth flowed in upon my heart&mdash;I
      was wrong. These feelings were the growth of selfishness. Of this I was
      not aware, and to dispel the mist that obscured my perceptions, a new
      effulgence and a new mandate were necessary.
    </p>
    <p>
      "From these thoughts I was recalled by a ray that was shot into the room.
      A voice spake like that which I had before heard&mdash;'Thou hast done
      well; but all is not done&mdash;the sacrifice is incomplete&mdash;thy
      children must be offered&mdash;they must perish with their mother!&mdash;'"
    </p>
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    <h2>
      Chapter XX
    </h2>
    <p>
      Will you wonder that I read no farther? Will you not rather be astonished
      that I read thus far? What power supported me through such a task I know
      not. Perhaps the doubt from which I could not disengage my mind, that the
      scene here depicted was a dream, contributed to my perseverance. In vain
      the solemn introduction of my uncle, his appeals to my fortitude, and
      allusions to something monstrous in the events he was about to disclose;
      in vain the distressful perplexity, the mysterious silence and ambiguous
      answers of my attendants, especially when the condition of my brother was
      the theme of my inquiries, were remembered. I recalled the interview with
      Wieland in my chamber, his preternatural tranquillity succeeded by bursts
      of passion and menacing actions. All these coincided with the tenor of
      this paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      Catharine and her children, and Louisa were dead. The act that destroyed
      them was, in the highest degree, inhuman. It was worthy of savages trained
      to murder, and exulting in agonies.
    </p>
    <p>
      Who was the performer of the deed? Wieland! My brother! The husband and
      the father! That man of gentle virtues and invincible benignity! placable
      and mild&mdash;an idolator of peace! Surely, said I, it is a dream. For
      many days have I been vexed with frenzy. Its dominion is still felt; but
      new forms are called up to diversify and augment my torments.
    </p>
    <p>
      The paper dropped from my hand, and my eyes followed it. I shrunk back, as
      if to avoid some petrifying influence that approached me. My tongue was
      mute; all the functions of nature were at a stand, and I sunk upon the
      floor lifeless. The noise of my fall, as I afterwards heard, alarmed my
      uncle, who was in a lower apartment, and whose apprehensions had detained
      him. He hastened to my chamber, and administered the assistance which my
      condition required. When I opened my eyes I beheld him before me. His
      skill as a reasoner as well as a physician, was exerted to obviate the
      injurious effects of this disclosure; but he had wrongly estimated the
      strength of my body or of my mind. This new shock brought me once more to
      the brink of the grave, and my malady was much more difficult to subdue
      than at first.
    </p>
    <p>
      I will not dwell upon the long train of dreary sensations, and the hideous
      confusion of my understanding. Time slowly restored its customary firmness
      to my frame, and order to my thoughts. The images impressed upon my mind
      by this fatal paper were somewhat effaced by my malady. They were obscure
      and disjointed like the parts of a dream. I was desirous of freeing my
      imagination from this chaos. For this end I questioned my uncle, who was
      my constant companion. He was intimidated by the issue of his first
      experiment, and took pains to elude or discourage my inquiry. My
      impetuosity some times compelled him to have resort to misrepresentations
      and untruths.
    </p>
    <p>
      Time effected that end, perhaps, in a more beneficial manner. In the
      course of my meditations the recollections of the past gradually became
      more distinct. I revolved them, however, in silence, and being no longer
      accompanied with surprize, they did not exercise a death-dealing power. I
      had discontinued the perusal of the paper in the midst of the narrative;
      but what I read, combined with information elsewhere obtained, threw,
      perhaps, a sufficient light upon these detestable transactions; yet my
      curiosity was not inactive. I desired to peruse the remainder.
    </p>
    <p>
      My eagerness to know the particulars of this tale was mingled and abated
      by my antipathy to the scene which would be disclosed. Hence I employed no
      means to effect my purpose. I desired knowledge, and, at the same time,
      shrunk back from receiving the boon.
    </p>
    <p>
      One morning, being left alone, I rose from my bed, and went to a drawer
      where my finer clothing used to be kept. I opened it, and this fatal paper
      saluted my sight. I snatched it involuntarily, and withdrew to a chair. I
      debated, for a few minutes, whether I should open and read. Now that my
      fortitude was put to trial, it failed. I felt myself incapable of
      deliberately surveying a scene of so much horror. I was prompted to return
      it to its place, but this resolution gave way, and I determined to peruse
      some part of it. I turned over the leaves till I came near the conclusion.
      The narrative of the criminal was finished. The verdict of GUILTY
      reluctantly pronounced by the jury, and the accused interrogated why
      sentence of death should not pass. The answer was brief, solemn, and
      emphatical.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No. I have nothing to say. My tale has been told. My motives have been
      truly stated. If my judges are unable to discern the purity of my
      intentions, or to credit the statement of them, which I have just made; if
      they see not that my deed was enjoined by heaven; that obedience was the
      test of perfect virtue, and the extinction of selfishness and error, they
      must pronounce me a murderer.
    </p>
    <p>
      "They refuse to credit my tale; they impute my acts to the influence of
      daemons; they account me an example of the highest wickedness of which
      human nature is capable; they doom me to death and infamy. Have I power to
      escape this evil? If I have, be sure I will exert it. I will not accept
      evil at their hand, when I am entitled to good; I will suffer only when I
      cannot elude suffering.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You say that I am guilty. Impious and rash! thus to usurp the
      prerogatives of your Maker! to set up your bounded views and halting
      reason, as the measure of truth!
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou, Omnipotent and Holy! Thou knowest that my actions were conformable
      to thy will. I know not what is crime; what actions are evil in their
      ultimate and comprehensive tendency or what are good. Thy knowledge, as
      thy power, is unlimited. I have taken thee for my guide, and cannot err.
      To the arms of thy protection, I entrust my safety. In the awards of thy
      justice, I confide for my recompense.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come death when it will, I am safe. Let calumny and abhorrence pursue me
      among men; I shall not be defrauded of my dues. The peace of virtue, and
      the glory of obedience, will be my portion hereafter."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here ended the speaker. I withdrew my eyes from the page; but before I had
      time to reflect on what I had read, Mr. Cambridge entered the room. He
      quickly perceived how I had been employed, and betrayed some solicitude
      respecting the condition of my mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      His fears, however, were superfluous. What I had read, threw me into a
      state not easily described. Anguish and fury, however, had no part in it.
      My faculties were chained up in wonder and awe. Just then, I was unable to
      speak. I looked at my friend with an air of inquisitiveness, and pointed
      at the roll. He comprehended my inquiry, and answered me with looks of
      gloomy acquiescence. After some time, my thoughts found their way to my
      lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such then were the acts of my brother. Such were his words. For this he
      was condemned to die: To die upon the gallows! A fate, cruel and
      unmerited! And is it so? continued I, struggling for utterance, which this
      new idea made difficult; is he&mdash;dead!
    </p>
    <p>
      "No. He is alive. There could be no doubt as to the cause of these
      excesses. They originated in sudden madness; but that madness continues.
      and he is condemned to perpetual imprisonment."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Madness, say you? Are you sure? Were not these sights, and these sounds,
      really seen and heard?"
    </p>
    <p>
      My uncle was surprized at my question. He looked at me with apparent
      inquietude. "Can you doubt," said he, "that these were illusions? Does
      heaven, think you, interfere for such ends?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "O no; I think it not. Heaven cannot stimulate to such unheard-of outrage.
      The agent was not good, but evil."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, my dear girl," said my friend, "lay aside these fancies. Neither
      angel nor devil had any part in this affair."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You misunderstand me," I answered; "I believe the agency to be external
      and real, but not supernatural."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Indeed!" said he, in an accent of surprize. "Whom do you then suppose to
      be the agent?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know not. All is wildering conjecture. I cannot forget Carwin. I cannot
      banish the suspicion that he was the setter of these snares. But how can
      we suppose it to be madness? Did insanity ever before assume this form?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Frequently. The illusion, in this case, was more dreadful in its
      consequences, than any that has come to my knowledge; but, I repeat that
      similar illusions are not rare. Did you never hear of an instance which
      occurred in your mother's family?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No. I beseech you relate it. My grandfather's death I have understood to
      have been extraordinary, but I know not in what respect. A brother, to
      whom he was much attached, died in his youth, and this, as I have heard,
      influenced, in some remarkable way, the fate of my grandfather; but I am
      unacquainted with particulars."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On the death of that brother," resumed my friend, "my father was seized
      with dejection, which was found to flow from two sources. He not only
      grieved for the loss of a friend, but entertained the belief that his own
      death would be inevitably consequent on that of his brother. He waited
      from day to day in expectation of the stroke which he predicted was
      speedily to fall upon him. Gradually, however, he recovered his
      cheerfulness and confidence. He married, and performed his part in the
      world with spirit and activity. At the end of twenty-one years it happened
      that he spent the summer with his family at an house which he possessed on
      the sea coast in Cornwall. It was at no great distance from a cliff which
      overhung the ocean, and rose into the air to a great height. The summit
      was level and secure, and easily ascended on the land side. The company
      frequently repaired hither in clear weather, invited by its pure airs and
      extensive prospects. One evening in June my father, with his wife and some
      friends, chanced to be on this spot. Every one was happy, and my father's
      imagination seemed particularly alive to the grandeur of the scenery.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Suddenly, however, his limbs trembled and his features betrayed alarm. He
      threw himself into the attitude of one listening. He gazed earnestly in a
      direction in which nothing was visible to his friends. This lasted for a
      minute; then turning to his companions, he told them that his brother had
      just delivered to him a summons, which must be instantly obeyed. He then
      took an hasty and solemn leave of each person, and, before their surprize
      would allow them to understand the scene, he rushed to the edge of the
      cliff, threw himself headlong, and was seen no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the course of my practice in the German army, many cases, equally
      remarkable, have occurred. Unquestionably the illusions were maniacal,
      though the vulgar thought otherwise. They are all reducible to one class,
      [*] and are not more difficult of explication and cure than most
      affections of our frame."
    </p>
    <p>
      This opinion my uncle endeavoured, by various means, to impress upon me. I
      listened to his reasonings and illustrations with silent respect. My
      astonishment was great on finding proofs of an influence of which I had
      supposed there were no examples; but I was far from accounting for
      appearances in my uncle's manner. Ideas thronged into my mind which I was
      unable to disjoin or to regulate. I reflected that this madness, if
      madness it were, had affected Pleyel and myself as well as Wieland. Pleyel
      had heard a mysterious voice. I had seen and heard. A form had showed
      itself to me as well as to Wieland. The disclosure had been made in the
      same spot. The appearance was equally complete and equally prodigious in
      both instances. Whatever supposition I should adopt, had I not equal
      reason to tremble? What was my security against influences equally
      terrific and equally irresistable?
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be vain to attempt to describe the state of mind which this idea
      produced. I wondered at the change which a moment had affected in my
      brother's condition. Now was I stupified with tenfold wonder in
      contemplating myself. Was I not likewise transformed from rational and
      human into a creature of nameless and fearful attributes? Was I not
      transported to the brink of the same abyss? Ere a new day should come, my
      hands might be embrued in blood, and my remaining life be consigned to a
      dungeon and chains.
    </p>
    <p>
      With moral sensibility like mine, no wonder that this new dread was more
      insupportable than the anguish I had lately endured. Grief carries its own
      antidote along with it. When thought becomes merely a vehicle of pain, its
      progress must be stopped. Death is a cure which nature or ourselves must
      administer: To this cure I now looked forward with gloomy satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      My silence could not conceal from my uncle the state of my thoughts. He
      made unwearied efforts to divert my attention from views so pregnant with
      danger. His efforts, aided by time, were in some measure successful.
      Confidence in the strength of my resolution, and in the healthful state of
      my faculties, was once more revived. I was able to devote my thoughts to
      my brother's state, and the causes of this disasterous proceeding.
    </p>
    <p>
      My opinions were the sport of eternal change. Some times I conceived the
      apparition to be more than human. I had no grounds on which to build a
      disbelief. I could not deny faith to the evidence of my religion; the
      testimony of men was loud and unanimous: both these concurred to persuade
      me that evil spirits existed, and that their energy was frequently exerted
      in the system of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      These ideas connected themselves with the image of Carwin. Where is the
      proof, said I, that daemons may not be subjected to the controul of men?
      This truth may be distorted and debased in the minds of the ignorant. The
      dogmas of the vulgar, with regard to this subject, are glaringly absurd;
      but though these may justly be neglected by the wise, we are scarcely
      justified in totally rejecting the possibility that men may obtain
      supernatural aid.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dreams of superstition are worthy of contempt. Witchcraft, its
      instruments and miracles, the compact ratified by a bloody signature, the
      apparatus of sulpherous smells and thundering explosions, are monstrous
      and chimerical. These have no part in the scene over which the genius of
      Carwin presides. That conscious beings, dissimilar from human, but moral
      and voluntary agents as we are, some where exist, can scarcely be denied.
      That their aid may be employed to benign or malignant purposes, cannot be
      disproved.
    </p>
    <p>
      Darkness rests upon the designs of this man. The extent of his power is
      unknown; but is there not evidence that it has been now exerted?
    </p>
    <p>
      I recurred to my own experience. Here Carwin had actually appeared upon
      the stage; but this was in a human character. A voice and a form were
      discovered; but one was apparently exerted, and the other disclosed, not
      to befriend, but to counteract Carwin's designs. There were tokens of
      hostility, and not of alliance, between them. Carwin was the miscreant
      whose projects were resisted by a minister of heaven. How can this be
      reconciled to the stratagem which ruined my brother? There the agency was
      at once preternatural and malignant.
    </p>
    <p>
      The recollection of this fact led my thoughts into a new channel. The
      malignity of that influence which governed my brother had hitherto been no
      subject of doubt. His wife and children were destroyed; they had expired
      in agony and fear; yet was it indisputably certain that their murderer was
      criminal? He was acquitted at the tribunal of his own conscience; his
      behaviour at his trial and since, was faithfully reported to me;
      appearances were uniform; not for a moment did he lay aside the majesty of
      virtue; he repelled all invectives by appealing to the deity, and to the
      tenor of his past life; surely there was truth in this appeal: none but a
      command from heaven could have swayed his will; and nothing but unerring
      proof of divine approbation could sustain his mind in its present
      elevation.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Mania Mutabilis. See Darwin's Zoonomia, vol. ii. Class III.
     1.2. where similar cases are stated.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      Chapter XXI
    </h2>
    <p>
      Such, for some time, was the course of my meditations. My weakness, and my
      aversion to be pointed at as an object of surprize or compassion,
      prevented me from going into public. I studiously avoided the visits of
      those who came to express their sympathy, or gratify their curiosity. My
      uncle was my principal companion. Nothing more powerfully tended to
      console me than his conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      With regard to Pleyel, my feelings seemed to have undergone a total
      revolution. It often happens that one passion supplants another. Late
      disasters had rent my heart, and now that the wound was in some degree
      closed, the love which I had cherished for this man seemed likewise to
      have vanished.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hitherto, indeed, I had had no cause for despair. I was innocent of that
      offence which had estranged him from my presence. I might reasonably
      expect that my innocence would at some time be irresistably demonstrated,
      and his affection for me be revived with his esteem. Now my aversion to be
      thought culpable by him continued, but was unattended with the same
      impatience. I desired the removal of his suspicions, not for the sake of
      regaining his love, but because I delighted in the veneration of so
      excellent a man, and because he himself would derive pleasure from
      conviction of my integrity.
    </p>
    <p>
      My uncle had early informed me that Pleyel and he had seen each other,
      since the return of the latter from Europe. Amidst the topics of their
      conversation, I discovered that Pleyel had carefully omitted the mention
      of those events which had drawn upon me so much abhorrence. I could not
      account for his silence on this subject. Perhaps time or some new
      discovery had altered or shaken his opinion. Perhaps he was unwilling,
      though I were guilty, to injure me in the opinion of my venerable kinsman.
      I understood that he had frequently visited me during my disease, had
      watched many successive nights by my bedside, and manifested the utmost
      anxiety on my account.
    </p>
    <p>
      The journey which he was preparing to take, at the termination of our last
      interview, the catastrophe of the ensuing night induced him to delay. The
      motives of this journey I had, till now, totally mistaken. They were
      explained to me by my uncle, whose tale excited my astonishment without
      awakening my regret. In a different state of mind, it would have added
      unspeakably to my distress, but now it was more a source of pleasure than
      pain. This, perhaps, is not the least extraordinary of the facts contained
      in this narrative. It will excite less wonder when I add, that my
      indifference was temporary, and that the lapse of a few days shewed me
      that my feelings were deadened for a time, rather than finally
      extinguished.
    </p>
    <p>
      Theresa de Stolberg was alive. She had conceived the resolution of seeking
      her lover in America. To conceal her flight, she had caused the report of
      her death to be propagated. She put herself under the conduct of Bertrand,
      the faithful servant of Pleyel. The pacquet which the latter received from
      the hands of his servant, contained the tidings of her safe arrival at
      Boston, and to meet her there was the purpose of his journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      This discovery had set this man's character in a new light. I had mistaken
      the heroism of friendship for the phrenzy of love. He who had gained my
      affections, may be supposed to have previously entitled himself to my
      reverence; but the levity which had formerly characterized the behaviour
      of this man, tended to obscure the greatness of his sentiments. I did not
      fail to remark, that since this lady was still alive, the voice in the
      temple which asserted her death, must either have been intended to
      deceive, or have been itself deceived. The latter supposition was
      inconsistent with the notion of a spiritual, and the former with that of a
      benevolent being.
    </p>
    <p>
      When my disease abated, Pleyel had forborne his visits, and had lately set
      out upon this journey. This amounted to a proof that my guilt was still
      believed by him. I was grieved for his errors, but trusted that my
      vindication would, sooner or later, be made.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, tumultuous thoughts were again set afloat by a proposal made to
      me by my uncle. He imagined that new airs would restore my languishing
      constitution, and a varied succession of objects tend to repair the shock
      which my mind had received. For this end, he proposed to me to take up my
      abode with him in France or Italy.
    </p>
    <p>
      At a more prosperous period, this scheme would have pleased for its own
      sake. Now my heart sickened at the prospect of nature. The world of man
      was shrowded in misery and blood, and constituted a loathsome spectacle. I
      willingly closed my eyes in sleep, and regretted that the respite it
      afforded me was so short. I marked with satisfaction the progress of decay
      in my frame, and consented to live, merely in the hope that the course of
      nature would speedily relieve me from the burthen. Nevertheless, as he
      persisted in his scheme, I concurred in it merely because he was entitled
      to my gratitude, and because my refusal gave him pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      No sooner was he informed of my consent, than he told me I must make
      immediate preparation to embark, as the ship in which he had engaged a
      passage would be ready to depart in three days. This expedition was
      unexpected. There was an impatience in his manner when he urged the
      necessity of dispatch that excited my surprize. When I questioned him as
      to the cause of this haste, he generally stated reasons which, at that
      time, I could not deny to be plausible; but which, on the review, appeared
      insufficient. I suspected that the true motives were concealed, and
      believed that these motives had some connection with my brother's destiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      I now recollected that the information respecting Wieland which had, from
      time to time, been imparted to me, was always accompanied with airs of
      reserve and mysteriousness. What had appeared sufficiently explicit at the
      time it was uttered, I now remembered to have been faltering and
      ambiguous. I was resolved to remove my doubts, by visiting the unfortunate
      man in his dungeon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Heretofore the idea of this visit had occurred to me; but the horrors of
      his dwelling-place, his wild yet placid physiognomy, his neglected locks,
      the fetters which constrained his limbs, terrible as they were in
      description, how could I endure to behold!
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, however, that I was preparing to take an everlasting farewell of my
      country, now that an ocean was henceforth to separate me from him, how
      could I part without an interview? I would examine his situation with my
      own eyes. I would know whether the representations which had been made to
      me were true. Perhaps the sight of the sister whom he was wont to love
      with a passion more than fraternal, might have an auspicious influence on
      his malady.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having formed this resolution, I waited to communicate it to Mr.
      Cambridge. I was aware that, without his concurrence, I could not hope to
      carry it into execution, and could discover no objection to which it was
      liable. If I had not been deceived as to his condition, no inconvenience
      could arise from this proceeding. His consent, therefore, would be the
      test of his sincerity.
    </p>
    <p>
      I seized this opportunity to state my wishes on this head. My suspicions
      were confirmed by the manner in which my request affected him. After some
      pause, in which his countenance betrayed every mark of perplexity, he said
      to me, "Why would you pay this visit? What useful purpose can it serve?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "We are preparing," said I, "to leave the country forever: What kind of
      being should I be to leave behind me a brother in calamity without even a
      parting interview? Indulge me for three minutes in the sight of him. My
      heart will be much easier after I have looked at him, and shed a few tears
      in his presence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I believe otherwise. The sight of him would only augment your distress,
      without contributing, in any degree, to his benefit."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know not that," returned I. "Surely the sympathy of his sister, proofs
      that her tenderness is as lively as ever, must be a source of satisfaction
      to him. At present he must regard all mankind as his enemies and
      calumniators. His sister he, probably, conceives to partake in the general
      infatuation, and to join in the cry of abhorrence that is raised against
      him. To be undeceived in this respect, to be assured that, however I may
      impute his conduct to delusion, I still retain all my former affection for
      his person, and veneration for the purity of his motives, cannot but
      afford him pleasure. When he hears that I have left the country, without
      even the ceremonious attention of a visit, what will he think of me? His
      magnanimity may hinder him from repining, but he will surely consider my
      behaviour as savage and unfeeling. Indeed, dear Sir, I must pay this
      visit. To embark with you without paying it, will be impossible. It may be
      of no service to him, but will enable me to acquit myself of what I cannot
      but esteem a duty. Besides," continued I, "if it be a mere fit of insanity
      that has seized him, may not my presence chance to have a salutary
      influence? The mere sight of me, it is not impossible, may rectify his
      perceptions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay," said my uncle, with some eagerness; "it is by no means impossible
      that your interview may have that effect; and for that reason, beyond all
      others, would I dissuade you from it."
    </p>
    <p>
      I expressed my surprize at this declaration. "Is it not to be desired that
      an error so fatal as this should be rectified?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wonder at your question. Reflect on the consequences of this error. Has
      he not destroyed the wife whom he loved, the children whom he idolized?
      What is it that enables him to bear the remembrance, but the belief that
      he acted as his duty enjoined? Would you rashly bereave him of this
      belief? Would you restore him to himself, and convince him that he was
      instigated to this dreadful outrage by a perversion of his organs, or a
      delusion from hell?
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now his visions are joyous and elate. He conceives himself to have
      reached a loftier degree of virtue, than any other human being. The merit
      of his sacrifice is only enhanced in the eyes of superior beings, by the
      detestation that pursues him here, and the sufferings to which he is
      condemned. The belief that even his sister has deserted him, and gone over
      to his enemies, adds to his sublimity of feelings, and his confidence in
      divine approbation and future recompense.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let him be undeceived in this respect, and what floods of despair and of
      horror will overwhelm him! Instead of glowing approbation and serene hope,
      will he not hate and torture himself? Self-violence, or a phrenzy far more
      savage and destructive than this, may be expected to succeed. I beseech
      you, therefore, to relinquish this scheme. If you calmly reflect upon it,
      you will discover that your duty lies in carefully shunning him."
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cambridge's reasonings suggested views to my understanding, that had
      not hitherto occurred. I could not but admit their validity, but they
      shewed, in a new light, the depth of that misfortune in which my brother
      was plunged. I was silent and irresolute.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently, I considered, that whether Wieland was a maniac, a faithful
      servant of his God, the victim of hellish illusions, or the dupe of human
      imposture, was by no means certain. In this state of my mind it became me
      to be silent during the visit that I projected. This visit should be
      brief: I should be satisfied merely to snatch a look at him. Admitting
      that a change in his opinions were not to be desired, there was no danger
      from the conduct which I should pursue, that this change should be
      wrought.
    </p>
    <p>
      But I could not conquer my uncle's aversion to this scheme. Yet I
      persisted, and he found that to make me voluntarily relinquish it, it was
      necessary to be more explicit than he had hitherto been. He took both my
      hands, and anxiously examining my countenance as he spoke, "Clara," said
      he, "this visit must not be paid. We must hasten with the utmost
      expedition from this shore. It is folly to conceal the truth from you,
      and, since it is only by disclosing the truth that you can be prevailed
      upon to lay aside this project, the truth shall be told.
    </p>
    <p>
      "O my dear girl!" continued he with increasing energy in his accent, "your
      brother's phrenzy is, indeed, stupendous and frightful. The soul that
      formerly actuated his frame has disappeared. The same form remains; but
      the wise and benevolent Wieland is no more. A fury that is rapacious of
      blood, that lifts his strength almost above that of mortals, that bends
      all his energies to the destruction of whatever was once dear to him,
      possesses him wholly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You must not enter his dungeon; his eyes will no sooner be fixed upon
      you, than an exertion of his force will be made. He will shake off his
      fetters in a moment, and rush upon you. No interposition will then be
      strong or quick enough to save you.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The phantom that has urged him to the murder of Catharine and her
      children is not yet appeased. Your life, and that of Pleyel, are exacted
      from him by this imaginary being. He is eager to comply with this demand.
      Twice he has escaped from his prison. The first time, he no sooner found
      himself at liberty, than he hasted to Pleyel's house. It being midnight,
      the latter was in bed. Wieland penetrated unobserved to his chamber, and
      opened his curtain. Happily, Pleyel awoke at the critical moment, and
      escaped the fury of his kinsman, by leaping from his chamber-window into
      the court. Happily, he reached the ground without injury. Alarms were
      given, and after diligent search, your brother was found in a chamber of
      your house, whither, no doubt, he had sought you. His chains, and the
      watchfulness of his guards, were redoubled; but again, by some miracle, he
      restored himself to liberty. He was now incautiously apprized of the place
      of your abode: and had not information of his escape been instantly given,
      your death would have been added to the number of his atrocious acts.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You now see the danger of your project. You must not only forbear to
      visit him, but if you would save him from the crime of embruing his hands
      in your blood, you must leave the country. There is no hope that his
      malady will end but with his life, and no precaution will ensure your
      safety, but that of placing the ocean between you.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I confess I came over with an intention to reside among you, but these
      disasters have changed my views. Your own safety and my happiness require
      that you should accompany me in my return, and I entreat you to give your
      cheerful concurrence to this measure."
    </p>
    <p>
      After these representations from my uncle, it was impossible to retain my
      purpose. I readily consented to seclude myself from Wieland's presence. I
      likewise acquiesced in the proposal to go to Europe; not that I ever
      expected to arrive there, but because, since my principles forbad me to
      assail my own life, change had some tendency to make supportable the few
      days which disease should spare to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      What a tale had thus been unfolded! I was hunted to death, not by one whom
      my misconduct had exasperated, who was conscious of illicit motives, and
      who sought his end by circumvention and surprize; but by one who deemed
      himself commissioned for this act by heaven; who regarded this career of
      horror as the last refinement of virtue; whose implacability was
      proportioned to the reverence and love which he felt for me, and who was
      inaccessible to the fear of punishment and ignominy!
    </p>
    <p>
      In vain should I endeavour to stay his hand by urging the claims of a
      sister or friend: these were his only reasons for pursuing my destruction.
      Had I been a stranger to his blood; had I been the most worthless of human
      kind; my safety had not been endangered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Surely, said I, my fate is without example. The phrenzy which is charged
      upon my brother, must belong to myself. My foe is manacled and guarded;
      but I derive no security from these restraints. I live not in a community
      of savages; yet, whether I sit or walk, go into crouds, or hide myself in
      solitude, my life is marked for a prey to inhuman violence; I am in
      perpetual danger of perishing; of perishing under the grasp of a brother!
    </p>
    <p>
      I recollected the omens of this destiny; I remembered the gulf to which my
      brother's invitation had conducted me; I remembered that, when on the
      brink of danger, the author of my peril was depicted by my fears in his
      form: Thus realized, were the creatures of prophetic sleep, and of wakeful
      terror!
    </p>
    <p>
      These images were unavoidably connected with that of Carwin. In this
      paroxysm of distress, my attention fastened on him as the grand deceiver;
      the author of this black conspiracy; the intelligence that governed in
      this storm.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some relief is afforded in the midst of suffering, when its author is
      discovered or imagined; and an object found on which we may pour out our
      indignation and our vengeance. I ran over the events that had taken place
      since the origin of our intercourse with him, and reflected on the tenor
      of that description which was received from Ludloe. Mixed up with notions
      of supernatural agency, were the vehement suspicions which I entertained,
      that Carwin was the enemy whose machinations had destroyed us.
    </p>
    <p>
      I thirsted for knowledge and for vengeance. I regarded my hasty departure
      with reluctance, since it would remove me from the means by which this
      knowledge might be obtained, and this vengeance gratified. This departure
      was to take place in two days. At the end of two days I was to bid an
      eternal adieu to my native country. Should I not pay a parting visit to
      the scene of these disasters? Should I not bedew with my tears the graves
      of my sister and her children? Should I not explore their desolate
      habitation, and gather from the sight of its walls and furniture food for
      my eternal melancholy?
    </p>
    <p>
      This suggestion was succeeded by a secret shuddering. Some disastrous
      influence appeared to overhang the scene. How many memorials should I meet
      with serving to recall the images of those I had lost!
    </p>
    <p>
      I was tempted to relinquish my design, when it occurred to me that I had
      left among my papers a journal of transactions in shorthand. I was
      employed in this manuscript on that night when Pleyel's incautious
      curiosity tempted him to look over my shoulder. I was then recording my
      adventure in THE RECESS, an imperfect sight of which led him into such
      fatal errors.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had regulated the disposition of all my property. This manuscript,
      however, which contained the most secret transactions of my life, I was
      desirous of destroying. For this end I must return to my house, and this I
      immediately determined to do.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was not willing to expose myself to opposition from my friends, by
      mentioning my design; I therefore bespoke the use of Mr. Hallet's chaise,
      under pretence of enjoying an airing, as the day was remarkably bright.
    </p>
    <p>
      This request was gladly complied with, and I directed the servant to
      conduct me to Mettingen. I dismissed him at the gate, intending to use, in
      returning, a carriage belonging to my brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XXII
    </h2>
    <p>
      The inhabitants of the HUT received me with a mixture of joy and surprize.
      Their homely welcome, and their artless sympathy, were grateful to my
      feelings. In the midst of their inquiries, as to my health, they avoided
      all allusions to the source of my malady. They were honest creatures, and
      I loved them well. I participated in the tears which they shed when I
      mentioned to them my speedy departure for Europe, and promised to acquaint
      them with my welfare during my long absence.
    </p>
    <p>
      They expressed great surprize when I informed them of my intention to
      visit my cottage. Alarm and foreboding overspread their features, and they
      attempted to dissuade me from visiting an house which they firmly believed
      to be haunted by a thousand ghastly apparitions.
    </p>
    <p>
      These apprehensions, however, had no power over my conduct. I took an
      irregular path which led me to my own house. All was vacant and forlorn. A
      small enclosure, near which the path led, was the burying-ground belonging
      to the family. This I was obliged to pass. Once I had intended to enter
      it, and ponder on the emblems and inscriptions which my uncle had caused
      to be made on the tombs of Catharine and her children; but now my heart
      faltered as I approached, and I hastened forward, that distance might
      conceal it from my view.
    </p>
    <p>
      When I approached the recess, my heart again sunk. I averted my eyes, and
      left it behind me as quickly as possible. Silence reigned through my
      habitation, and a darkness which closed doors and shutters produced. Every
      object was connected with mine or my brother's history. I passed the
      entry, mounted the stair, and unlocked the door of my chamber. It was with
      difficulty that I curbed my fancy and smothered my fears. Slight movements
      and casual sounds were transformed into beckoning shadows and calling
      shapes.
    </p>
    <p>
      I proceeded to the closet. I opened and looked round it with fearfulness.
      All things were in their accustomed order. I sought and found the
      manuscript where I was used to deposit it. This being secured, there was
      nothing to detain me; yet I stood and contemplated awhile the furniture
      and walls of my chamber. I remembered how long this apartment had been a
      sweet and tranquil asylum; I compared its former state with its present
      dreariness, and reflected that I now beheld it for the last time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here it was that the incomprehensible behaviour of Carwin was witnessed:
      this the stage on which that enemy of man shewed himself for a moment
      unmasked. Here the menaces of murder were wafted to my ear; and here these
      menaces were executed.
    </p>
    <p>
      These thoughts had a tendency to take from me my self-command. My feeble
      limbs refused to support me, and I sunk upon a chair. Incoherent and
      half-articulate exclamations escaped my lips. The name of Carwin was
      uttered, and eternal woes, woes like that which his malice had entailed
      upon us, were heaped upon him. I invoked all-seeing heaven to drag to
      light and to punish this betrayer, and accused its providence for having
      thus long delayed the retribution that was due to so enormous a guilt.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have said that the window shutters were closed. A feeble light, however,
      found entrance through the crevices. A small window illuminated the
      closet, and the door being closed, a dim ray streamed through the
      key-hole. A kind of twilight was thus created, sufficient for the purposes
      of vision; but, at the same time, involving all minuter objects in
      obscurity.
    </p>
    <p>
      This darkness suited the colour of my thoughts. I sickened at the
      remembrance of the past. The prospect of the future excited my loathing. I
      muttered in a low voice, Why should I live longer? Why should I drag a
      miserable being? All, for whom I ought to live, have perished. Am I not
      myself hunted to death?
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment, my despair suddenly became vigorous. My nerves were no
      longer unstrung. My powers, that had long been deadened, were revived. My
      bosom swelled with a sudden energy, and the conviction darted through my
      mind, that to end my torments was, at once, practicable and wise.
    </p>
    <p>
      I knew how to find way to the recesses of life. I could use a lancet with
      some skill, and could distinguish between vein and artery. By piercing
      deep into the latter, I should shun the evils which the future had in
      store for me, and take refuge from my woes in quiet death.
    </p>
    <p>
      I started on my feet, for my feebleness was gone, and hasted to the
      closet. A lancet and other small instruments were preserved in a case
      which I had deposited here. Inattentive as I was to foreign
      considerations, my ears were still open to any sound of mysterious import
      that should occur. I thought I heard a step in the entry. My purpose was
      suspended, and I cast an eager glance at my chamber door, which was open.
      No one appeared, unless the shadow which I discerned upon the floor, was
      the outline of a man. If it were, I was authorized to suspect that some
      one was posted close to the entrance, who possibly had overheard my
      exclamations.
    </p>
    <p>
      My teeth chattered, and a wild confusion took place of my momentary calm.
      Thus it was when a terrific visage had disclosed itself on a former night.
      Thus it was when the evil destiny of Wieland assumed the lineaments of
      something human. What horrid apparition was preparing to blast my sight?
    </p>
    <p>
      Still I listened and gazed. Not long, for the shadow moved; a foot,
      unshapely and huge, was thrust forward; a form advanced from its
      concealment, and stalked into the room. It was Carwin! While I had breath
      I shrieked. While I had power over my muscles, I motioned with my hand
      that he should vanish. My exertions could not last long; I sunk into a
      fit.
    </p>
    <p>
      O that this grateful oblivion had lasted for ever! Too quickly I recovered
      my senses. The power of distinct vision was no sooner restored to me, than
      this hateful form again presented itself, and I once more relapsed.
    </p>
    <p>
      A second time, untoward nature recalled me from the sleep of death. I
      found myself stretched upon the bed. When I had power to look up, I
      remembered only that I had cause to fear. My distempered fancy fashioned
      to itself no distinguishable image. I threw a languid glance round me;
      once more my eyes lighted upon Carwin.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was seated on the floor, his back rested against the wall, his knees
      were drawn up, and his face was buried in his hands. That his station was
      at some distance, that his attitude was not menacing, that his ominous
      visage was concealed, may account for my now escaping a shock, violent as
      those which were past. I withdrew my eyes, but was not again deserted by
      my senses.
    </p>
    <p>
      On perceiving that I had recovered my sensibility, he lifted his head.
      This motion attracted my attention. His countenance was mild, but sorrow
      and astonishment sat upon his features. I averted my eyes and feebly
      exclaimed&mdash;"O! fly&mdash;fly far and for ever!&mdash;I cannot behold
      you and live!"
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not rise upon his feet, but clasped his hands, and said in a tone
      of deprecation&mdash;"I will fly. I am become a fiend, the sight of whom
      destroys. Yet tell me my offence! You have linked curses with my name; you
      ascribe to me a malice monstrous and infernal. I look around; all is
      loneliness and desert! This house and your brother's are solitary and
      dismantled! You die away at the sight of me! My fear whispers that some
      deed of horror has been perpetrated; that I am the undesigning cause."
    </p>
    <p>
      What language was this? Had he not avowed himself a ravisher? Had not this
      chamber witnessed his atrocious purposes? I besought him with new
      vehemence to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      He lifted his eyes&mdash;"Great heaven! what have I done? I think I know
      the extent of my offences. I have acted, but my actions have possibly
      effected more than I designed. This fear has brought me back from my
      retreat. I come to repair the evil of which my rashness was the cause, and
      to prevent more evil. I come to confess my errors."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Wretch!" I cried when my suffocating emotions would permit me to speak,
      "the ghosts of my sister and her children, do they not rise to accuse
      thee? Who was it that blasted the intellects of Wieland? Who was it that
      urged him to fury, and guided him to murder? Who, but thou and the devil,
      with whom thou art confederated?"
    </p>
    <p>
      At these words a new spirit pervaded his countenance. His eyes once more
      appealed to heaven. "If I have memory, if I have being, I am innocent. I
      intended no ill; but my folly, indirectly and remotely, may have caused
      it; but what words are these! Your brother lunatic! His children dead!"
    </p>
    <p>
      What should I infer from this deportment? Was the ignorance which these
      words implied real or pretended?&mdash;Yet how could I imagine a mere
      human agency in these events? But if the influence was preternatural or
      maniacal in my brother's case, they must be equally so in my own. Then I
      remembered that the voice exerted, was to save me from Carwin's attempts.
      These ideas tended to abate my abhorrence of this man, and to detect the
      absurdity of my accusations.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Alas!" said I, "I have no one to accuse. Leave me to my fate. Fly from a
      scene stained with cruelty; devoted to despair."
    </p>
    <p>
      Carwin stood for a time musing and mournful. At length he said, "What has
      happened? I came to expiate my crimes: let me know them in their full
      extent. I have horrible forebodings! What has happened?"
    </p>
    <p>
      I was silent; but recollecting the intimation given by this man when he
      was detected in my closet, which implied some knowledge of that power
      which interfered in my favor, I eagerly inquired, "What was that voice
      which called upon me to hold when I attempted to open the closet? What
      face was that which I saw at the bottom of the stairs? Answer me truly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I came to confess the truth. Your allusions are horrible and strange.
      Perhaps I have but faint conceptions of the evils which my infatuation has
      produced; but what remains I will perform. It was my VOICE that you heard!
      It was my FACE that you saw!"
    </p>
    <p>
      For a moment I doubted whether my remembrance of events were not confused.
      How could he be at once stationed at my shoulder and shut up in my closet?
      How could he stand near me and yet be invisible? But if Carwin's were the
      thrilling voice and the fiery visage which I had heard and seen, then was
      he the prompter of my brother, and the author of these dismal outrages.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once more I averted my eyes and struggled for speech. "Begone! thou man of
      mischief! Remorseless and implacable miscreant! begone!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will obey," said he in a disconsolate voice; "yet, wretch as I am, am I
      unworthy to repair the evils that I have committed? I came as a repentant
      criminal. It is you whom I have injured, and at your bar am I willing to
      appear, and confess and expiate my crimes. I have deceived you: I have
      sported with your terrors: I have plotted to destroy your reputation. I
      come now to remove your errors; to set you beyond the reach of similar
      fears; to rebuild your fame as far as I am able.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is the amount of my guilt, and this the fruit of my remorse. Will
      you not hear me? Listen to my confession, and then denounce punishment.
      All I ask is a patient audience."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!" I replied, "was not thine the voice that commanded my brother to
      imbrue his hands in the blood of his children&mdash;to strangle that angel
      of sweetness his wife? Has he not vowed my death, and the death of Pleyel,
      at thy bidding? Hast thou not made him the butcher of his family; changed
      him who was the glory of his species into worse than brute; robbed him of
      reason, and consigned the rest of his days to fetters and stripes?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Carwin's eyes glared, and his limbs were petrified at this intelligence.
      No words were requisite to prove him guiltless of these enormities: at the
      time, however, I was nearly insensible to these exculpatory tokens. He
      walked to the farther end of the room, and having recovered some degree of
      composure, he spoke&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am not this villain; I have slain no one; I have prompted none to slay;
      I have handled a tool of wonderful efficacy without malignant intentions,
      but without caution; ample will be the punishment of my temerity, if my
      conduct has contributed to this evil." He paused.&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      I likewise was silent. I struggled to command myself so far as to listen
      to the tale which he should tell. Observing this, he continued&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are not apprized of the existence of a power which I possess. I know
      not by what name to call it. [*] It enables me to mimic exactly the voice
      of another, and to modify the sound so that it shall appear to come from
      what quarter, and be uttered at what distance I please.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know not that every one possesses this power. Perhaps, though a casual
      position of my organs in my youth shewed me that I possessed it, it is an
      art which may be taught to all. Would to God I had died unknowing of the
      secret! It has produced nothing but degradation and calamity.
    </p>
    <p>
      "For a time the possession of so potent and stupendous an endowment elated
      me with pride. Unfortified by principle, subjected to poverty, stimulated
      by headlong passions, I made this powerful engine subservient to the
      supply of my wants, and the gratification of my vanity. I shall not
      mention how diligently I cultivated this gift, which seemed capable of
      unlimited improvement; nor detail the various occasions on which it was
      successfully exerted to lead superstition, conquer avarice, or excite awe.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I left America, which is my native soil, in my youth. I have been engaged
      in various scenes of life, in which my peculiar talent has been exercised
      with more or less success. I was finally betrayed by one who called
      himself my friend, into acts which cannot be justified, though they are
      susceptible of apology.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The perfidy of this man compelled me to withdraw from Europe. I returned
      to my native country, uncertain whether silence and obscurity would save
      me from his malice. I resided in the purlieus of the city. I put on the
      garb and assumed the manners of a clown.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My chief recreation was walking. My principal haunts were the lawns and
      gardens of Mettingen. In this delightful region the luxuriances of nature
      had been chastened by judicious art, and each successive contemplation
      unfolded new enchantments.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was studious of seclusion: I was satiated with the intercourse of
      mankind, and discretion required me to shun their intercourse. For these
      reasons I long avoided the observation of your family, and chiefly visited
      these precincts at night.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was never weary of admiring the position and ornaments of THE TEMPLE.
      Many a night have I passed under its roof, revolving no pleasing
      meditations. When, in my frequent rambles, I perceived this apartment was
      occupied, I gave a different direction to my steps. One evening, when a
      shower had just passed, judging by the silence that no one was within, I
      ascended to this building. Glancing carelessly round, I perceived an open
      letter on the pedestal. To read it was doubtless an offence against
      politeness. Of this offence, however, I was guilty.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Scarcely had I gone half through when I was alarmed by the approach of
      your brother. To scramble down the cliff on the opposite side was
      impracticable. I was unprepared to meet a stranger. Besides the
      aukwardness attending such an interview in these circumstances,
      concealment was necessary to my safety. A thousand times had I vowed never
      again to employ the dangerous talent which I possessed; but such was the
      force of habit and the influence of present convenience, that I used this
      method of arresting his progress and leading him back to the house, with
      his errand, whatever it was, unperformed. I had often caught parts, from
      my station below, of your conversation in this place, and was well
      acquainted with the voice of your sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Some weeks after this I was again quietly seated in this recess. The
      lateness of the hour secured me, as I thought, from all interruption. In
      this, however, I was mistaken, for Wieland and Pleyel, as I judged by
      their voices, earnest in dispute, ascended the hill.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was not sensible that any inconvenience could possibly have flowed from
      my former exertion; yet it was followed with compunction, because it was a
      deviation from a path which I had assigned to myself. Now my aversion to
      this means of escape was enforced by an unauthorized curiosity, and by the
      knowledge of a bushy hollow on the edge of the hill, where I should be
      safe from discovery. Into this hollow I thrust myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The propriety of removal to Europe was the question eagerly discussed.
      Pleyel intimated that his anxiety to go was augmented by the silence of
      Theresa de Stolberg. The temptation to interfere in this dispute was
      irresistible. In vain I contended with inveterate habits. I disguised to
      myself the impropriety of my conduct, by recollecting the benefits which
      it might produce. Pleyel's proposal was unwise, yet it was enforced with
      plausible arguments and indefatigable zeal. Your brother might be puzzled
      and wearied, but could not be convinced. I conceived that to terminate the
      controversy in favor of the latter was conferring a benefit on all
      parties. For this end I profited by an opening in the conversation, and
      assured them of Catharine's irreconcilable aversion to the scheme, and of
      the death of the Saxon baroness. The latter event was merely a conjecture,
      but rendered extremely probable by Pleyel's representations. My purpose,
      you need not be told, was effected.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My passion for mystery, and a species of imposture, which I deemed
      harmless, was thus awakened afresh. This second lapse into error made my
      recovery more difficult. I cannot convey to you an adequate idea of the
      kind of gratification which I derived from these exploits; yet I meditated
      nothing. My views were bounded to the passing moment, and commonly
      suggested by the momentary exigence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I must not conceal any thing. Your principles teach you to abhor a
      voluptuous temper; but, with whatever reluctance, I acknowledge this
      temper to be mine. You imagine your servant Judith to be innocent as well
      as beautiful; but you took her from a family where hypocrisy, as well as
      licentiousness, was wrought into a system. My attention was captivated by
      her charms, and her principles were easily seen to be flexible.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Deem me not capable of the iniquity of seduction. Your servant is not
      destitute of feminine and virtuous qualities; but she was taught that the
      best use of her charms consists in the sale of them. My nocturnal visits
      to Mettingen were now prompted by a double view, and my correspondence
      with your servant gave me, at all times, access to your house.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The second night after our interview, so brief and so little foreseen by
      either of us, some daemon of mischief seized me. According to my
      companion's report, your perfections were little less than divine. Her
      uncouth but copious narratives converted you into an object of worship.
      She chiefly dwelt upon your courage, because she herself was deficient in
      that quality. You held apparitions and goblins in contempt. You took no
      precautions against robbers. You were just as tranquil and secure in this
      lonely dwelling, as if you were in the midst of a crowd. Hence a vague
      project occurred to me, to put this courage to the test. A woman capable
      of recollection in danger, of warding off groundless panics, of discerning
      the true mode of proceeding, and profiting by her best resources, is a
      prodigy. I was desirous of ascertaining whether you were such an one.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My expedient was obvious and simple: I was to counterfeit a murderous
      dialogue; but this was to be so conducted that another, and not yourself,
      should appear to be the object. I was not aware of the possibility that
      you should appropriate these menaces to yourself. Had you been still and
      listened, you would have heard the struggles and prayers of the victim,
      who would likewise have appeared to be shut up in the closet, and whose
      voice would have been Judith's. This scene would have been an appeal to
      your compassion; and the proof of cowardice or courage which I expected
      from you, would have been your remaining inactive in your bed, or your
      entering the closet with a view to assist the sufferer. Some instances
      which Judith related of your fearlessness and promptitude made me adopt
      the latter supposition with some degree of confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "By the girl's direction I found a ladder, and mounted to your closet
      window. This is scarcely large enough to admit the head, but it answered
      my purpose too well.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot express my confusion and surprize at your abrupt and precipitate
      flight. I hastily removed the ladder; and, after some pause, curiosity and
      doubts of your safety induced me to follow you. I found you stretched on
      the turf before your brother's door, without sense or motion. I felt the
      deepest regret at this unlooked-for consequence of my scheme. I knew not
      what to do to procure you relief. The idea of awakening the family
      naturally presented itself. This emergency was critical, and there was no
      time to deliberate. It was a sudden thought that occurred. I put my lips
      to the key-hole, and sounded an alarm which effectually roused the
      sleepers. My organs were naturally forcible, and had been improved by long
      and assiduous exercise.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Long and bitterly did I repent of my scheme. I was somewhat consoled by
      reflecting that my purpose had not been evil, and renewed my fruitless
      vows never to attempt such dangerous experiments. For some time I adhered,
      with laudable forbearance, to this resolution.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My life has been a life of hardship and exposure. In the summer I prefer
      to make my bed of the smooth turf, or, at most, the shelter of a
      summer-house suffices. In all my rambles I never found a spot in which so
      many picturesque beauties and rural delights were assembled as at
      Mettingen. No corner of your little domain unites fragrance and secrecy in
      so perfect a degree as the recess in the bank. The odour of its leaves,
      the coolness of its shade, and the music of its water-fall, had early
      attracted my attention. Here my sadness was converted into peaceful
      melancholy&mdash;here my slumbers were sound, and my pleasures enhanced.
    </p>
    <p>
      "As most free from interruption, I chose this as the scene of my midnight
      interviews with Judith. One evening, as the sun declined, I was seated
      here, when I was alarmed by your approach. It was with difficulty that I
      effected my escape unnoticed by you.
    </p>
    <p>
      "At the customary hour, I returned to your habitation, and was made
      acquainted by Judith, with your unusual absence. I half suspected the true
      cause, and felt uneasiness at the danger there was that I should be
      deprived of my retreat; or, at least, interrupted in the possession of it.
      The girl, likewise, informed me, that among your other singularities, it
      was not uncommon for you to leave your bed, and walk forth for the sake of
      night-airs and starlight contemplations.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I desired to prevent this inconvenience. I found you easily swayed by
      fear. I was influenced, in my choice of means, by the facility and
      certainty of that to which I had been accustomed. All that I forsaw was,
      that, in future, this spot would be cautiously shunned by you.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I entered the recess with the utmost caution, and discovered, by your
      breathings, in what condition you were. The unexpected interpretation
      which you placed upon my former proceeding, suggested my conduct on the
      present occasion. The mode in which heaven is said by the poet, to
      interfere for the prevention of crimes, [**] was somewhat analogous to my
      province, and never failed to occur to me at seasons like this. It was
      requisite to break your slumbers, and for this end I uttered the powerful
      monosyllable, "hold! hold!" My purpose was not prescribed by duty, yet
      surely it was far from being atrocious and inexpiable. To effect it, I
      uttered what was false, but it was well suited to my purpose. Nothing less
      was intended than to injure you. Nay, the evil resulting from my former
      act, was partly removed by assuring you that in all places but this you
      were safe.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * BILOQUIUM, or ventrilocution. Sound is varied according to
     the variations of direction and distance. The art of the
     ventriloquist consists in modifying his voice according to
     all these variations, without changing his place. See the
     work of the Abbe de la Chappelle, in which are accurately
     recorded the performances of one of these artists, and some
     ingenious, though unsatisfactory speculations are given on
     the means by which the effects are produced. This power is,
     perhaps, given by nature, but is doubtless improvable, if
     not acquirable, by art. It may, possibly, consist in an
     unusual flexibility or exertion of the bottom of the tongue
     and the uvula. That speech is producible by these alone must
     be granted, since anatomists mention two instances of
     persons speaking without a tongue. In one case, the organ
     was originally wanting, but its place was supplied by a
     small tubercle, and the uvula was perfect. In the other, the
     tongue was destroyed by disease, but probably a small part
     of it remained.

     This power is difficult to explain, but the fact is
     undeniable. Experience shews that the human voice can
     imitate the voice of all men and of all inferior animals.
     The sound of musical instruments, and even noises from the
     contact of inanimate substances, have been accurately
     imitated. The mimicry of animals is notorious; and Dr.
     Burney (Musical Travels) mentions one who imitated a flute
     and violin, so as to deceive even his ears.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     **&mdash;Peeps through the blanket of the dark, and cries Hold!
     Hold!&mdash;SHAKESPEARE.
</pre>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XXIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      "My morals will appear to you far from rigid, yet my conduct will fall
      short of your suspicions. I am now to confess actions less excusable, and
      yet surely they will not entitle me to the name of a desperate or sordid
      criminal.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your house was rendered, by your frequent and long absences, easily
      accessible to my curiosity. My meeting with Pleyel was the prelude to
      direct intercourse with you. I had seen much of the world, but your
      character exhibited a specimen of human powers that was wholly new to me.
      My intercourse with your servant furnished me with curious details of your
      domestic management. I was of a different sex: I was not your husband; I
      was not even your friend; yet my knowledge of you was of that kind, which
      conjugal intimacies can give, and, in some respects, more accurate. The
      observation of your domestic was guided by me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You will not be surprized that I should sometimes profit by your absence,
      and adventure to examine with my own eyes, the interior of your chamber.
      Upright and sincere, you used no watchfulness, and practised no
      precautions. I scrutinized every thing, and pried every where. Your closet
      was usually locked, but it was once my fortune to find the key on a
      bureau. I opened and found new scope for my curiosity in your books. One
      of these was manuscript, and written in characters which essentially
      agreed with a short-hand system which I had learned from a Jesuit
      missionary.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot justify my conduct, yet my only crime was curiosity. I perused
      this volume with eagerness. The intellect which it unveiled, was brighter
      than my limited and feeble organs could bear. I was naturally inquisitive
      as to your ideas respecting my deportment, and the mysteries that had
      lately occurred.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You know what you have written. You know that in this volume the key to
      your inmost soul was contained. If I had been a profound and malignant
      impostor, what plenteous materials were thus furnished me of stratagems
      and plots!
    </p>
    <p>
      "The coincidence of your dream in the summer-house with my exclamation,
      was truly wonderful. The voice which warned you to forbear was, doubtless,
      mine; but mixed by a common process of the fancy, with the train of
      visionary incidents.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I saw in a stronger light than ever, the dangerousness of that instrument
      which I employed, and renewed my resolutions to abstain from the use of it
      in future; but I was destined perpetually to violate my resolutions. By
      some perverse fate, I was led into circumstances in which the exertion of
      my powers was the sole or the best means of escape.
    </p>
    <p>
      "On that memorable night on which our last interview took place, I came as
      usual to Mettingen. I was apprized of your engagement at your brother's,
      from which you did not expect to return till late. Some incident suggested
      the design of visiting your chamber. Among your books which I had not
      examined, might be something tending to illustrate your character, or the
      history of your family. Some intimation had been dropped by you in
      discourse, respecting a performance of your father, in which some
      important transaction in his life was recorded.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was desirous of seeing this book; and such was my habitual attachment
      to mystery, that I preferred the clandestine perusal of it. Such were the
      motives that induced me to make this attempt. Judith had disappeared, and
      finding the house unoccupied, I supplied myself with a light, and
      proceeded to your chamber.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I found it easy, on experiment, to lock and unlock your closet door
      without the aid of a key. I shut myself in this recess, and was busily
      exploring your shelves, when I heard some one enter the room below. I was
      at a loss who it could be, whether you or your servant. Doubtful, however,
      as I was, I conceived it prudent to extinguish the light. Scarcely was
      this done, when some one entered the chamber. The footsteps were easily
      distinguished to be yours.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My situation was now full of danger and perplexity. For some time, I
      cherished the hope that you would leave the room so long as to afford me
      an opportunity of escaping. As the hours passed, this hope gradually
      deserted me. It was plain that you had retired for the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I knew not how soon you might find occasion to enter the closet. I was
      alive to all the horrors of detection, and ruminated without ceasing, on
      the behaviour which it would be proper, in case of detection, to adopt. I
      was unable to discover any consistent method of accounting for my being
      thus immured.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It occurred to me that I might withdraw you from your chamber for a few
      minutes, by counterfeiting a voice from without. Some message from your
      brother might be delivered, requiring your presence at his house. I was
      deterred from this scheme by reflecting on the resolution I had formed,
      and on the possible evils that might result from it. Besides, it was not
      improbable that you would speedily retire to bed, and then, by the
      exercise of sufficient caution, I might hope to escape unobserved.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Meanwhile I listened with the deepest anxiety to every motion from
      without. I discovered nothing which betokened preparation for sleep.
      Instead of this I heard deep-drawn sighs, and occasionally an
      half-expressed and mournful ejaculation. Hence I inferred that you were
      unhappy. The true state of your mind with regard to Pleyel your own pen
      had disclosed; but I supposed you to be framed of such materials, that,
      though a momentary sadness might affect you, you were impregnable to any
      permanent and heartfelt grief. Inquietude for my own safety was, for a
      moment, suspended by sympathy with your distress.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To the former consideration I was quickly recalled by a motion of yours
      which indicated I knew not what. I fostered the persuasion that you would
      now retire to bed; but presently you approached the closet, and detection
      seemed to be inevitable. You put your hand upon the lock. I had formed no
      plan to extricate myself from the dilemma in which the opening of the door
      would involve me. I felt an irreconcilable aversion to detection. Thus
      situated, I involuntarily seized the door with a resolution to resist your
      efforts to open it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Suddenly you receded from the door. This deportment was inexplicable, but
      the relief it afforded me was quickly gone. You returned, and I once more
      was thrown into perplexity. The expedient that suggested itself was
      precipitate and inartificial. I exerted my organs and called upon you TO
      HOLD.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That you should persist in spite of this admonition, was a subject of
      astonishment. I again resisted your efforts; for the first expedient
      having failed, I knew not what other to resort to. In this state, how was
      my astonishment increased when I heard your exclamations!
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was now plain that you knew me to be within. Further resistance was
      unavailing and useless. The door opened, and I shrunk backward. Seldom
      have I felt deeper mortification, and more painful perplexity. I did not
      consider that the truth would be less injurious than any lie which I could
      hastily frame. Conscious as I was of a certain degree of guilt, I
      conceived that you would form the most odious suspicions. The truth would
      be imperfect, unless I were likewise to explain the mysterious admonition
      which had been given; but that explanation was of too great moment, and
      involved too extensive consequences to make me suddenly resolve to give
      it. I was aware that this discovery would associate itself in your mind,
      with the dialogue formerly heard in this closet. Thence would your
      suspicions be aggravated, and to escape from these suspicions would be
      impossible. But the mere truth would be sufficiently opprobrious, and
      deprive me for ever of your good opinion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thus was I rendered desperate, and my mind rapidly passed to the
      contemplation of the use that might be made of previous events. Some good
      genius would appear to you to have interposed to save you from injury
      intended by me. Why, I said, since I must sink in her opinion, should I
      not cherish this belief? Why not personate an enemy, and pretend that
      celestial interference has frustrated my schemes? I must fly, but let me
      leave wonder and fear behind me. Elucidation of the mystery will always be
      practicable. I shall do no injury, but merely talk of evil that was
      designed, but is now past.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thus I extenuated my conduct to myself, but I scarcely expect that this
      will be to you a sufficient explication of the scene that followed. Those
      habits which I have imbibed, the rooted passion which possesses me for
      scattering around me amazement and fear, you enjoy no opportunities of
      knowing. That a man should wantonly impute to himself the most flagitious
      designs, will hardly be credited, even though you reflect that my
      reputation was already, by my own folly, irretrievably ruined; and that it
      was always in my power to communicate the truth, and rectify the mistake.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I left you to ponder on this scene. My mind was full of rapid and
      incongruous ideas. Compunction, self-upbraiding, hopelesness, satisfaction
      at the view of those effects likely to flow from my new scheme, misgivings
      as to the beneficial result of this scheme took possession of my mind, and
      seemed to struggle for the mastery.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I had gone too far to recede. I had painted myself to you as an assassin
      and ravisher, withheld from guilt only by a voice from heaven. I had thus
      reverted into the path of error, and now, having gone thus far, my
      progress seemed to be irrevocable. I said to myself, I must leave these
      precincts for ever. My acts have blasted my fame in the eyes of the
      Wielands. For the sake of creating a mysterious dread, I have made myself
      a villain. I may complete this mysterious plan by some new imposture, but
      I cannot aggravate my supposed guilt.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My resolution was formed, and I was swiftly ruminating on the means for
      executing it, when Pleyel appeared in sight. This incident decided my
      conduct. It was plain that Pleyel was a devoted lover, but he was, at the
      same time, a man of cold resolves and exquisite sagacity. To deceive him
      would be the sweetest triumph I had ever enjoyed. The deception would be
      momentary, but it would likewise be complete. That his delusion would so
      soon be rectified, was a recommendation to my scheme, for I esteemed him
      too much to desire to entail upon him lasting agonies.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I had no time to reflect further, for he proceeded, with a quick step,
      towards the house. I was hurried onward involuntarily and by a mechanical
      impulse. I followed him as he passed the recess in the bank, and shrowding
      myself in that spot, I counterfeited sounds which I knew would arrest his
      steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He stopped, turned, listened, approached, and overheard a dialogue whose
      purpose was to vanquish his belief in a point where his belief was most
      difficult to vanquish. I exerted all my powers to imitate your voice, your
      general sentiments, and your language. Being master, by means of your
      journal, of your personal history and most secret thoughts, my efforts
      were the more successful. When I reviewed the tenor of this dialogue, I
      cannot believe but that Pleyel was deluded. When I think of your
      character, and of the inferences which this dialogue was intended to
      suggest, it seems incredible that this delusion should be produced.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I spared not myself. I called myself murderer, thief, guilty of
      innumerable perjuries and misdeeds: that you had debased yourself to the
      level of such an one, no evidence, methought, would suffice to convince
      him who knew you so thoroughly as Pleyel; and yet the imposture amounted
      to proof which the most jealous scrutiny would find to be unexceptionable.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He left his station precipitately and resumed his way to the house. I saw
      that the detection of his error would be instantaneous, since, not having
      gone to bed, an immediate interview would take place between you. At first
      this circumstance was considered with regret; but as time opened my eyes
      to the possible consequences of this scene, I regarded it with pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In a short time the infatuation which had led me thus far began to
      subside. The remembrance of former reasonings and transactions was
      renewed. How often I had repented this kind of exertion; how many evils
      were produced by it which I had not foreseen; what occasions for the
      bitterest remorse it had administered, now passed through my mind. The
      black catalogue of stratagems was now increased. I had inspired you with
      the most vehement terrors: I had filled your mind with faith in shadows
      and confidence in dreams: I had depraved the imagination of Pleyel: I had
      exhibited you to his understanding as devoted to brutal gratifications and
      consummate in hypocrisy. The evidence which accompanied this delusion
      would be irresistible to one whose passion had perverted his judgment,
      whose jealousy with regard to me had already been excited, and who,
      therefore, would not fail to overrate the force of this evidence. What
      fatal act of despair or of vengeance might not this error produce?
    </p>
    <p>
      "With regard to myself, I had acted with a phrenzy that surpassed belief.
      I had warred against my peace and my fame: I had banished myself from the
      fellowship of vigorous and pure minds: I was self-expelled from a scene
      which the munificence of nature had adorned with unrivalled beauties, and
      from haunts in which all the muses and humanities had taken refuge.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was thus torn by conflicting fears and tumultuous regrets. The night
      passed away in this state of confusion; and next morning in the gazette
      left at my obscure lodging, I read a description and an offer of reward
      for the apprehension of my person. I was said to have escaped from an
      Irish prison, in which I was confined as an offender convicted of enormous
      and complicated crimes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This was the work of an enemy, who, by falsehood and stratagem, had
      procured my condemnation. I was, indeed, a prisoner, but escaped, by the
      exertion of my powers, the fate to which I was doomed, but which I did not
      deserve. I had hoped that the malice of my foe was exhausted; but I now
      perceived that my precautions had been wise, for that the intervention of
      an ocean was insufficient for my security.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let me not dwell on the sensations which this discovery produced. I need
      not tell by what steps I was induced to seek an interview with you, for
      the purpose of disclosing the truth, and repairing, as far as possible,
      the effects of my misconduct. It was unavoidable that this gazette would
      fall into your hands, and that it would tend to confirm every erroneous
      impression.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Having gained this interview, I purposed to seek some retreat in the
      wilderness, inaccessible to your inquiry and to the malice of my foe,
      where I might henceforth employ myself in composing a faithful narrative
      of my actions. I designed it as my vindication from the aspersions that
      had rested on my character, and as a lesson to mankind on the evils of
      credulity on the one hand, and of imposture on the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wrote you a billet, which was left at the house of your friend, and
      which I knew would, by some means, speedily come to your hands. I
      entertained a faint hope that my invitation would be complied with. I knew
      not what use you would make of the opportunity which this proposal
      afforded you of procuring the seizure of my person; but this fate I was
      determined to avoid, and I had no doubt but due circumspection, and the
      exercise of the faculty which I possessed, would enable me to avoid it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I lurked, through the day, in the neighbourhood of Mettingen: I
      approached your habitation at the appointed hour: I entered it in silence,
      by a trap-door which led into the cellar. This had formerly been bolted on
      the inside, but Judith had, at an early period in our intercourse, removed
      this impediment. I ascended to the first floor, but met with no one, nor
      any thing that indicated the presence of an human being.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I crept softly up stairs, and at length perceived your chamber door to be
      opened, and a light to be within. It was of moment to discover by whom
      this light was accompanied. I was sensible of the inconveniencies to which
      my being discovered at your chamber door by any one within would subject
      me; I therefore called out in my own voice, but so modified that it should
      appear to ascend from the court below, 'Who is in the chamber? Is it Miss
      Wieland?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No answer was returned to this summons. I listened, but no motion could
      be heard. After a pause I repeated my call, but no less ineffectually.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I now approached nearer the door, and adventured to look in. A light
      stood on the table, but nothing human was discernible. I entered
      cautiously, but all was solitude and stillness.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I knew not what to conclude. If the house were inhabited, my call would
      have been noticed; yet some suspicion insinuated itself that silence was
      studiously kept by persons who intended to surprize me. My approach had
      been wary, and the silence that ensued my call had likewise preceded it; a
      circumstance that tended to dissipate my fears.
    </p>
    <p>
      "At length it occurred to me that Judith might possibly be in her own
      room. I turned my steps thither; but she was not to be found. I passed
      into other rooms, and was soon convinced that the house was totally
      deserted. I returned to your chamber, agitated by vain surmises and
      opposite conjectures. The appointed hour had passed, and I dismissed the
      hope of an interview.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In this state of things I determined to leave a few lines on your toilet,
      and prosecute my journey to the mountains. Scarcely had I taken the pen
      when I laid it aside, uncertain in what manner to address you. I rose from
      the table and walked across the floor. A glance thrown upon the bed
      acquainted me with a spectacle to which my conceptions of horror had not
      yet reached.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the midst of shuddering and trepidation, the signal of your presence
      in the court below recalled me to myself. The deed was newly done: I only
      was in the house: what had lately happened justified any suspicions,
      however enormous. It was plain that this catastrophe was unknown to you: I
      thought upon the wild commotion which the discovery would awaken in your
      breast: I found the confusion of my own thoughts unconquerable, and
      perceived that the end for which I sought an interview was not now to be
      accomplished.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In this state of things it was likewise expedient to conceal my being
      within. I put out the light and hurried down stairs. To my unspeakable
      surprize, notwithstanding every motive to fear, you lighted a candle and
      proceeded to your chamber.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I retired to that room below from which a door leads into the cellar.
      This door concealed me from your view as you passed. I thought upon the
      spectacle which was about to present itself. In an exigence so abrupt and
      so little foreseen, I was again subjected to the empire of mechanical and
      habitual impulses. I dreaded the effects which this shocking exhibition,
      bursting on your unprepared senses, might produce.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thus actuated, I stept swiftly to the door, and thrusting my head
      forward, once more pronounced the mysterious interdiction. At that moment,
      by some untoward fate, your eyes were cast back, and you saw me in the
      very act of utterance. I fled through the darksome avenue at which I
      entered, covered with the shame of this detection.
    </p>
    <p>
      "With diligence, stimulated by a thousand ineffable emotions, I pursued my
      intended journey. I have a brother whose farm is situated in the bosom of
      a fertile desert, near the sources of the Leheigh, and thither I now
      repaired."
    </p>
    <p>
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      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XXIV
    </h2>
    <p>
      "Deeply did I ruminate on the occurrences that had just passed. Nothing
      excited my wonder so much as the means by which you discovered my being in
      the closet. This discovery appeared to be made at the moment when you
      attempted to open it. How could you have otherwise remained so long in the
      chamber apparently fearless and tranquil? And yet, having made this
      discovery, how could you persist in dragging me forth: persist in defiance
      of an interdiction so emphatical and solemn?
    </p>
    <p>
      "But your sister's death was an event detestable and ominous. She had been
      the victim of the most dreadful species of assassination. How, in a state
      like yours, the murderous intention could be generated, was wholly
      inconceivable.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I did not relinquish my design of confessing to you the part which I had
      sustained in your family, but I was willing to defer it till the task
      which I had set myself was finished. That being done, I resumed the
      resolution. The motives to incite me to this continually acquired force.
      The more I revolved the events happening at Mettingen, the more
      insupportable and ominous my terrors became. My waking hours and my sleep
      were vexed by dismal presages and frightful intimations.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Catharine was dead by violence. Surely my malignant stars had not made me
      the cause of her death; yet had I not rashly set in motion a machine, over
      whose progress I had no controul, and which experience had shewn me was
      infinite in power? Every day might add to the catalogue of horrors of
      which this was the source, and a seasonable disclosure of the truth might
      prevent numberless ills.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fraught with this conception, I have turned my steps hither. I find your
      brother's house desolate: the furniture removed, and the walls stained
      with damps. Your own is in the same situation. Your chamber is dismantled
      and dark, and you exhibit an image of incurable grief, and of rapid decay.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have uttered the truth. This is the extent of my offences. You tell me
      an horrid tale of Wieland being led to the destruction of his wife and
      children, by some mysterious agent. You charge me with the guilt of this
      agency; but I repeat that the amount of my guilt has been truly stated.
      The perpetrator of Catharine's death was unknown to me till now; nay, it
      is still unknown to me."
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment, the closing of a door in the kitchen was distinctly heard
      by us. Carwin started and paused. "There is some one coming. I must not be
      found here by my enemies, and need not, since my purpose is answered."
    </p>
    <p>
      I had drunk in, with the most vehement attention, every word that he had
      uttered. I had no breath to interrupt his tale by interrogations or
      comments. The power that he spoke of was hitherto unknown to me: its
      existence was incredible; it was susceptible of no direct proof.
    </p>
    <p>
      He owns that his were the voice and face which I heard and saw. He
      attempts to give an human explanation of these phantasms; but it is enough
      that he owns himself to be the agent; his tale is a lie, and his nature
      devilish. As he deceived me, he likewise deceived my brother, and now do I
      behold the author of all our calamities!
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were my thoughts when his pause allowed me to think. I should have
      bad him begone if the silence had not been interrupted; but now I feared
      no more for myself; and the milkiness of my nature was curdled into hatred
      and rancour. Some one was near, and this enemy of God and man might
      possibly be brought to justice. I reflected not that the preternatural
      power which he had hitherto exerted, would avail to rescue him from any
      toils in which his feet might be entangled. Meanwhile, looks, and not
      words of menace and abhorrence, were all that I could bestow.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not depart. He seemed dubious, whether, by passing out of the
      house, or by remaining somewhat longer where he was, he should most
      endanger his safety. His confusion increased when steps of one barefoot
      were heard upon the stairs. He threw anxious glances sometimes at the
      closet, sometimes at the window, and sometimes at the chamber door, yet he
      was detained by some inexplicable fascination. He stood as if rooted to
      the spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to me, my soul was bursting with detestation and revenge. I had no room
      for surmises and fears respecting him that approached. It was doubtless a
      human being, and would befriend me so far as to aid me in arresting this
      offender.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stranger quickly entered the room. My eyes and the eyes of Carwin
      were, at the same moment, darted upon him. A second glance was not needed
      to inform us who he was. His locks were tangled, and fell confusedly over
      his forehead and ears. His shirt was of coarse stuff, and open at the neck
      and breast. His coat was once of bright and fine texture, but now torn and
      tarnished with dust. His feet, his legs, and his arms were bare. His
      features were the seat of a wild and tranquil solemnity, but his eyes
      bespoke inquietude and curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      He advanced with firm step, and looking as in search of some one. He saw
      me and stopped. He bent his sight on the floor, and clenching his hands,
      appeared suddenly absorbed in meditation. Such were the figure and
      deportment of Wieland! Such, in his fallen state, were the aspect and
      guise of my brother!
    </p>
    <p>
      Carwin did not fail to recognize the visitant. Care for his own safety was
      apparently swallowed up in the amazement which this spectacle produced.
      His station was conspicuous, and he could not have escaped the roving
      glances of Wieland; yet the latter seemed totally unconscious of his
      presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grief at this scene of ruin and blast was at first the only sentiment of
      which I was conscious. A fearful stillness ensued. At length Wieland,
      lifting his hands, which were locked in each other, to his breast,
      exclaimed, "Father! I thank thee. This is thy guidance. Hither thou hast
      led me, that I might perform thy will: yet let me not err: let me hear
      again thy messenger!"
    </p>
    <p>
      He stood for a minute as if listening; but recovering from his attitude,
      he continued&mdash;"It is not needed. Dastardly wretch! thus eternally
      questioning the behests of thy Maker! weak in resolution! wayward in
      faith!"
    </p>
    <p>
      He advanced to me, and, after another pause, resumed: "Poor girl! a dismal
      fate has set its mark upon thee. Thy life is demanded as a sacrifice.
      Prepare thee to die. Make not my office difficult by fruitless opposition.
      Thy prayers might subdue stones; but none but he who enjoined my purpose
      can shake it."
    </p>
    <p>
      These words were a sufficient explication of the scene. The nature of his
      phrenzy, as described by my uncle, was remembered. I who had sought death,
      was now thrilled with horror because it was near. Death in this form,
      death from the hand of a brother, was thought upon with undescribable
      repugnance.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a state thus verging upon madness, my eye glanced upon Carwin. His
      astonishment appeared to have struck him motionless and dumb. My life was
      in danger, and my brother's hand was about to be embrued in my blood. I
      firmly believed that Carwin's was the instigation. I could rescue me from
      this abhorred fate; I could dissipate this tremendous illusion; I could
      save my brother from the perpetration of new horrors, by pointing out the
      devil who seduced him; to hesitate a moment was to perish. These thoughts
      gave strength to my limbs, and energy to my accents: I started on my feet.
      "O brother! spare me, spare thyself: There is thy betrayer. He
      counterfeited the voice and face of an angel, for the purpose of
      destroying thee and me. He has this moment confessed it. He is able to
      speak where he is not. He is leagued with hell, but will not avow it; yet
      he confesses that the agency was his."
    </p>
    <p>
      My brother turned slowly his eyes, and fixed them upon Carwin. Every joint
      in the frame of the latter trembled. His complexion was paler than a
      ghost's. His eye dared not meet that of Wieland, but wandered with an air
      of distraction from one space to another.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Man," said my brother, in a voice totally unlike that which he had used
      to me, "what art thou? The charge has been made. Answer it. The visage&mdash;the
      voice&mdash;at the bottom of these stairs&mdash;at the hour of eleven&mdash;To
      whom did they belong? To thee?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Twice did Carwin attempt to speak, but his words died away upon his lips.
      My brother resumed in a tone of greater vehemence&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou falterest; faltering is ominous; say yes or no: one word will
      suffice; but beware of falsehood. Was it a stratagem of hell to overthrow
      my family? Wast thou the agent?"
    </p>
    <p>
      I now saw that the wrath which had been prepared for me was to be heaped
      upon another. The tale that I heard from him, and his present
      trepidations, were abundant testimonies of his guilt. But what if Wieland
      should be undeceived! What if he shall find his acts to have proceeded not
      from an heavenly prompter, but from human treachery! Will not his rage
      mount into whirlwind? Will not he tare limb from limb this devoted wretch?
    </p>
    <p>
      Instinctively I recoiled from this image, but it gave place to another.
      Carwin may be innocent, but the impetuosity of his judge may misconstrue
      his answers into a confession of guilt. Wieland knows not that mysterious
      voices and appearances were likewise witnessed by me. Carwin may be
      ignorant of those which misled my brother. Thus may his answers unwarily
      betray himself to ruin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such might be the consequences of my frantic precipitation, and these, it
      was necessary, if possible, to prevent. I attempted to speak, but Wieland,
      turning suddenly upon me, commanded silence, in a tone furious and
      terrible. My lips closed, and my tongue refused its office.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What art thou?" he resumed, addressing himself to Carwin. "Answer me;
      whose form&mdash;whose voice&mdash;was it thy contrivance? Answer me."
    </p>
    <p>
      The answer was now given, but confusedly and scarcely articulated. "I
      meant nothing&mdash;I intended no ill&mdash;if I understand&mdash;if I do
      not mistake you&mdash;it is too true&mdash;I did appear&mdash;in the entry&mdash;did
      speak. The contrivance was mine, but&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      These words were no sooner uttered, than my brother ceased to wear the
      same aspect. His eyes were downcast: he was motionless: his respiration
      became hoarse, like that of a man in the agonies of death. Carwin seemed
      unable to say more. He might have easily escaped, but the thought which
      occupied him related to what was horrid and unintelligible in this scene,
      and not to his own danger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently the faculties of Wieland, which, for a time, were chained up,
      were seized with restlessness and trembling. He broke silence. The
      stoutest heart would have been appalled by the tone in which he spoke. He
      addressed himself to Carwin.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why art thou here? Who detains thee? Go and learn better. I will meet
      thee, but it must be at the bar of thy Maker. There shall I bear witness
      against thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      Perceiving that Carwin did not obey, he continued; "Dost thou wish me to
      complete the catalogue by thy death? Thy life is a worthless thing. Tempt
      me no more. I am but a man, and thy presence may awaken a fury which may
      spurn my controul. Begone!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Carwin, irresolute, striving in vain for utterance, his complexion pallid
      as death, his knees beating one against another, slowly obeyed the mandate
      and withdrew.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XXV
    </h2>
    <p>
      A few words more and I lay aside the pen for ever. Yet why should I not
      relinquish it now? All that I have said is preparatory to this scene, and
      my fingers, tremulous and cold as my heart, refuse any further exertion.
      This must not be. Let my last energies support me in the finishing of this
      task. Then will I lay down my head in the lap of death. Hushed will be all
      my murmurs in the sleep of the grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every sentiment has perished in my bosom. Even friendship is extinct. Your
      love for me has prompted me to this task; but I would not have complied if
      it had not been a luxury thus to feast upon my woes. I have justly
      calculated upon my remnant of strength. When I lay down the pen the taper
      of life will expire: my existence will terminate with my tale.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now that I was left alone with Wieland, the perils of my situation
      presented themselves to my mind. That this paroxysm should terminate in
      havock and rage it was reasonable to predict. The first suggestion of my
      fears had been disproved by my experience. Carwin had acknowledged his
      offences, and yet had escaped. The vengeance which I had harboured had not
      been admitted by Wieland, and yet the evils which I had endured, compared
      with those inflicted on my brother, were as nothing. I thirsted for his
      blood, and was tormented with an insatiable appetite for his destruction;
      yet my brother was unmoved, and had dismissed him in safety. Surely thou
      wast more than man, while I am sunk below the beasts.
    </p>
    <p>
      Did I place a right construction on the conduct of Wieland? Was the error
      that misled him so easily rectified? Were views so vivid and faith so
      strenuous thus liable to fading and to change? Was there not reason to
      doubt the accuracy of my perceptions? With images like these was my mind
      thronged, till the deportment of my brother called away my attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      I saw his lips move and his eyes cast up to heaven. Then would he listen
      and look back, as if in expectation of some one's appearance. Thrice he
      repeated these gesticulations and this inaudible prayer. Each time the
      mist of confusion and doubt seemed to grow darker and to settle on his
      understanding. I guessed at the meaning of these tokens. The words of
      Carwin had shaken his belief, and he was employed in summoning the
      messenger who had formerly communed with him, to attest the value of those
      new doubts. In vain the summons was repeated, for his eye met nothing but
      vacancy, and not a sound saluted his ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      He walked to the bed, gazed with eagerness at the pillow which had
      sustained the head of the breathless Catharine, and then returned to the
      place where I sat. I had no power to lift my eyes to his face: I was
      dubious of his purpose: this purpose might aim at my life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alas! nothing but subjection to danger, and exposure to temptation, can
      show us what we are. By this test was I now tried, and found to be
      cowardly and rash. Men can deliberately untie the thread of life, and of
      this I had deemed myself capable; yet now that I stood upon the brink of
      fate, that the knife of the sacrificer was aimed at my heart, I shuddered
      and betook myself to any means of escape, however monstrous.
    </p>
    <p>
      Can I bear to think&mdash;can I endure to relate the outrage which my
      heart meditated? Where were my means of safety? Resistance was vain. Not
      even the energy of despair could set me on a level with that strength
      which his terrific prompter had bestowed upon Wieland. Terror enables us
      to perform incredible feats; but terror was not then the state of my mind:
      where then were my hopes of rescue?
    </p>
    <p>
      Methinks it is too much. I stand aside, as it were, from myself; I
      estimate my own deservings; a hatred, immortal and inexorable, is my due.
      I listen to my own pleas, and find them empty and false: yes, I
      acknowledge that my guilt surpasses that of all mankind: I confess that
      the curses of a world, and the frowns of a deity, are inadequate to my
      demerits. Is there a thing in the world worthy of infinite abhorrence? It
      is I. What shall I say! I was menaced, as I thought, with death, and, to
      elude this evil, my hand was ready to inflict death upon the menacer. In
      visiting my house, I had made provision against the machinations of
      Carwin. In a fold of my dress an open penknife was concealed. This I now
      seized and drew forth. It lurked out of view: but I now see that my state
      of mind would have rendered the deed inevitable if my brother had lifted
      his hand. This instrument of my preservation would have been plunged into
      his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      O, insupportable remembrance! hide thee from my view for a time; hide it
      from me that my heart was black enough to meditate the stabbing of a
      brother! a brother thus supreme in misery; thus towering in virtue!
    </p>
    <p>
      He was probably unconscious of my design, but presently drew back. This
      interval was sufficient to restore me to myself. The madness, the iniquity
      of that act which I had purposed rushed upon my apprehension. For a moment
      I was breathless with agony. At the next moment I recovered my strength,
      and threw the knife with violence on the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sound awoke my brother from his reverie. He gazed alternately at me
      and at the weapon. With a movement equally solemn he stooped and took it
      up. He placed the blade in different positions, scrutinizing it
      accurately, and maintaining, at the same time, a profound silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again he looked at me, but all that vehemence and loftiness of spirit
      which had so lately characterized his features, were flown. Fallen
      muscles, a forehead contracted into folds, eyes dim with unbidden drops,
      and a ruefulness of aspect which no words can describe, were now visible.
    </p>
    <p>
      His looks touched into energy the same sympathies in me, and I poured
      forth a flood of tears. This passion was quickly checked by fear, which
      had now, no longer, my own, but his safety for their object. I watched his
      deportment in silence. At length he spoke:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sister," said he, in an accent mournful and mild, "I have acted poorly my
      part in this world. What thinkest thou? Shall I not do better in the
      next?"
    </p>
    <p>
      I could make no answer. The mildness of his tone astonished and encouraged
      me. I continued to regard him with wistful and anxious looks.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think," resumed he, "I will try. My wife and my babes have gone before.
      Happy wretches! I have sent you to repose, and ought not to linger
      behind."
    </p>
    <p>
      These words had a meaning sufficiently intelligible. I looked at the open
      knife in his hand and shuddered, but knew not how to prevent the deed
      which I dreaded. He quickly noticed my fears, and comprehended them.
      Stretching towards me his hand, with an air of increasing mildness: "Take
      it," said he: "Fear not for thy own sake, nor for mine. The cup is gone
      by, and its transient inebriation is succeeded by the soberness of truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou angel whom I was wont to worship! fearest thou, my sister, for thy
      life? Once it was the scope of my labours to destroy thee, but I was
      prompted to the deed by heaven; such, at least, was my belief. Thinkest
      thou that thy death was sought to gratify malevolence? No. I am pure from
      all stain. I believed that my God was my mover!
    </p>
    <p>
      "Neither thee nor myself have I cause to injure. I have done my duty, and
      surely there is merit in having sacrificed to that, all that is dear to
      the heart of man. If a devil has deceived me, he came in the habit of an
      angel. If I erred, it was not my judgment that deceived me, but my senses.
      In thy sight, being of beings! I am still pure. Still will I look for my
      reward in thy justice!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Did my ears truly report these sounds? If I did not err, my brother was
      restored to just perceptions. He knew himself to have been betrayed to the
      murder of his wife and children, to have been the victim of infernal
      artifice; yet he found consolation in the rectitude of his motives. He was
      not devoid of sorrow, for this was written on his countenance; but his
      soul was tranquil and sublime.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps this was merely a transition of his former madness into a new
      shape. Perhaps he had not yet awakened to the memory of the horrors which
      he had perpetrated. Infatuated wretch that I was! To set myself up as a
      model by which to judge of my heroic brother! My reason taught me that his
      conclusions were right; but conscious of the impotence of reason over my
      own conduct; conscious of my cowardly rashness and my criminal despair, I
      doubted whether any one could be stedfast and wise.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was my weakness, that even in the midst of these thoughts, my mind
      glided into abhorrence of Carwin, and I uttered in a low voice, O! Carwin!
      Carwin! What hast thou to answer for?
    </p>
    <p>
      My brother immediately noticed the involuntary exclamation: "Clara!" said
      he, "be thyself. Equity used to be a theme for thy eloquence. Reduce its
      lessons to practice, and be just to that unfortunate man. The instrument
      has done its work, and I am satisfied.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thank thee, my God, for this last illumination! My enemy is thine also.
      I deemed him to be man, the man with whom I have often communed; but now
      thy goodness has unveiled to me his true nature. As the performer of thy
      behests, he is my friend."
    </p>
    <p>
      My heart began now to misgive me. His mournful aspect had gradually
      yielded place to a serene brow. A new soul appeared to actuate his frame,
      and his eyes to beam with preternatural lustre. These symptoms did not
      abate, and he continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Clara! I must not leave thee in doubt. I know not what brought about thy
      interview with the being whom thou callest Carwin. For a time, I was
      guilty of thy error, and deduced from his incoherent confessions that I
      had been made the victim of human malice. He left us at my bidding, and I
      put up a prayer that my doubts should be removed. Thy eyes were shut, and
      thy ears sealed to the vision that answered my prayer.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was indeed deceived. The form thou hast seen was the incarnation of a
      daemon. The visage and voice which urged me to the sacrifice of my family,
      were his. Now he personates a human form: then he was invironed with the
      lustre of heaven.&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Clara," he continued, advancing closer to me, "thy death must come. This
      minister is evil, but he from whom his commission was received is God.
      Submit then with all thy wonted resignation to a decree that cannot be
      reversed or resisted. Mark the clock. Three minutes are allowed to thee,
      in which to call up thy fortitude, and prepare thee for thy doom." There
      he stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even now, when this scene exists only in memory, when life and all its
      functions have sunk into torpor, my pulse throbs, and my hairs uprise: my
      brows are knit, as then; and I gaze around me in distraction. I was
      unconquerably averse to death; but death, imminent and full of agony as
      that which was threatened, was nothing. This was not the only or chief
      inspirer of my fears.
    </p>
    <p>
      For him, not for myself, was my soul tormented. I might die, and no crime,
      surpassing the reach of mercy, would pursue me to the presence of my
      Judge; but my assassin would survive to contemplate his deed, and that
      assassin was Wieland!
    </p>
    <p>
      Wings to bear me beyond his reach I had not. I could not vanish with a
      thought. The door was open, but my murderer was interposed between that
      and me. Of self-defence I was incapable. The phrenzy that lately prompted
      me to blood was gone; my state was desperate; my rescue was impossible.
    </p>
    <p>
      The weight of these accumulated thoughts could not be borne. My sight
      became confused; my limbs were seized with convulsion; I spoke, but my
      words were half-formed:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Spare me, my brother! Look down, righteous Judge! snatch me from this
      fate! take away this fury from him, or turn it elsewhere!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the agony of my thoughts, that I noticed not steps entering my
      apartment. Supplicating eyes were cast upward, but when my prayer was
      breathed, I once more wildly gazed at the door. A form met my sight: I
      shuddered as if the God whom I invoked were present. It was Carwin that
      again intruded, and who stood before me, erect in attitude, and stedfast
      in look! The sight of him awakened new and rapid thoughts. His recent tale
      was remembered: his magical transitions and mysterious energy of voice:
      Whether he were infernal or miraculous, or human, there was no power and
      no need to decide. Whether the contriver or not of this spell, he was able
      to unbind it, and to check the fury of my brother. He had ascribed to
      himself intentions not malignant. Here now was afforded a test of his
      truth. Let him interpose, as from above; revoke the savage decree which
      the madness of Wieland has assigned to heaven, and extinguish for ever
      this passion for blood!
    </p>
    <p>
      My mind detected at a glance this avenue to safety. The recommendations it
      possessed thronged as it were together, and made but one impression on my
      intellect. Remoter effects and collateral dangers I saw not. Perhaps the
      pause of an instant had sufficed to call them up. The improbability that
      the influence which governed Wieland was external or human; the tendency
      of this stratagem to sanction so fatal an error, or substitute a more
      destructive rage in place of this; the sufficiency of Carwin's mere
      muscular forces to counteract the efforts, and restrain the fury of
      Wieland, might, at a second glance, have been discovered; but no second
      glance was allowed. My first thought hurried me to action, and, fixing my
      eyes upon Carwin I exclaimed&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "O wretch! once more hast thou come? Let it be to abjure thy malice; to
      counterwork this hellish stratagem; to turn from me and from my brother,
      this desolating rage!
    </p>
    <p>
      "Testify thy innocence or thy remorse: exert the powers which pertain to
      thee, whatever they be, to turn aside this ruin. Thou art the author of
      these horrors! What have I done to deserve thus to die? How have I merited
      this unrelenting persecution? I adjure thee, by that God whose voice thou
      hast dared to counterfeit, to save my life!
    </p>
    <p>
      "Wilt thou then go? leave me! Succourless!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Carwin listened to my intreaties unmoved, and turned from me. He seemed to
      hesitate a moment: then glided through the door. Rage and despair stifled
      my utterance. The interval of respite was passed; the pangs reserved for
      me by Wieland, were not to be endured; my thoughts rushed again into
      anarchy. Having received the knife from his hand, I held it loosely and
      without regard; but now it seized again my attention, and I grasped it
      with force.
    </p>
    <p>
      He seemed to notice not the entrance or exit of Carwin. My gesture and the
      murderous weapon appeared to have escaped his notice. His silence was
      unbroken; his eye, fixed upon the clock for a time, was now withdrawn;
      fury kindled in every feature; all that was human in his face gave way to
      an expression supernatural and tremendous. I felt my left arm within his
      grasp.&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Even now I hesitated to strike. I shrunk from his assault, but in vain.&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here let me desist. Why should I rescue this event from oblivion? Why
      should I paint this detestable conflict? Why not terminate at once this
      series of horrors?&mdash;Hurry to the verge of the precipice, and cast
      myself for ever beyond remembrance and beyond hope?
    </p>
    <p>
      Still I live: with this load upon my breast; with this phantom to pursue
      my steps; with adders lodged in my bosom, and stinging me to madness:
      still I consent to live!
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes, I will rise above the sphere of mortal passions: I will spurn at the
      cowardly remorse that bids me seek impunity in silence, or comfort in
      forgetfulness. My nerves shall be new strung to the task. Have I not
      resolved? I will die. The gulph before me is inevitable and near. I will
      die, but then only when my tale is at an end.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XXVI
    </h2>
    <p>
      My right hand, grasping the unseen knife, was still disengaged. It was
      lifted to strike. All my strength was exhausted, but what was sufficient
      to the performance of this deed. Already was the energy awakened, and the
      impulse given, that should bear the fatal steel to his heart, when&mdash;Wieland
      shrunk back: his hand was withdrawn. Breathless with affright and
      desperation, I stood, freed from his grasp; unassailed; untouched.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus long had the power which controuled the scene forborne to interfere;
      but now his might was irresistible, and Wieland in a moment was disarmed
      of all his purposes. A voice, louder than human organs could produce,
      shriller than language can depict, burst from the ceiling, and commanded
      him&mdash;TO HOLD!
    </p>
    <p>
      Trouble and dismay succeeded to the stedfastness that had lately been
      displayed in the looks of Wieland. His eyes roved from one quarter to
      another, with an expression of doubt. He seemed to wait for a further
      intimation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carwin's agency was here easily recognized. I had besought him to
      interpose in my defence. He had flown. I had imagined him deaf to my
      prayer, and resolute to see me perish: yet he disappeared merely to devise
      and execute the means of my relief.
    </p>
    <p>
      Why did he not forbear when this end was accomplished? Why did his
      misjudging zeal and accursed precipitation overpass that limit? Or meant
      he thus to crown the scene, and conduct his inscrutable plots to this
      consummation?
    </p>
    <p>
      Such ideas were the fruit of subsequent contemplation. This moment was
      pregnant with fate. I had no power to reason. In the career of my
      tempestuous thoughts, rent into pieces, as my mind was, by accumulating
      horrors, Carwin was unseen and unsuspected. I partook of Wieland's
      credulity, shook with his amazement, and panted with his awe.
    </p>
    <p>
      Silence took place for a moment; so much as allowed the attention to
      recover its post. Then new sounds were uttered from above.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Man of errors! cease to cherish thy delusion: not heaven or hell, but thy
      senses have misled thee to commit these acts. Shake off thy phrenzy, and
      ascend into rational and human. Be lunatic no longer."
    </p>
    <p>
      My brother opened his lips to speak. His tone was terrific and faint. He
      muttered an appeal to heaven. It was difficult to comprehend the theme of
      his inquiries. They implied doubt as to the nature of the impulse that
      hitherto had guided him, and questioned whether he had acted in
      consequence of insane perceptions.
    </p>
    <p>
      To these interrogatories the voice, which now seemed to hover at his
      shoulder, loudly answered in the affirmative. Then uninterrupted silence
      ensued.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fallen from his lofty and heroic station; now finally restored to the
      perception of truth; weighed to earth by the recollection of his own
      deeds; consoled no longer by a consciousness of rectitude, for the loss of
      offspring and wife&mdash;a loss for which he was indebted to his own
      misguided hand; Wieland was transformed at once into the man OF SORROWS!
    </p>
    <p>
      He reflected not that credit should be as reasonably denied to the last,
      as to any former intimation; that one might as justly be ascribed to
      erring or diseased senses as the other. He saw not that this discovery in
      no degree affected the integrity of his conduct; that his motives had lost
      none of their claims to the homage of mankind; that the preference of
      supreme good, and the boundless energy of duty, were undiminished in his
      bosom.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is not for me to pursue him through the ghastly changes of his
      countenance. Words he had none. Now he sat upon the floor, motionless in
      all his limbs, with his eyes glazed and fixed; a monument of woe.
    </p>
    <p>
      Anon a spirit of tempestuous but undesigning activity seized him. He rose
      from his place and strode across the floor, tottering and at random. His
      eyes were without moisture, and gleamed with the fire that consumed his
      vitals. The muscles of his face were agitated by convulsion. His lips
      moved, but no sound escaped him.
    </p>
    <p>
      That nature should long sustain this conflict was not to be believed. My
      state was little different from that of my brother. I entered, as it were,
      into his thought. My heart was visited and rent by his pangs&mdash;Oh that
      thy phrenzy had never been cured! that thy madness, with its blissful
      visions, would return! or, if that must not be, that thy scene would
      hasten to a close! that death would cover thee with his oblivion!
    </p>
    <p>
      What can I wish for thee? Thou who hast vied with the great preacher of
      thy faith in sanctity of motives, and in elevation above sensual and
      selfish! Thou whom thy fate has changed into paricide and savage! Can I
      wish for the continuance of thy being? No.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a time his movements seemed destitute of purpose. If he walked; if he
      turned; if his fingers were entwined with each other; if his hands were
      pressed against opposite sides of his head with a force sufficient to
      crush it into pieces; it was to tear his mind from self-contemplation; to
      waste his thoughts on external objects.
    </p>
    <p>
      Speedily this train was broken. A beam appeared to be darted into his
      mind, which gave a purpose to his efforts. An avenue to escape presented
      itself; and now he eagerly gazed about him: when my thoughts became
      engaged by his demeanour, my fingers were stretched as by a mechanical
      force, and the knife, no longer heeded or of use, escaped from my grasp,
      and fell unperceived on the floor. His eye now lighted upon it; he seized
      it with the quickness of thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      I shrieked aloud, but it was too late. He plunged it to the hilt in his
      neck; and his life instantly escaped with the stream that gushed from the
      wound. He was stretched at my feet; and my hands were sprinkled with his
      blood as he fell.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was thy last deed, my brother! For a spectacle like this was it my
      fate to be reserved! Thy eyes were closed&mdash;thy face ghastly with
      death&mdash;thy arms, and the spot where thou liedest, floated in thy
      life's blood! These images have not, for a moment, forsaken me. Till I am
      breathless and cold, they must continue to hover in my sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carwin, as I said, had left the room, but he still lingered in the house.
      My voice summoned him to my aid; but I scarcely noticed his re-entrance,
      and now faintly recollect his terrified looks, his broken exclamations,
      his vehement avowals of innocence, the effusions of his pity for me, and
      his offers of assistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      I did not listen&mdash;I answered him not&mdash;I ceased to upbraid or
      accuse. His guilt was a point to which I was indifferent. Ruffian or
      devil, black as hell or bright as angels, thenceforth he was nothing to
      me. I was incapable of sparing a look or a thought from the ruin that was
      spread at my feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he left me, I was scarcely conscious of any variation in the scene.
      He informed the inhabitants of the hut of what had passed, and they flew
      to the spot. Careless of his own safety, he hasted to the city to inform
      my friends of my condition.
    </p>
    <p>
      My uncle speedily arrived at the house. The body of Wieland was removed
      from my presence, and they supposed that I would follow it; but no, my
      home is ascertained; here I have taken up my rest, and never will I go
      hence, till, like Wieland, I am borne to my grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      Importunity was tried in vain: they threatened to remove me by violence&mdash;nay,
      violence was used; but my soul prizes too dearly this little roof to
      endure to be bereaved of it. Force should not prevail when the hoary locks
      and supplicating tears of my uncle were ineffectual. My repugnance to move
      gave birth to ferociousness and phrenzy when force was employed, and they
      were obliged to consent to my return.
    </p>
    <p>
      They besought me&mdash;they remonstrated&mdash;they appealed to every duty
      that connected me with him that made me, and with my fellow-men&mdash;in
      vain. While I live I will not go hence. Have I not fulfilled my destiny?
    </p>
    <p>
      Why will ye torment me with your reasonings and reproofs? Can ye restore
      to me the hope of my better days? Can ye give me back Catharine and her
      babes? Can ye recall to life him who died at my feet?
    </p>
    <p>
      I will eat&mdash;I will drink&mdash;I will lie down and rise up at your
      bidding&mdash;all I ask is the choice of my abode. What is there
      unreasonable in this demand? Shortly will I be at peace. This is the spot
      which I have chosen in which to breathe my last sigh. Deny me not, I
      beseech you, so slight a boon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Talk not to me, O my revered friend! of Carwin. He has told thee his tale,
      and thou exculpatest him from all direct concern in the fate of Wieland.
      This scene of havock was produced by an illusion of the senses. Be it so:
      I care not from what source these disasters have flowed; it suffices that
      they have swallowed up our hopes and our existence.
    </p>
    <p>
      What his agency began, his agency conducted to a close. He intended, by
      the final effort of his power, to rescue me and to banish his illusions
      from my brother. Such is his tale, concerning the truth of which I care
      not. Henceforth I foster but one wish&mdash;I ask only quick deliverance
      from life and all the ills that attend it.&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Go wretch! torment me not with thy presence and thy prayers.&mdash;Forgive
      thee? Will that avail thee when thy fateful hour shall arrive? Be thou
      acquitted at thy own tribunal, and thou needest not fear the verdict of
      others. If thy guilt be capable of blacker hues, if hitherto thy
      conscience be without stain, thy crime will be made more flagrant by thus
      violating my retreat. Take thyself away from my sight if thou wouldest not
      behold my death!
    </p>
    <p>
      Thou are gone! murmuring and reluctant! And now my repose is coming&mdash;my
      work is done!
    </p>
    <p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      Chapter XXVII
    </h2>
    <p>
      [Written three years after the foregoing, and dated at Montpellier.]
    </p>
    <p>
      I imagined that I had forever laid aside the pen; and that I should take
      up my abode in this part of the world, was of all events the least
      probable. My destiny I believed to be accomplished, and I looked forward
      to a speedy termination of my life with the fullest confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Surely I had reason to be weary of existence, to be impatient of every tie
      which held me from the grave. I experienced this impatience in its fullest
      extent. I was not only enamoured of death, but conceived, from the
      condition of my frame, that to shun it was impossible, even though I had
      ardently desired it; yet here am I, a thousand leagues from my native
      soil, in full possession of life and of health, and not destitute of
      happiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such is man. Time will obliterate the deepest impressions. Grief the most
      vehement and hopeless, will gradually decay and wear itself out. Arguments
      may be employed in vain: every moral prescription may be ineffectually
      tried: remonstrances, however cogent or pathetic, shall have no power over
      the attention, or shall be repelled with disdain; yet, as day follows day,
      the turbulence of our emotions shall subside, and our fluctuations be
      finally succeeded by a calm.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps, however, the conquest of despair was chiefly owing to an accident
      which rendered my continuance in my own house impossible. At the
      conclusion of my long, and, as I then supposed, my last letter to you, I
      mentioned my resolution to wait for death in the very spot which had been
      the principal scene of my misfortunes. From this resolution my friends
      exerted themselves with the utmost zeal and perseverance to make me
      depart. They justly imagined that to be thus surrounded by memorials of
      the fate of my family, would tend to foster my disease. A swift succession
      of new objects, and the exclusion of every thing calculated to remind me
      of my loss, was the only method of cure.
    </p>
    <p>
      I refused to listen to their exhortations. Great as my calamity was, to be
      torn from this asylum was regarded by me as an aggravation of it. By a
      perverse constitution of mind, he was considered as my greatest enemy who
      sought to withdraw me from a scene which supplied eternal food to my
      melancholy, and kept my despair from languishing.
    </p>
    <p>
      In relating the history of these disasters I derived a similar species of
      gratification. My uncle earnestly dissuaded me from this task; but his
      remonstrances were as fruitless on this head as they had been on others.
      They would have withheld from me the implements of writing; but they
      quickly perceived that to withstand would be more injurious than to comply
      with my wishes. Having finished my tale, it seemed as if the scene were
      closing. A fever lurked in my veins, and my strength was gone. Any
      exertion, however slight, was attended with difficulty, and, at length, I
      refused to rise from my bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      I now see the infatuation and injustice of my conduct in its true colours.
      I reflect upon the sensations and reasonings of that period with wonder
      and humiliation. That I should be insensible to the claims and tears of my
      friends; that I should overlook the suggestions of duty, and fly from that
      post in which only I could be instrumental to the benefit of others; that
      the exercise of the social and beneficent affections, the contemplation of
      nature and the acquisition of wisdom should not be seen to be means of
      happiness still within my reach, is, at this time, scarcely credible.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is true that I am now changed; but I have not the consolation to
      reflect that my change was owing to my fortitude or to my capacity for
      instruction. Better thoughts grew up in my mind imperceptibly. I cannot
      but congratulate myself on the change, though, perhaps, it merely argues a
      fickleness of temper, and a defect of sensibility.
    </p>
    <p>
      After my narrative was ended I betook myself to my bed, in the full belief
      that my career in this world was on the point of finishing. My uncle took
      up his abode with me, and performed for me every office of nurse,
      physician and friend. One night, after some hours of restlessness and
      pain, I sunk into deep sleep. Its tranquillity, however, was of no long
      duration. My fancy became suddenly distempered, and my brain was turned
      into a theatre of uproar and confusion. It would not be easy to describe
      the wild and phantastical incongruities that pestered me. My uncle,
      Wieland, Pleyel and Carwin were successively and momently discerned amidst
      the storm. Sometimes I was swallowed up by whirlpools, or caught up in the
      air by half-seen and gigantic forms, and thrown upon pointed rocks, or
      cast among the billows. Sometimes gleams of light were shot into a dark
      abyss, on the verge of which I was standing, and enabled me to discover,
      for a moment, its enormous depth and hideous precipices. Anon, I was
      transported to some ridge of AEtna, and made a terrified spectator of its
      fiery torrents and its pillars of smoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      However strange it may seem, I was conscious, even during my dream, of my
      real situation. I knew myself to be asleep, and struggled to break the
      spell, by muscular exertions. These did not avail, and I continued to
      suffer these abortive creations till a loud voice, at my bed side, and
      some one shaking me with violence, put an end to my reverie. My eyes were
      unsealed, and I started from my pillow.
    </p>
    <p>
      My chamber was filled with smoke, which, though in some degree luminous,
      would permit me to see nothing, and by which I was nearly suffocated. The
      crackling of flames, and the deafening clamour of voices without, burst
      upon my ears. Stunned as I was by this hubbub, scorched with heat, and
      nearly choaked by the accumulating vapours, I was unable to think or act
      for my own preservation; I was incapable, indeed, of comprehending my
      danger.
    </p>
    <p>
      I was caught up, in an instant, by a pair of sinewy arms, borne to the
      window, and carried down a ladder which had been placed there. My uncle
      stood at the bottom and received me. I was not fully aware of my situation
      till I found myself sheltered in the HUT, and surrounded by its
      inhabitants.
    </p>
    <p>
      By neglect of the servant, some unextinguished embers had been placed in a
      barrel in the cellar of the building. The barrel had caught fire; this was
      communicated to the beams of the lower floor, and thence to the upper part
      of the structure. It was first discovered by some persons at a distance,
      who hastened to the spot and alarmed my uncle and the servants. The flames
      had already made considerable progress, and my condition was overlooked
      till my escape was rendered nearly impossible.
    </p>
    <p>
      My danger being known, and a ladder quickly procured, one of the
      spectators ascended to my chamber, and effected my deliverance in the
      manner before related.
    </p>
    <p>
      This incident, disastrous as it may at first seem, had, in reality, a
      beneficial effect upon my feelings. I was, in some degree, roused from the
      stupor which had seized my faculties. The monotonous and gloomy series of
      my thoughts was broken. My habitation was levelled with the ground, and I
      was obliged to seek a new one. A new train of images, disconnected with
      the fate of my family, forced itself on my attention, and a belief
      insensibly sprung up, that tranquillity, if not happiness, was still
      within my reach. Notwithstanding the shocks which my frame had endured,
      the anguish of my thoughts no sooner abated than I recovered my health.
    </p>
    <p>
      I now willingly listened to my uncle's solicitations to be the companion
      of his voyage. Preparations were easily made, and after a tedious passage,
      we set our feet on the shore of the ancient world. The memory of the past
      did not forsake me; but the melancholy which it generated, and the tears
      with which it filled my eyes, were not unprofitable. My curiosity was
      revived, and I contemplated, with ardour, the spectacle of living manners
      and the monuments of past ages.
    </p>
    <p>
      In proportion as my heart was reinstated in the possession of its ancient
      tranquillity, the sentiment which I had cherished with regard to Pleyel
      returned. In a short time he was united to the Saxon woman, and made his
      residence in the neighbourhood of Boston. I was glad that circumstances
      would not permit an interview to take place between us. I could not desire
      their misery; but I reaped no pleasure from reflecting on their happiness.
      Time, and the exertions of my fortitude, cured me, in some degree, of this
      folly. I continued to love him, but my passion was disguised to myself; I
      considered it merely as a more tender species of friendship, and cherished
      it without compunction.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through my uncle's exertions a meeting was brought about between Carwin
      and Pleyel, and explanations took place which restored me at once to the
      good opinion of the latter. Though separated so widely our correspondence
      was punctual and frequent, and paved the way for that union which can only
      end with the death of one of us.
    </p>
    <p>
      In my letters to him I made no secret of my former sentiments. This was a
      theme on which I could talk without painful, though not without delicate
      emotions. That knowledge which I should never have imparted to a lover, I
      felt little scruple to communicate to a friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      A year and an half elapsed when Theresa was snatched from him by death, in
      the hour in which she gave him the first pledge of their mutual affection.
      This event was borne by him with his customary fortitude. It induced him,
      however, to make a change in his plans. He disposed of his property in
      America, and joined my uncle and me, who had terminated the wanderings of
      two years at Montpellier, which will henceforth, I believe, be our
      permanent abode.
    </p>
    <p>
      If you reflect upon that entire confidence which had subsisted from our
      infancy between Pleyel and myself; on the passion that I had contracted,
      and which was merely smothered for a time; and on the esteem which was
      mutual, you will not, perhaps, be surprized that the renovation of our
      intercourse should give birth to that union which at present subsists.
      When the period had elapsed necessary to weaken the remembrance of
      Theresa, to whom he had been bound by ties more of honor than of love, he
      tendered his affections to me. I need not add that the tender was eagerly
      accepted.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps you are somewhat interested in the fate of Carwin. He saw, when
      too late, the danger of imposture. So much affected was he by the
      catastrophe to which he was a witness, that he laid aside all regard to
      his own safety. He sought my uncle, and confided to him the tale which he
      had just related to me. He found a more impartial and indulgent auditor in
      Mr. Cambridge, who imputed to maniacal illusion the conduct of Wieland,
      though he conceived the previous and unseen agency of Carwin, to have
      indirectly but powerfully predisposed to this deplorable perversion of
      mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was easy for Carwin to elude the persecutions of Ludloe. It was merely
      requisite to hide himself in a remote district of Pennsylvania. This, when
      he parted from us, he determined to do. He is now probably engaged in the
      harmless pursuits of agriculture, and may come to think, without
      insupportable remorse, on the evils to which his fatal talents have given
      birth. The innocence and usefulness of his future life may, in some
      degree, atone for the miseries so rashly or so thoughtlessly inflicted.
    </p>
    <p>
      More urgent considerations hindered me from mentioning, in the course of
      my former mournful recital, any particulars respecting the unfortunate
      father of Louisa Conway. That man surely was reserved to be a monument of
      capricious fortune. His southern journies being finished, he returned to
      Philadelphia. Before he reached the city he left the highway, and alighted
      at my brother's door. Contrary to his expectation, no one came forth to
      welcome him, or hail his approach. He attempted to enter the house, but
      bolted doors, barred windows, and a silence broken only by unanswered
      calls, shewed him that the mansion was deserted.
    </p>
    <p>
      He proceeded thence to my habitation, which he found, in like manner,
      gloomy and tenantless. His surprize may be easily conceived. The rustics
      who occupied the hut told him an imperfect and incredible tale. He hasted
      to the city, and extorted from Mrs. Baynton a full disclosure of late
      disasters.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was inured to adversity, and recovered, after no long time, from the
      shocks produced by this disappointment of his darling scheme. Our
      intercourse did not terminate with his departure from America. We have
      since met with him in France, and light has at length been thrown upon the
      motives which occasioned the disappearance of his wife, in the manner
      which I formerly related to you.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have dwelt upon the ardour of their conjugal attachment, and mentioned
      that no suspicion had ever glanced upon her purity. This, though the
      belief was long cherished, recent discoveries have shewn to be
      questionable. No doubt her integrity would have survived to the present
      moment, if an extraordinary fate had not befallen her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Major Stuart had been engaged, while in Germany, in a contest of honor
      with an Aid de Camp of the Marquis of Granby. His adversary had propagated
      a rumour injurious to his character. A challenge was sent; a meeting
      ensued; and Stuart wounded and disarmed the calumniator. The offence was
      atoned for, and his life secured by suitable concessions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Maxwell, that was his name, shortly after, in consequence of succeeding to
      a rich inheritance, sold his commission and returned to London. His
      fortune was speedily augmented by an opulent marriage. Interest was his
      sole inducement to this marriage, though the lady had been swayed by a
      credulous affection. The true state of his heart was quickly discovered,
      and a separation, by mutual consent, took place. The lady withdrew to an
      estate in a distant county, and Maxwell continued to consume his time and
      fortune in the dissipation of the capital.
    </p>
    <p>
      Maxwell, though deceitful and sensual, possessed great force of mind and
      specious accomplishments. He contrived to mislead the generous mind of
      Stuart, and to regain the esteem which his misconduct, for a time, had
      forfeited. He was recommended by her husband to the confidence of Mrs.
      Stuart. Maxwell was stimulated by revenge, and by a lawless passion, to
      convert this confidence into a source of guilt.
    </p>
    <p>
      The education and capacity of this woman, the worth of her husband, the
      pledge of their alliance which time had produced, her maturity in age and
      knowledge of the world&mdash;all combined to render this attempt hopeless.
      Maxwell, however, was not easily discouraged. The most perfect being, he
      believed, must owe his exemption from vice to the absence of temptation.
      The impulses of love are so subtile, and the influence of false reasoning,
      when enforced by eloquence and passion, so unbounded, that no human virtue
      is secure from degeneracy. All arts being tried, every temptation being
      summoned to his aid, dissimulation being carried to its utmost bound,
      Maxwell, at length, nearly accomplished his purpose. The lady's affections
      were withdrawn from her husband and transferred to him. She could not, as
      yet, be reconciled to dishonor. All efforts to induce her to elope with
      him were ineffectual. She permitted herself to love, and to avow her love;
      but at this limit she stopped, and was immoveable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hence this revolution in her sentiments was productive only of despair.
      Her rectitude of principle preserved her from actual guilt, but could not
      restore to her her ancient affection, or save her from being the prey of
      remorseful and impracticable wishes. Her husband's absence produced a
      state of suspense. This, however, approached to a period, and she received
      tidings of his intended return. Maxwell, being likewise apprized of this
      event, and having made a last and unsuccessful effort to conquer her
      reluctance to accompany him in a journey to Italy, whither he pretended an
      invincible necessity of going, left her to pursue the measures which
      despair might suggest. At the same time she received a letter from the
      wife of Maxwell, unveiling the true character of this man, and revealing
      facts which the artifices of her seducer had hitherto concealed from her.
      Mrs. Maxwell had been prompted to this disclosure by a knowledge of her
      husband's practices, with which his own impetuosity had made her
      acquainted.
    </p>
    <p>
      This discovery, joined to the delicacy of her scruples and the anguish of
      remorse, induced her to abscond. This scheme was adopted in haste, but
      effected with consummate prudence. She fled, on the eve of her husband's
      arrival, in the disguise of a boy, and embarked at Falmouth in a packet
      bound for America.
    </p>
    <p>
      The history of her disastrous intercourse with Maxwell, the motives
      inducing her to forsake her country, and the measures she had taken to
      effect her design, were related to Mrs. Maxwell, in reply to her
      communication. Between these women an ancient intimacy and considerable
      similitude of character subsisted. This disclosure was accompanied with
      solemn injunctions of secrecy, and these injunctions were, for a long
      time, faithfully observed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Maxwell's abode was situated on the banks of the Wey. Stuart was her
      kinsman; their youth had been spent together; and Maxwell was in some
      degree indebted to the man whom he betrayed, for his alliance with this
      unfortunate lady. Her esteem for the character of Stuart had never been
      diminished. A meeting between them was occasioned by a tour which the
      latter had undertaken, in the year after his return from America, to Wales
      and the western counties. This interview produced pleasure and regret in
      each. Their own transactions naturally became the topics of their
      conversation; and the untimely fate of his wife and daughter were related
      by the guest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Maxwell's regard for her friend, as well as for the safety of her
      husband, persuaded her to concealment; but the former being dead, and the
      latter being out of the kingdom, she ventured to produce Mrs. Stuart's
      letter, and to communicate her own knowledge of the treachery of Maxwell.
      She had previously extorted from her guest a promise not to pursue any
      scheme of vengeance; but this promise was made while ignorant of the full
      extent of Maxwell's depravity, and his passion refused to adhere to it.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this time my uncle and I resided at Avignon. Among the English resident
      there, and with whom we maintained a social intercourse, was Maxwell. This
      man's talents and address rendered him a favorite both with my uncle and
      myself. He had even tendered me his hand in marriage; but this being
      refused, he had sought and obtained permission to continue with us the
      intercourse of friendship. Since a legal marriage was impossible, no
      doubt, his views were flagitious. Whether he had relinquished these views
      I was unable to judge.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was one in a large circle at a villa in the environs, to which I had
      likewise been invited, when Stuart abruptly entered the apartment. He was
      recognized with genuine satisfaction by me, and with seeming pleasure by
      Maxwell. In a short time, some affair of moment being pleaded, which
      required an immediate and exclusive interview, Maxwell and he withdrew
      together. Stuart and my uncle had been known to each other in the German
      army; and the purpose contemplated by the former in this long and hasty
      journey, was confided to his old friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      A defiance was given and received, and the banks of a rivulet, about a
      league from the city, was selected as the scene of this contest. My uncle,
      having exerted himself in vain to prevent an hostile meeting, consented to
      attend them as a surgeon.&mdash;Next morning, at sun-rise, was the time
      chosen.
    </p>
    <p>
      I returned early in the evening to my lodgings. Preliminaries being
      settled between the combatants, Stuart had consented to spend the evening
      with us, and did not retire till late. On the way to his hotel he was
      exposed to no molestation, but just as he stepped within the portico, a
      swarthy and malignant figure started from behind a column. and plunged a
      stiletto into his body.
    </p>
    <p>
      The author of this treason could not certainly be discovered; but the
      details communicated by Stuart, respecting the history of Maxwell,
      naturally pointed him out as an object of suspicion. No one expressed more
      concern, on account of this disaster, than he; and he pretended an ardent
      zeal to vindicate his character from the aspersions that were cast upon
      it. Thenceforth, however, I denied myself to his visits; and shortly after
      he disappeared from this scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      Few possessed more estimable qualities, and a better title to happiness
      and the tranquil honors of long life, than the mother and father of Louisa
      Conway: yet they were cut off in the bloom of their days; and their
      destiny was thus accomplished by the same hand. Maxwell was the instrument
      of their destruction, though the instrument was applied to this end in so
      different a manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      I leave you to moralize on this tale. That virtue should become the victim
      of treachery is, no doubt, a mournful consideration; but it will not
      escape your notice, that the evils of which Carwin and Maxwell were the
      authors, owed their existence to the errors of the sufferers. All efforts
      would have been ineffectual to subvert the happiness or shorten the
      existence of the Stuarts, if their own frailty had not seconded these
      efforts. If the lady had crushed her disastrous passion in the bud, and
      driven the seducer from her presence, when the tendency of his artifices
      was seen; if Stuart had not admitted the spirit of absurd revenge, we
      should not have had to deplore this catastrophe. If Wieland had framed
      juster notions of moral duty, and of the divine attributes; or if I had
      been gifted with ordinary equanimity or foresight, the double-tongued
      deceiver would have been baffled and repelled.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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