WIELAND

Introduction to "Wieland's Madness," from "Wieland, or The
Transformation."


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.


"WIELAND" is the first American novel.  It appeared in 1798; its author
was soon recognized as the earliest American novelist; and he remained
the greatest, until Fenimore Cooper brought forth his Leather-stocking
Tales, a quarter of a century later.

Although modern sophistication easily points out flaws in Charles
Brockden Brown's story-structure, and reproves him for improbability,
morbidness, and a style often too elevated, yet his work lives.  His
downright originality is worthy of Cooper himself, and his weird
imaginations and horribly sustained scenes of terror have been surpassed
by few writers save Edgar Allan Poe.



Charles Brockden Brown


FIRST PART

I

Wieland's Madness


[As the story opens, the narratress, Clara Wieland, is entering upon the
happy realization of her love for Henry Pleyel, closest friend of her
brother "Wieland."

Their woodland home, Mettingen, on the banks of the then remote
Schuylkill, is the abode of music, letters and thorough culture. The
peace of high thinking and simple outdoor life hovers over all.]


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 awkward.  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 gray cloth, cut and wrought, as it seemed, by a country
tailor, blue worsted stockings, and shoes fastened by thongs and deeply
discolored by dust, which brush had never disturbed, constituted his
dress.

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.

He passed slowly along, frequently pausing, as if to examine the
prospect more deliberately, but never turning his eye toward 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.

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 plow 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.

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, "Prythee, 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 a 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.

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 a heart
of stone could not fail of being moved by it.  It imparted to me an
emotion altogether involuntary and uncontrollable.  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.

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.

It will be readily supposed that I was somewhat inquisitive as to the
person and demeanor of our visitant.  After a moment's pause, I stepped
to the door and looked after him.  Judge my surprise when I beheld the
selfsame figure that had appeared a 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.

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 showed
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.

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
discolored 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.

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 proposed 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.

I placed it at all distances and in all lights; my eyes were riveted
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!

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.

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 passed 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 forever 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!

For some time I indulged myself, without reluctance, in these gloomy
thoughts; but at length the delection which they produced became
insupportably painful.  I endeavored to dissipate it with music.  I had
all my grandfather'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 portrayed only suggested to my thoughts a new topic
in the horrors of war.

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 everyone 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.

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 bedside.
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.

Full of this persuasion, I called, "Judith, is it you?  What do you
want?  Is there anything 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.

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 staircase.  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
comprised a kitchen, and chamber above it for the servant, and
communicated on both stories with the parlor 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.

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 showed me that the sounds issued from within
the closet, the door of which was not more than eight inches from my
pillow.

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 show 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:--

"Stop! stop, I say, madman as you are! there are better means than that.
Curse upon your rashness!  There is no need to shoot."

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,
downstairs, 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.

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
everything 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.

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.

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 succor one that
is dying at your door!"

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!

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.


II


I will 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 showed
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.

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.

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 odors of the cedars which
embowered it, and of the honeysuckle which clustered among the lattices,
rendered this my favorite retreat in summer.

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 gulf.  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!"

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 panic was succeeded by the perturbations of
surprise 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.

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."

I started, and exclaimed, "Good heavens! what is that?  Who are you?"

"A friend; one come not to injure but to save you: fear nothing."

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."

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 starlight 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.

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.

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.  I shuddered as if I had beheld suspended over me the
exterminating sword.

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 lantern which he bore, ascended the
hill.

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 sunset 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 neighborhood 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.

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
endeavored 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.

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 surprised 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
incontestably assured of the veracity of my senses.

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 harboring such atrocious purposes?

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?

I am not destitute of courage.  I have shown 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?

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
everywhere equally defenseless.  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!

Here I had remained for the last four or five hours, without the means
of resistance or defense; 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?

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 authorized 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.

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?

In answer to my inquiries, he informed me that, three years before, he
was a traveler 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 site of
the theater of old Saguntum, he alighted 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.

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.

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 neighboring countries.

His character excited considerable curiosity in the 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.

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.

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 waived 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.

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?

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?

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 immovable and lofty station and cast upon a sea of
troubles.

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 endeavor
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.


III


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.

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.

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.

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 modeled his
behavior 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.

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 choose
us for their companions.  This state of things was more slow to arrive
at on this occasion than on most others, on account of the gravity and
loftiness of this man's behavior.

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.

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.

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.

He spoke as if desirous of showing 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 anything 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.

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 pretense 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.

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 anyone
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.

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.

He heard them with seriousness, and without any marks either of surprise
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.

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
marvelous, contained no instance sufficiently parallel to those that had
befallen ourselves, and in which the solution was applicable to our own
case.

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 a 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 mold his belief, but
merely to give birth to doubts.

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 a higher order he would believe
only when his own ears were assailed in a manner which could not be
otherwise accounted for.  Civility forbade 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 were not really
uttered by human organs.  On this supposition he was desired to explain
how the effect was produced.

He answered that the cry for help, heard in the hall on the night of my
adventure, was to be ascribed to a 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.

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.

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.

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.

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, molded 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?

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.

That unhappiness, indeed, depended for its value in my eyes on the cause
that produced it.  There was but one source whence it could flow.  A
nameless ecstasy thrilled through my frame when any new proof occurred
that the ambiguousness of my behavior was the cause.


IV


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 portrayed 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.

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?

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!

This afternoon we shall meet. . . .  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 steadfast, 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.

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 impossible that he mistook the impetuosities of love for the
eloquence of indignation?

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!

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 harbor.

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.

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.

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 stayed because his coming would afford
him no gratification.  But why should we expect him to adhere to the
minute?

A 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 indispensable 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.

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.

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!

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."

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.

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.

The hateful and degrading impulses which had lately controlled me were,
in some degree, removed.  New dejection succeeded, but was now produced
by contemplating my late behavior.  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?

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 showed 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 controlled me.

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 New 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 apprised 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.

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.

The state of my mind naturally introduced a train of reflections upon
the dangers and cares which inevitably beset a 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 relic 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 style 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.

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.

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 defenseless.  The wind was in that direction
in which, aided by the deathlike repose of nature, it brought to me the
murmur of the waterfall.  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 faltered, and I stood a moment to recover myself.

I prevailed on myself at length to move toward 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 the 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?

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.  A 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. Oh,
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 fibers of my brain and rack every joint with agony.

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.

"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.

Shuddering, I dashed myself against the wall, and, by the same
involuntary impulse, turned my face backward to examine the mysterious
monitor.  The moonlight streamed into each window, and every corner of
the room was conspicuous, and yet I beheld nothing!

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.

I cannot describe the state of my thoughts at that moment. Surprise had
mastered my faculties.  My frame shook, and the vital current was
congealed.  I was conscious only of 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.

Solitude imposes least restraint upon the fancy.  Dark is less fertile
of images than the feeble luster of the moon.  I was alone, and the
walls were checkered 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.

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.

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?

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 against me was Wieland's?

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 frenzy 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 irresistibly 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 faltering.

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.

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 a 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 endeavored no longer to withdraw the door?

Have I not said that my actions were dictated by frenzy?  My reason had
forborne, for a time, to suggest or to sway my resolves.  I reiterated
my endeavors.  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.

A casual observer might, perhaps, applaud the audaciousness of this
conduct.  Whence, but from a 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.

Now I had arrived at the crisis of my fate.  "Oh, 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."

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.

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.

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 succor was remote.  He had placed himself between me and
the door.  My frame shook with the vehemence of my apprehensions.

Yet I was not wholly lost to myself; I vigilantly marked his demeanor.
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:--

"What voice was that which lately addressed you?"

He paused for an answer; but, observing my trepidation, he resumed, with
undiminished solemnity, "Be not terrified.  Whoever he was, he has 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.

"You knew that Carwin was there.  Were you not apprised 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 succor like this at hand
you may safely defy me.

"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."

He looked at me with greater steadfastness 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:--

"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 worshiped; I will do nothing to pollute it." There he
stopped.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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:--

"Fear me not: the space that severs us is small, and all visible succor
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 would it 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 harbor 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."

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.

"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."

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 moonlight 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.


V


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.

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 defense.  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 breathings 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?

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?

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!

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 counter-work the machinations of this man, who had
menaced destruction to all that is dear to me, and whose coming 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 apprised 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 entreaty to refrain from
opening the closet?  By what inexplicable infatuation was I compelled to
proceed?

"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."

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 defense.  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.

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?

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 defense 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.

I have lost all faith in the steadfastness 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 defense.

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 toward 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.

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 surprise?  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.  A 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.

I no sooner perceived this than I moved swiftly toward 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.

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.

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 behooved 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?

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?

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!

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
enterprise 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.

The object that first attracted my attention was a 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.

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
reenter.  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.

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 ajar.  I shut it with
trembling eagerness, and drew every bolt that appended to it.  I then
passed with light and less cautious steps through the parlor, but was
surprised to discover that the kitchen door was secure.  I was compelled
to acquiesce in the first conjecture that Carwin had escaped through the
entry.

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 moonlight 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.

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 endeavored 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.

Perhaps, relieved by this effusion, the slumber so much wanted might
have stolen on my senses, had there been no new cause of alarm.


VI


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.

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.

"It is I.  Have you risen?  If you have not, make haste; I want three
minutes' conversation with you in the parlor.  I will wait for you
there."  Saying this, he retired from the door.

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.

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.

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.

Presently be raised his eyes and fixed them upon me.  I read in them an
anguish altogether ineffable.  Never had I witnessed a like demeanor in
Pleyel.  Never, indeed, had I observed a 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.

My impatience would not allow me to be longer silent.  "What," said I,
"for heaven's sake, my friend,--what is the matter?"

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:--

"The matter!  O wretch!--thus exquisitely fashioned,--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,--so unheard of!"

His words were again choked by emotion.  Grief and pity were again
mingled in his features.  He resumed, in a tone half suffocated by
sobs:--

"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.

"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
detestable conviction be imparted.

"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 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.  Oh, foul and
insupportable disgrace!

"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 dangers; 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.

"And wilt thou not stay behind?  But shame upon my weakness!  I know not
what I would say.  I have done what I purposed.  To stay longer, to
expostulate, to beseech, to enumerate the consequences of thy act,--what
end can it serve but to blazon thy infamy and embitter our woes?  And
yet, oh, think--think ere it be too late-- on the distresses which thy
flight will entail upon us; on the base, groveling, 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?  Oh, most specious and most profligate of women!"

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!

What I had heard was surely the dictate of frenzy, 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.

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?

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.

These thoughts gradually gave place to others.  Pleyel was possessed by
some momentary frenzy; 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.

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.  Surprise 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.

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?  Wrapped 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.

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.

"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."

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 clew by
which to trace his footsteps.

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.

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.

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.

"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 behavior 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?"

My brother's countenance testified no surprise at my address.  The
benignity of his looks was nowise diminished.

"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."

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 harbor for a moment the belief
of my guilt?"

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 pretense to acquit you who is ready to question his own
senses when they plead against you."

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 pretense for his conduct, but believed that your more
unbiased 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 anything in his story inconsistent with mine,
his story is false."

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."

"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 marvelous; 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."

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?"

He replied, "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."

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.



SECOND PART


I


[As this part opens, the unhappy Clara is describing her hurried return
to the same ill-fated abode at Mettingen.  Hence kind friends had borne
her after the catastrophe of her brother Wieland's "transformation."
This was the crowning horror of all: the morbid fanatic, prepared by
gloomy anticipations of some terrible sacrifice to be demanded in the
name of religion, had found himself goaded to blind fury, by a
mysterious compelling voice, to yield up to God the lives of his beloved
wife and family; and had done the awful deed!

Though chained in his madhouse, he persists in his delusion; insists
that it still remains for him to sacrifice his sister Clara; and twice
breaks away in wild efforts to find and destroy her.]


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.

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.

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.

Here it was that the incomprehensible behavior of Carwin was witnessed;
this the stage on which that enemy of man showed himself for a moment
unmasked.  Here the menaces of murder were wafted to my ear; and here
these menaces were executed.

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 punish this betrayer, and accused its providence for
having thus long delayed the retribution that was due to so enormous a
guilt.

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 keyhole.  A kind of twilight was thus created, sufficient
for the purposes of vision, but, at the same time, involving all minuter
objects in obscurity.

This darkness suited the color 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?"

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.

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.

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.

My teeth chattered, and a wild confusion took the 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?

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.

Oh that this grateful oblivion had lasted forever!  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.

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.

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.

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, "Oh, fly!--fly far and forever!--I cannot behold you
and live!"

He did not rise upon his feet, but clasped his hands, and said, in a
tone of deprecation, "I will fly.  I am become a fiend, the sight of
whom destroys.  Yet tell me my offense!  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."

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.

He lifted his eyes:--"Great heaven! what have I done?  I think I know
the extent of my offenses.  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."

"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 intellect 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?"

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!"

What should I infer from this deportment?  Was the ignorance which these
words implied real or pretended?  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.

"Alas!" said I, "I have no one to accuse.  Leave me to my fate. Fly from
a scene stained with cruelty, devoted to despair."

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?"

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."

"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!"

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 image which I had heard
and seen, then was he the prompter of my brother, and the author of
these dismal outrages.

Once more I averted my eyes and struggled for speech:--"Begone! thou man
of mischief!  Remorseless and implacable miscreant, begone!"

"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 terrors; to set you beyond the
reach of similar fears; to rebuild your fame as far as I am able.

"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."

"What!" I replied; "was not thine the voice that commanded my brother to
imbrue his hands in the blood of his children?--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?"

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:--

"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.

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:--

"You are not apprised of the existence of a power which I possess. I
know not by what name to call it.[1]  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.

"I know not that everyone possesses this power.  Perhaps, though a
casual position of my organs in my youth showed 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."


[1] 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 extension 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 shows 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.



THIRD PART


I


[After Carwin's confession of his powers of ventriloquism all the
mysteries are cleared up--save one.  The owner of the voice heard in
Clara's chamber, on the first night after the wanderer appeared at
Mettingen; the threatener on the edge of the precipice; the spy in
Clara's closet, and would-be intruder; the manipulator of the vile plot
that destroyed her lover's confidence--all these hidden identities have
materialized in the person of this one unhappy man. But while confessing
the prying disposition which led to these sins, in efforts to protect
himself from discovery, Carwin still denies that Wieland's mad acts were
perpetrated at his instigation.]


"I have uttered the truth.  This is the extent of my offenses.  You tell
me a 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."

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."

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.

He owns that his were the voice and face which I heard and saw.  He
attempts to give a 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!

Such were my thoughts when his pause allowed me to think.  I should have
bade 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 rancor.  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.

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.

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.

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.

He advanced with a 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!

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.

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!"

He stood for a minute as if listening; but, recovering from his
attitude, he continued, "It is not needed.  Dastardly wretch! thus
eternally questioning the behests of thy Maker! weak in resolution,
wayward in faith!"

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."

These words were a sufficient explication of the scene.  The nature of
his frenzy, 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
indescribable repugnance.

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 imbrued in my
blood.  I firmly believed that Carwin's was the instigation.  I could
rescue myself 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:--

"Oh, 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."

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.

"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--the voice--at the bottom of these stairs--at the hour of
eleven--to whom did they belong?  To thee?"

Twice did Carwin attempt to speak, but his words died away upon his
lips.  My brother resumed, in a tone of greater vehemence:--

"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?"

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 act to have
proceeded not from a heavenly prompter, but from human treachery!  Will
not his rage mount into whirlwind?  Will not he tear limb from limb this
devoted wretch?

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.

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.

"What art thou?" he resumed, addressing himself to Carwin.  "Answer me:
whose form--whose voice,--was it thy contrivance?  Answer me."

The answer was now given, but confusedly and scarcely articulated. "I
meant nothing--I intended no ill--if I understand--if I do not mistake
you--it is too true--I did appear--in the entry--did speak. The
contrivance was mine, but--"

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.

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:--

"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."

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 control.  Begone!"

Carwin, irresolute, striving in vain for utterance, his complexion
pallid as death, his knees beating one against another, slowly obeyed
the mandate and withdrew.


II


A few words more and I lay aside the pen forever.  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.

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.

Now that I was left alone with Wieland, the perils of my situation
presented themselves to my mind.  That this paroxysm should terminate in
havoc and rage it was reasonable to predict.  The first suggestion of my
fears had been disproved by my experience. Carwin had acknowledged his
offenses, and yet had escaped.  The vengeance which I had harbored 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; but my brother was unmoved, and had dismissed him
in safety.  Surely thou wast more than man, while I am sunk below the
beasts.

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.

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.

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.

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.  It was 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.

Can I bear to think--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?

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 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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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:--

"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?"

I could make no answer.  The mildness of his tone astonished and
encouraged me.  I continued to regard him with wistful and anxious
looks.

"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."

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 toward 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.

"Thou angel whom I was wont to worship! fearest thou, my sister, for thy
life?  Once it was the scope of my labors 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!

"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!"

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.

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 anyone could be steadfast and wise.

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?"

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.

"I thank thee, my God, for this last illumination!  My enemy is thine
also.  I deemed him to be a 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."

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 luster. These symptoms
did not abate, and he continued:--

"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.

"I was indeed deceived.  The form thou hast seen was the incarnation of
a demon.  The visage and voice which urged me to the sacrifice of my
family were his.  Now he personates a human form; then he was environed
with the luster of heaven.

"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.

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.

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!

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-defense I was incapable.  The frenzy that lately
prompted me to blood was gone: my state was desperate; my rescue was
impossible.

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:--

"Spare me, my brother!  Look down, righteous Judge! snatch me from this
fate! take away this fury from him, or turn it elsewhere! "

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 steadfast
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 forever
this passion for blood!

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 insufficiency
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,--

"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!

"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!

"Wilt thou then go?--leave me!  Succorless!"

Carwin listened to my entreaties 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 past; 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.

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.

Even now I hesitated to strike.  I shrunk from his assault, but in vain.

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?--Hurry to the verge of the precipice, and cast myself
forever beyond remembrance and beyond hope?

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!

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 gulf before me is inevitable and near.
I will die, but then only when my tale is at an end.


III


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--Wieland shrunk back; his hand was withdrawn. Breathless with
affright and desperation, I stood, freed from his grasp; unassailed;
untouched.

Thus long had the power which controlled 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--TO HOLD!

Trouble and dismay succeeded to the steadfastness 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.

Carwin's agency was here easily recognized.  I had besought him to
interpose in my defense.  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.

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?

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.

Silence took place for a moment: so much as allowed the attention to
recover its post.  Then new sounds were uttered from above:--

"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
frenzy, and ascend into rational and human.  Be lunatic no longer."

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.

To these interrogatories the voice, which now seemed to hover at his
shoulder, loudly answered in the affirmative.  Then uninterrupted
silence ensued.

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,--a loss for which he was indebted to his own
misguided hand,--Wieland was transformed at once into the MAN OF
SORROWS!

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.

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.

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
convulsions.  His lips moved, but no sound escaped him.

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 thoughts.  My heart was visited and rent by his pangs.
"Oh that thy frenzy 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!

"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 parricide and savage!  Can
I wish for the continuance of thy being? No."

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.

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 demeanor, 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.

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.

Such was thy last deed, my brother!  For a spectacle like this was it my
fate to be reserved!  Thy eyes were closed--thy face ghastly with
death--thy arms, and the spot where thou lyedst, 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.

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
reentrance, 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.

I did not listen--I answered him not--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.

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.

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.

Importunity was tried in vain.  They threatened to remove me by
violence,--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
frenzy when force was employed, and they were obliged to consent to my
return.

They besought me--they remonstrated--they appealed to every duty that
connected me with Him that made me and with my fellow-men--in vain.
While I live I will not go hence.  Have I not fulfilled my destiny?

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?

I will eat--I will drink--I will lie down and rise up--at your bidding;
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.

Talk not to me, O my reverend 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 havoc 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.

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: I ask only quick deliverance
from life and all the ills that attend it.

Go, wretch! torment me not with thy presence and thy prayers.-- 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
wouldst not behold my death!

Thou art gone! murmuring and reluctant!  And now my repose is coming--my
work is done!