Edgar Huntly; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker Read online

  Chapter XXVI.

  Here ended the tale of Sarsefield. Humiliation and joy were mingled inmy heart. The events that preceded my awakening in the cave were nowluminous and plain. What explication was more obvious? What but thissolution ought to have been suggested by the conduct I had witnessed inClithero?

  Clithero? Was not this the man whom Clithero had robbed of his friend?Was not this the lover of Mrs. Lorimer, the object of the persecutionsof Wiatte? Was it not now given me to investigate the truth of thatstupendous tale? To dissipate the doubts which obstinately clung to myimagination respecting it?

  But soft! Had not Sarsefield said that he was married? Was Mrs. Lorimerso speedily forgotten by him, or was the narrative of Clithero the webof imposture or the raving of insanity?

  These new ideas banished all personal considerations from my mind. Ilooked eagerly into the face of my friend, and exclaimed, in a dubiousaccent, "How say you? Married? When? To whom?"

  "Yes, Huntly, I am wedded to the most excellent of women. To her am Iindebted for happiness, and wealth, and dignity, and honour. To her do Iowe the power of being the benefactor and protector of you and yoursisters. She longs to embrace you as a son. To become truly her son willdepend upon your own choice, and that of one who was the companion ofour voyage."

  "Heavens!" cried I, in a transport of exultation and astonishment. "Ofwhom do you speak? Of the mother of Clarice? The sister of Wiatte? Thesister of the ruffian who laid snares for her life? Who pursued you andthe unhappy Clithero with the bitterest animosity?"

  My friend started at these sounds as if the earth had yawned at hisfeet. His countenance was equally significant of terror and rage. Assoon as he regained the power of utterance, he spoke:--"Clithero! Curseslight upon thy lips for having uttered that detested name! Thousands ofmiles have I flown to shun the hearing of it. Is the madman here? Haveyou set eyes upon him? Does he yet crawl upon the face of the earth?Unhappy? Unparalleled, unheard-of, thankless miscreant! Has he told hisexecrable falsehoods here? Has he dared to utter names so sacred asthose of Euphemia Lorimer and Clarice?"

  "He has; he has told a tale that had all the appearances of truth----"

  "Out upon the villain! The truth! Truth would prove him to be unnatural,devilish; a thing for which no language has yet provided a name! He hascalled himself unhappy? No doubt, a victim to injustice! Overtaken byunmerited calamity. Say! Has he fooled thee with such tales?"

  "No. His tale was a catalogue of crimes and miseries of which he was theauthor and sufferer. You know not his motives, his horrors------"

  "His deeds were monstrous and infernal. His motives were sordid andflagitious. To display all their ugliness and infamy was not hisprovince. No; he did not tell you that he stole at midnight to thechamber of his mistress; a woman who astonished the world by herloftiness and magnanimity, by indefatigable beneficence and unswervingequity; who had lavished on this wretch, whom she snatched from thedirt, all the goods of fortune, all the benefits of education; all thetreasures of love; every provocation to gratitude; every stimulant tojustice.

  "He did not tell you that, in recompense for every benefit, he stoleupon her sleep and aimed a dagger at her breast. There was no room forflight, or ambiguity, or prevarication. She whom he meant to murderstood near, saw the lifted weapon, and heard him confess and glory inhis purposes.

  "No wonder that the shock bereft her, for a time, of life. The intervalwas seized by the ruffian to effect his escape. The rebukes of justicewere shunned by a wretch conscious of his inexpiable guilt. These thingshe has hidden from you, and has supplied their place by a tale speciousas false."

  "No. Among the number of his crimes, hypocrisy is not to be numbered.These things are already known to me: he spared himself too little inthe narrative. The excellencies of his lady, her claims to gratitude andveneration, were urged beyond their true bounds. His attempts upon herlife were related. It is true that he desired and endeavoured to destroyher."

  "How? Has he told you this?"

  "He has told me all. Alas! the criminal intention has been amplyexpiated."

  "What mean you? Whence and how came he hither? Where is he now? I willnot occupy the same land, the same world, with him. Have this woman andher daughter lighted on the shore haunted by this infernal andimplacable enemy?"

  "Alas! It is doubtful whether he exists. If he lives, he is no longer tobe feared; but he lives not. Famine and remorse have utterly consumedhim."

  "Famine? Remorse? You talk in riddles."

  "He has immured himself in the desert. He has abjured the intercourse ofmankind. He has shut himself in caverns where famine must inevitablyexpedite that death for which he longs as the only solace of his woes.To no imagination are his offences blacker and more odious than to hisown. I had hopes of rescuing him from this fate, but my own infirmitiesand errors have afforded me sufficient occupation."

  Sarsefield renewed his imprecations on the memory of that unfortunateman, and his inquiries as to the circumstances that led him into thisremote district. His inquiries were not to be answered by one in mypresent condition. My languors and fatigues had now gained a pitch thatwas insupportable. The wound in my face had been chafed and inflamed bythe cold water and the bleak air; and the pain attending it would nolonger suffer my attention to stray. I sunk upon the floor, andentreated him to afford me the respite of a few hours' repose.

  He was sensible of the deplorableness of my condition, and chid himselffor the negligence of which he had already been guilty. He lifted me tothe bed, and deliberated on the mode he should pursue for my relief.Some mollifying application to my wound was immediately necessary; but,in our present lonely condition, it was not at hand. It could only beprocured from a distance. It was proper therefore to hasten to thenearest inhabited dwelling, which belonged to one by name Walton, andsupply himself with such medicines as could be found.

  Meanwhile, there was no danger of molestation and intrusion. There wasreason to expect the speedy return of those who had gone in pursuit ofthe savages. This was their place of rendezvous, and hither theyappointed to reassemble before the morrow's dawn. The distance of theneighbouring farm was small, and Sarsefield promised to be expeditious.He left me to myself and my own ruminations.

  Harassed by fatigue and pain, I had yet power to ruminate on that seriesof unparalleled events that had lately happened. I wept, but my tearsflowed from a double source: from sorrow, on account of the untimelyfate of my uncle, and from joy, that my sisters were preserved, thatSarsefield had returned and was not unhappy.

  I reflected on the untoward destiny of Clithero. Part of his calamityconsisted in the consciousness of having killed his patroness; but itnow appeared, though by some infatuation I had not previously suspected,that the first impulse of sorrow in the lady had been weakened byreflection and by time; that the prejudice persuading her that her lifeand that of her brother were to endure and to terminate together wasconquered by experience or by argument. She had come, in company withSarsefield and Clarice, to America. What influence might these eventshave upon the gloomy meditations of Clithero? Was it possible to bringthem together; to win the maniac from his solitude, wrest from him hisfatal purposes, and restore him to communion with the beings whoseimagined indignation is the torment of his life?

  These musings were interrupted by a sound from below, which was easilyinterpreted into tokens of the return of those with whom Sarsefield hadparted at the promontory. Voices were confused and busy, but notturbulent. They entered the lower room, and the motion of chairs andtables showed that they were preparing to rest themselves after theirtoils.

  Few of them were unacquainted with me, since they probably wereresidents in this district. No inconvenience, therefore, would followfrom an interview, though, on their part, wholly unexpected. Besides,Sarsefield would speedily return, and none of the present visitantswould be likely to withdraw to this apartment.

  Meanwhile, I lay upon the bed, with my face turned towards the door, andlanguidly gazing at the ceiling and Wa
lls. Just then a musket wasdischarged in the room below. The shock affected me mechanically, andthe first impulse of surprise made me almost start upon my feet.

  The sound was followed by confusion and bustle. Some rushed forth andcalled on each other to run different ways, and the words, "That ishe,"--"Stop him!" were spoken in a tone of eagerness and rage. Myweakness and pain were for a moment forgotten, and my whole attentionwas bent to discover the meaning of this hubbub. The musket which I hadbrought with me to this chamber lay across the bed. Unknowing of theconsequences of this affray with regard to myself, I was prompted, by akind of self-preserving instinct, to lay hold of the gun and prepare torepel any attack that might be made upon me.

  A few moments elapsed, when I thought I heard light footsteps in theentry leading to this room. I had no time to construe these signals,but, watching fearfully the entrance, I grasped my weapon with newforce, and raised it so as to be ready at the moment of my danger. I didnot watch long. A figure cautiously thrust itself forward. The firstglance was sufficient to inform me that this intruder was an Indian,and, of consequence, an enemy. He was unarmed. Looking eagerly on allsides, he at last spied me as I lay. My appearance threw him intoconsternation, and, after the fluctuation of an instant, he darted tothe window, threw up the sash, and leaped out upon the ground.

  His flight might have been easily arrested by my shot, but surprise,added to my habitual antipathy to bloodshed unless in cases of absolutenecessity, made me hesitate. He was gone, and I was left to mark theprogress of the drama. The silence was presently broken by firing at adistance. Three shots, in quick succession, were followed by the deepestpause.

  That the party, recently arrived, had brought with them one or morecaptives, and that by some sudden effort the prisoners had attempted toescape, was the only supposition that I could form. By wrhat motiveseither of them could be induced to seek concealment in my chamber couldnot be imagined.

  I now heard a single step on the threshold below. Some one entered thecommon room. He traversed the floor during a few minutes, and then,ascending the staircase, he entered my chamber. It was Sarsefield.Trouble and dismay were strongly written on his countenance. He seemedtotally unconscious of my presence; his eyes were fixed upon the floor,and, as he continued to move across the room, he heaved forth deepsighs.

  This deportment was mournful and mysterious. It was little in unisonwith those appearances which he wore at our parting, and must have beensuggested by some event that had since happened. My curiosity impelledme to recall him from his reverie. I rose, and, seizing him by the arm,looked at him with an air of inquisitive anxiety. It was needless tospeak.

  He noticed my movement, and, turning towards me, spoke in a tone of someresentment:--"Why did you deceive me? Did you not say Clithero wasdead?"

  "I said so because it was my belief. Know you any thing to the contrary?Heaven grant that he is still alive, and that our mutual efforts mayrestore him to peace!"

  "Heaven grant," replied my friend, with a vehemence that bordered uponfury,--"Heaven grant that he may live thousands of years, and know not,in their long course, a moment's respite from remorse and from anguish!But this prayer is fruitless. He is not dead, but death hovers over him.Should he live, he will live only to defy justice and perpetrate newhorrors. My skill might perhaps save him, but a finger shall not bemoved to avert his fate.

  "Little did I think that the wretch whom my friends rescued from thepower of the savages, and brought wounded and expiring hither, wasClithero. They sent for me in haste to afford him surgical assistance. Ifound him stretched upon the floor below, deserted, helpless, andbleeding. The moment I beheld him, he was recognised. The last of evilswas to look upon the face of this assassin; but that evil is past, andshall never be endured again.

  "Rise, and come with me. Accommodation is prepared for you at Walcot's.Let us leave this house, and, the moment you are able to perform ajourney, abandon forever this district."

  I could not readily consent to this proposal. Clithero had beendelivered from captivity, but was dying for want of that aid whichSarsefield was able to afford. Was it not inhuman to desert him in thisextremity? What offence had he committed that deserved such implacablevengeance? Nothing I had heard from Sarsefield was in contradiction tohis own story. His deed, imperfectly observed, would appear to beatrocious and detestable; but the view of all its antecedent andaccompanying events and motives would surely place it in the list, notof crimes, but of misfortunes.

  But wrhat is that guilt which no penitence can expiate? Had notClithero's remorse been more than adequate to crimes far more deadly andenormous than this? This, however, was no time to argue with thepassions of Sarsefield. Nothing but a repetition of Clithero's talecould vanquish his prepossessions and mollify his rage; but thisrepetition was impossible to be given by me, till a moment of safety andcomposure.

  These thoughts made me linger, but hindered me from attempting to changethe determination of my friend. He renewed his importunities for me tofly with him. He dragged me by the arm, and, wavering and reluctant, Ifollowed where he chose to lead. He crossed the common room, withhurried steps, and eyes averted from a figure which instantly fastenedmy attention.

  It was indeed Clithero whom I now beheld, supine, polluted with blood,his eyes closed, and apparently insensible. This object was gazed atwith emotions that rooted me to the spot. Sarsefield, perceiving medetermined to remain where I was, rushed out of the house, anddisappeared.