―155―

CHAPTER XIV.

"THREE days have elapsed since this occur-
rence. I have been haunted by perpetual inquie-
tude. To bring myself to regard Carwin without
terror, and to acquiesce in the belief of your safety,
was impossible. Yet to put an end to my doubts,
seemed to be impracticable. If some light could
be reflected on the actual situation of this man, a
direct path would present itself. If he were, con-
trary to the tenor of his conversation, cunning and
malignant, to apprize you of this, would be to
place you in security. If he were merely unfor-
tunate and innocent, most readily would I espouse
his cause; and if his intentions were upright with
regard to you, most eagerly would I sanctify your
choice by my approbation.

"It would be vain to call upon Carwin for an
avowal of his deeds. It was better to know no-
thing, than to be deceived by an artful tale. What
he was unwilling to communicate, and this unwil-
lingness had been repeatedly manifested, could never
be extorted from him. Importunity might be ap-
peased, or imposture effected by fallacious repre-
sentations. To the rest of the world he was un-
known. I had often made him the subject of dis-
course; but a glimpse of his figure in the street was
the sum of their knowledge who knew most. None
had ever seen him before, and received as new, the
information which my intercourse with him in
Valencia, and my present intercourse, enabled me
to give.

―156―

"Wieland was your brother. If he had really
made you the object of his courtship, was not a
brother authorized to interfere and demand from
him the confession of his views? Yet what were
the grounds on which I had reared this supposition?
Would they justify a measure like this? Surely
not.

"In the course of my restless meditations, it
occurred to me, at length, that my duty required
me to speak to you, to confess the indecorum of
which I had been guilty, and to state the reflections
to which it had led me. I was prompted by no
mean or selfish views. The heart within my breast
was not more precious than your safety: most
cheerfully would I have interposed my life between
you and danger. Would you cherish resentment
at my conduct? When acquainted with the mo-
tive which produced it, it would not only exempt
me from censure, but entitle me to gratitude.

"Yesterday had been selected for the rehearsal
of the newly-imported tragedy. I promised to be
present. The state of my thoughts but little qua-
lified me for a performer or auditor in such a scene;
but I reflected that, after it was finished, I should
return home with you, and should then enjoy an
opportunity of discoursing with you fully on this
topic. My resolution was not formed without a
remnant of doubt, as to its propriety. When I left
this house to perform the visit I had promised, my
mind was full of apprehension and despondency.
The dubiousness of the event of our conversation,
fear that my interference was too late to secure your
peace, and the uncertainty to which hope gave birth,
whether I had not erred in believing you devoted
to this man, or, at least, in imagining that he had
obtained your consent to midnight conferences, dis-


―157―

tracted me with contradictory opinions, and repug-
nant emotions.

"I can assign no reason for calling at Mrs.
Baynton's. I had seen her in the morning, and
knew her to be well. The concerted hour had
nearly arrived, and yet I turned up the street which
leads to her house, and dismounted at her door. I
entered the parlour and threw myself in a chair. I
saw and inquired for no one. My whole frame
was overpowered by dreary and comfortless sensa-
tions. One idea possessed me wholly; the inex-
pressible importance of unveiling the designs
and character of Carwin, and the utter improba-
bility that this ever would be effected. Some in-
stinct induced me to lay my hand upon a news-
paper. I had perused all the general intelligence it
contained in the morning, and at the same spot.
The act was rather mechanical than voluntary.

"I threw a languid glance at the first column
that presented itself. The first words which I read,
began with the offer of a reward of three hundred
guineas for the apprehension of a convict under
sentence of death, who had escaped from Newgate
prison in Dublin. Good heaven! how every fibre
of my frame tingled when I proceeded to read that
the name of the criminal was Francis Carwin!

"The descriptions of his person and address
were minute. His stature, hair, complexion, the
extraordinary position and arrangement of his fea-
tures, his aukward and disproportionate form, his
gesture and gait, corresponded perfectly with those
of our mysterious visitant. He had been found guil-
ty in two indictments. One for the murder of the
Lady Jane Conway, and the other for a robbery com-
mitted on the person of the honorable Mr. Ludloe.

"I repeatedly perused this passage. The ideas


―158―

which flowed in upon my mind, affected me like
an instant transition from death to life. The pur-
pose dearest to my heart was thus effected, at a time
and by means the least of all others within the
scope of my foresight. But what purpose? Car-
win was detected. Acts of the blackest and most
sordid guilt had been committed by him. Here was
evidence which imparted to my understanding the
most luminous certainty. The name, visage, and
deportment, were the same. Between the time of
his escape, and his appearance among us, there
was a sufficient agreement. Such was the man
with whom I suspected you to maintain a clandes-
tine correspondence. Should I not haste to snatch
you from the talons of this vulture? Should I see
you rushing to the verge of a dizzy precipice, and
not stretch forth a hand to pull you back? I had
no need to deliberate. I thrust the paper in my
pocket, and resolved to obtain an immediate con-
ference with you. For a time, no other image
made its way to my understanding. At length, it
occurred to me, that though the information I pos-
sessed was, in one sense, sufficient, yet if more
could be obtained, more was desirable. This pas-
sage was copied from a British paper; part of it
only, perhaps, was transcribed. The printer was
in possession of the original.

"Towards his house I immediately turned my
horse's head. He produced the paper, but I found
nothing more than had already been seen. While
busy in perusing it, the printer stood by my side.
He noticed the object of which I was in search.
"Aye," said he, "that is a strange affair. I should
never have met with it, had not Mr. Hallet sent
to me the paper, with a particular request to re-
publish that advertisement."

―159―

"Mr. Hallet! What reasons could he have for
making this request? Had the paper sent to him
been accompanied by any information respecting
the convict? Had he personal or extraordinary
reasons for desiring its republication? This was
to be known only in one way. I speeded to his
house. In answer to my interrogations, he told
me that Ludloe had formerly been in America, and
that during his residence in this city, considerable
intercourse had taken place between them. Hence
a confidence arose, which has since been kept alive
by occasional letters. He had lately received a
letter from him, enclosing the newspaper from
which this extract had been made. He put it into
my hands, and pointed out the passages which re-
lated to Carwin.

"Ludloe confirms the facts of his conviction
and escape; and adds, that he had reason to believe
him to have embarked for America. He describes
him in general terms, as the most incomprehen-
sible and formidable among men; as engaged in
schemes, reasonably suspected to be, in the highest
degree, criminal, but such as no human intelligence
is able to unravel: that his ends are pursued by
means which leave it in doubt whether he be not in
league with some infernal spirit: that his crimes
have hitherto been perpetrated with the aid of some
unknown but desperate accomplices: that he wages
a perpetual war against the happiness of mankind,
and sets his engines of destruction at work against
every object that presents itself.

"This is the substance of the letter. Hallet
expressed some surprize at the curiosity which was
manifested by me on this occasion. I was too much
absorbed by the ideas suggested by this letter, to pay
attention to his remarks. I shuddered with the


―160―

apprehension of the evil to which our indiscreet
familiarity with this man had probably exposed us.
I burnt with impatience to see you, and to do what
in me lay to avert the calamity which threatened
us. It was already five o'clock. Night was has-
tening, and there was no time to be lost. On
leaving Mr. Hallet's house, who should meet me in
the street, but Bertrand, the servant whom I left in
Germany. His appearance and accoutrements be-
spoke him to have just alighted from a toilsome and
long journey. I was not wholly without expecta-
tion of seeing him about this time, but no one was
then more distant from my thoughts. You know
what reasons I have for anxiety respecting scenes
with which this man was conversant. Carwin was
for a moment forgotten. In answer to my vehement
inquiries, Bertrand produced a copious packet. I
shall not at present mention its contents, nor the
measures which they obliged me to adopt. I be-
stowed a brief perusal on these papers, and having
given some directions to Bertrand, resumed my pur-
pose with regard to you. My horse I was obliged
to resign to my servant, he being charged with a
commission that required speed. The clock had
struck ten, and Mettingen was five miles distant.
I was to Journey thither on foot. These circum-
stances only added to my expedition.

"As I passed swiftly along, I reviewed all the
incidents accompanying the appearance and deport-
ment of that man among us. Late events have
been inexplicable and mysterious beyond any of
which I have either read or heard. These events
were coeval with Carwin's introduction. I am
unable to explain their origin and mutual depend-
ance; but I do not, on that account, believe them
to have a supernatural origin. Is not this man


―161―

the agent? Some of them seem to be propitious;
but what should I think of those threats of assassina-
tion with which you were lately alarmed? Blood-
shed is the trade, and horror is the element of this
man. The process by which the sympathies of
nature are extinguished in our hearts, by which
evil is made our good, and by which we are made
susceptible of no activity but in the infliction, and
no joy but in the spectacle of woes, is an obvious
process. As to an alliance with evil geniuses, the
power and the malice of dæmons have been a thou-
sand times exemplified in human beings. There are
no devils but those which are begotten upon selfish-
ness, and reared by cunning.

"Now, indeed, the scene was changed. It was
not his secret poniard that I dreaded. It was only
the success of his efforts to make you a confederate
in your own destruction, to make your will the
instrument by which he might bereave you of
liberty and honor.

"I took, as usual, the path through your bro-
ther's ground. I ranged with celerity and silence
along the bank. I approached the fence, which
divides Wieland's estate from yours. The recess
in the bank being near this line, it being necessary
for me to pass near it, my mind being tainted with
inveterate suspicions concerning you; suspicions
which were indebted for their strength to incidents
connected with this spot; what wonder that it seized
upon my thoughts!

"I leaped on the fence; but before I descended
on the opposite side, I paused to survey the scene.
Leaves dropping with dew, and glistening in the
moon's rays, with no moving object to molest the
deep repose, filled me with security and hope. I
left the station at length, and tended forward. You


―162―

were probably at rest. How should I communi-
cate without alarming you, the intelligence of my
arrival? An immediate interview was to be pro-
cured. I could not bear to think that a minute
should be lost by remissness or hesitation. Should
I knock at the door? or should I stand under your
chamber windows, which I perceived to be open,
and awaken you by my calls?

"These reflections employed me, as I passed
opposite to the summer-house. I had scarcely gone
by, when my ear caught a sound unusual at this
time and place. It was almost too faint and too
transient to allow me a distinct perception of it. I
stopped to listen; presently it was heard again, and
now it was somewhat in a louder key. It was
laughter; and unquestionably produced by a female
voice. That voice was familiar to my senses. It
was yours.

"Whence it came, I was at first at a loss to
conjecture; but this uncertainty vanished when it
was heard the third time. I threw back my eyes
towards the recess. Every other organ and limb
was useless to me. I did not reason on the subject.
I did not, in a direct manner, draw my conclusions
from the hour, the place, the hilarity which this
sound betokened, and the circumstance of having a
companion, which it no less incontestably proved.
In an instant, as it were, my heart was invaded
with cold, and the pulses of life at a stand.

"Why should I go further? Why should I
return? Should I not hurry to a distance from a
sound, which, though formerly so sweet and delect-
able, was now more hideous than the shrieks of
owls?

"I had no time to yield to this impulse. The
thought of approaching and listening occurred to


―163―

me. I had no doubt of which I was conscious.
Yet my certainty was capable of increase. I was
likewise stimulated by a sentiment that partook of
rage. I was governed by an half-formed and tem-
pestuous resolution to break in upon your inter-
view, and strike you dead with my upbraiding.

"I approached with the utmost caution. When
I reached the edge of the bank immediately above
the summer-house, I thought I heard voices from
below, as busy in conversation. The steps in the
rock are clear of bushy impediments. They al-
lowed me to descend into a cavity beside the build-
ing without being detected. Thus to lie in wait
could only be justified by the momentousness of the
occasion."

Here Pleyel paused in his narrative, and fixed
his eyes upon me. Situated as I was, my horror
and astonishment at this tale gave way to compas-
sion for the anguish which the countenance of my
friend betrayed. I reflected on his force of under-
standing. I reflected on the powers of my enemy.
I could easily divine the substance of the conversa-
tion that was overheard. Carwin had constructed
his plot in a manner suited to the characters of those
whom he had selected for his victims. I saw that
the convictions of Pleyel were immutable. I for-
bore to struggle against the storm, because I saw
that all struggles would be fruitless. I was calm;
but my calmness was the torpor of despair, and not
the tranquillity of fortitude. It was calmness in-
vincible by any thing that his grief and his fury
could suggest to Pleyel. He resumed—

"Woman! wilt thou hear me further? Shall I
go on to repeat the conversation? Is it shame that
makes thee tongue-tied? Shall I go on? or art
thou satisfied with what has been already said?"

―164―

I bowed my head. "Go on," said I. "I make
not this request in the hope of undeceiving you. I
shall no longer contend with my own weakness.
The storm is let loose, and I shall peaceably submit
to be driven by its fury. But go on. This con-
ference will end only with affording me a clearer
foresight of my destiny; but that will be some sa-
tisfaction, and I will not part without it."

Why, on hearing these words, did Pleyel hesi-
tate? Did some unlooked-for doubt insinuate itself
into his mind? Was his belief suddenly shaken by
my looks, or my words, or by some newly recol-
lected circumstance? Whencesoever it arose, it
could not endure the test of deliberation. In a few
minutes the flame of resentment was again lighted
up in his bosom. He proceeded with his accus-
tomed vehemence—

"I hate myself for this folly. I can find no
apology for this tale. Yet I am irresistibly im-
pelled to relate it. She that hears me is apprized
of every particular. I have only to repeat to her
her own words. She will listen with a tranquil
air, and the spectacle of her obduracy will drive
me to some desperate act. Why then should I
persist! yet persist I must."

Again he paused. "No," said he, "it is im-
possible to repeat your avowals of love, your ap-
peals to former confessions of your tenderness, to
former deeds of dishonor, to the circumstances
of the first interview that took place between you.
It was on that night when I traced you to this re-
cess. Thither had he enticed you, and there had
you ratified an unhallowed compact by admitting
him—

"Great God! Thou witnessedst the agonies
that tore my bosom at that moment! Thou wit-


―165―

nessedst my efforts to repel the testimony of my
ears! It was in vain that you dwelt upon the con-
fusion which my unlooked-for summons excited in
you; the tardiness with which a suitable excuse
occurred to you; your resentment that my imper-
tinent intrusion had put an end to that charming
interview: A disappointment for which you endea-
voured to compensate yourself, by the frequency
and duration of subsequent meetings.

"In vain you dwelt upon incidents of which
you only could be conscious; incidents that oc-
curred on occasions on which none beside your
own family were witnesses. In vain was your
discourse characterized by peculiarities inimitable
of sentiment and language. My conviction was
effected only by an accumulation of the same to-
kens. I yielded not but to evidence which took
away the power to withhold my faith.

"My sight was of no use to me. Beneath so
thick an umbrage, the darkness was intense. Hear-
ing was the only avenue to information, which the
circumstances allowed to be open. I was couched
within three feet of you. Why should I approach
nearer? I could not contend with your betrayer.
What could be the purpose of a contest? You
stood in no need of a protector. What could I
do, but retire from the spot overwhelmed with con-
fusion and dismay? I sought my chamber, and en-
deavoured to regain my composure. The door of
the house, which I found open, your subsequent
entrance, closing, and fastening it, and going into
your chamber, which had been thus long deserted,
were only confirmations of the truth.

"Why should I paint the tempestuous fluctua-
tion of my thoughts between grief and revenge, be-
tween rage and despair? Why should I repeat my


―166―

vows of eternal implacability and persecution, and
the speedy recantation of these vows?

"I have said enough. You have dismissed me
from a place in your esteem. What I think, and
what I feel, is of no importance in your eyes.
May the duty which I owe myself enable me
to forget your existence. In a few minutes I go
hence. Be the maker of your fortune, and may
adversity instruct you in that wisdom, which edu-
cation was unable to impart to you."

Those were the last words which Pleyel uttered.
He left the room, and my new emotions enabled
me to witness his departure without any apparent
loss of composure. As I sat alone, I ruminated
on these incidents. Nothing was more evident
than that I had taken an eternal leave of happiness.
Life was a worthless thing, separate from that good
which had now been wrested from me; yet the sen-
timent that now possessed me had no tendency to
palsy my exertions, and overbear my strength. I
noticed that the light was declining, and perceived
the propriety of leaving this house. I placed my-
self again in the chaise, and returned slowly towards
the city.