Chapter XIII.
Since my return home, my mind had been fully occupied by schemes andreflections relative to Clithero. The project suggested by thee, and towhich I had determined to devote my leisure, was forgotten, orremembered for a moment and at wide intervals. What, however, was nearlybanished from my waking thoughts, occurred in an incongruous andhalf-seen form, to my dreams. During my sleep, the image of Waldegraveflitted before me. Methought the sentiment that impelled him to visit mewas not affection or complacency, but inquietude and anger. Some serviceor duty remained to be performed by me, which I had culpably neglected:to inspirit my zeal, to awaken my remembrance, and incite me to theperformance of this duty, did this glimmering messenger, thishalf-indignant apparition, come.
I commonly awake soon enough to mark the youngest dawn of the morning.Now, in consequence perhaps of my perturbed sleep, I opened my eyesbefore the stars had lost any of their lustre. This circumstanceproduced some surprise, until the images that lately hovered in my fancywere recalled, and furnished somewhat like a solution of the problem.Connected with the image of my dead friend was that of his sister. Thediscourse that took place at our last interview; the scheme oftranscribing, for thy use, all the letters which, during his short butbusy life, I received from him; the nature of this correspondence, andthe opportunity which this employment would afford me of contemplatingthese ample and precious monuments of the intellectual existence andmoral pre-eminence of my friend, occurred to my thoughts.
The resolution to prosecute the task was revived. The obligation ofbenevolence, with regard to Clithero, was not discharged. This, neitherduty nor curiosity would permit to be overlooked or delayed; but whyshould my whole attention and activity be devoted to this man? The hourswhich were spent at home and in my chamber could not be more usefullyemployed than in making my intended copy.
In a few hours after sunrise I purposed to resume my way to themountain. Could this interval be appropriated to a better purpose thanin counting over my friend's letters, setting them apart from my own,and preparing them for that transcription from which I expected so highand yet so mournful a gratification?
This purpose, by no violent union, was blended with the recollection ofmy dream. This recollection infused some degree of wavering anddejection into my mind. In transcribing these letters I should violatepathetic and solemn injunctions frequently repeated by the writer. Wasthere some connection between this purpose and the incidents of myvision? Was the latter sent to enforce the interdictions which had beenformerly imposed?
Thou art not fully acquainted with the intellectual history of thybrother. Some information on that head will be necessary to explain thenature of that reluctance which I now feel to comply with thy request,and which had formerly so much excited thy surprise.
Waldegrave, like other men early devoted to meditation and books, hadadopted, at different periods, different systems of opinion on topicsconnected with religion and morals. His earliest creeds tended to effacethe impressions of his education; to deify necessity and universalizematter; to destroy the popular distinctions between soul and body, andto dissolve the supposed connection between the moral condition of mananterior and subsequent to death.
This creed he adopted with all the fulness of conviction, and propagatedwith the utmost zeal. Soon after our friendship commenced, fortuneplaced us at a distance from each other, and no intercourse was allowedbut by the pen. Our letters, however, were punctual and copious. Thoseof Waldegrave were too frequently devoted to the defence of hisfavourite tenets.
Thou art acquainted with the revolution that afterwards took place inhis mind. Placed within the sphere of religious influence, and listeningdaily to the reasonings and exhortations of Mr. S----, whose benigntemper and blameless deportment was a visible and constant lesson, heinsensibly resumed the faith which he had relinquished, and became thevehement opponent of all that he had formerly defended. The chief objectof his labours, in this new state of his mind, was to counteract theeffect of his former reasonings on my opinions.
At this time, other changes took place in his situation, in consequenceof which we were once more permitted to reside under the same roof. Theintercourse now ceased to be by letter, and the subtle and laboriousargumentations which he had formerly produced against religion, andwhich were contained in a permanent form, were combated in transientconversation. He was not only eager to subvert those opinions which hehad contributed to instil into me, but was anxious that the letters andmanuscripts which had been employed in their support should bedestroyed. He did not fear wholly or chiefly on my own account. Hebelieved that the influence of former reasonings on my faith would besufficiently eradicated by the new; but he dreaded lest thesemanuscripts might fall into other hands, and thus produce mischiefswhich it would not be in his power to repair. With regard to me, thepoison had been followed by its antidote; but with respect to others,these letters would communicate the poison when the antidote could notbe administered.
I would not consent to this sacrifice. I did not entirely abjure thecreed which had, with great copiousness and eloquence, been defended inthese letters. Besides, mixed up with abstract reasonings werenumberless passages which elucidated the character and history of myfriend. These were too precious to be consigned to oblivion; and to takethem out of their present connection and arrangement would be tomutilate and deform them.
His entreaties and remonstrances were earnest and frequent, but alwaysineffectual. He had too much purity of motives to be angry at mystubbornness; but his sense of the mischievous tendency of these letterswas so great, that my intractability cost him many a pang.
He was now gone, and I had not only determined to preserve thesemonuments, but had consented to copy them for the use of another; forthe use of one whose present and eternal welfare had been the chiefobject of his cares and efforts. Thou, like others of thy sex, artunaccustomed to metaphysical refinements. Thy religion is the growth ofsensibility and not of argument. Thou art not fortified and prepossessedagainst the subtleties with which the being and attributes of the Deityhave been assailed. Would it be just to expose thee to pollution anddepravity from this source? To make thy brother the instrument of thyapostasy, the author of thy fall? That brother whose latter days were soardently devoted to cherishing the spirit of devotion in thy heart?
These ideas now occurred with more force than formerly. I had promised,not without reluctance, to give thee the entire copy of his letters; butI now receded from this promise. I resolved merely to select for thyperusal such as were narrative or descriptive. This could not be donewith too much expedition. It was still dark, but my sleep was at an end,and, by a common apparatus, that lay beside my bed, I could instantlyproduce a light.
The light was produced, and I proceeded to the cabinet where all mypapers and books are deposited. This was my own contrivance andworkmanship, undertaken by the advice of Sarsefield, who took infinitepains to foster that mechanical genius which displayed itself so earlyand so forcibly in thy friend. The key belonging to this was, like thecabinet itself, of singular structure. For greater safety, it wasconstantly placed in a closet, which was likewise locked.
The key was found as usual, and the cabinet opened. The letters werebound together in a compact form, lodged in a parchment case, and placedin a secret drawer. This drawer would not have been detected by commoneyes, and it opened by the motion of a spring, of whose existence nonebut the maker was conscious. This drawer I had opened before I went tosleep, and the letters were then safe.
Thou canst not imagine my confusion and astonishment, when, on openingthe drawer, I perceived that the packet was gone. I looked with moreattention, and put my hand within it; but the space was empty. Whitherhad it gone, and by whom was it purloined? I was not conscious of havingtaken it away, yet no hands but mine could have done it. On the lastevening I had doubtless removed it to some other corner, but hadforgotten it. I tasked my understanding and my memory. I could notconceive the possibility of any motives inducing me to alt
er myarrangements in this respect, and was unable to recollect that I hadmade this change.
What remained? This invaluable relic had disappeared. Every thought andevery effort must be devoted to the single purpose of regaining it. Asyet I did not despair. Until I had opened and ransacked every part ofthe cabinet in vain, I did not admit the belief that I had lost it. Eventhen this persuasion was tumultuous and fluctuating. It had vanished tomy senses, but these senses were abused and depraved. To have passed, ofits own accord, through the pores of this wood, was impossible; but, ifit were gone, thus did it escape.
I was lost in horror and amazement. I explored every nook a second and athird time, but still it eluded my eye and my touch. I opened my closetsand cases. I pried everywhere, unfolded every article of clothing,turned and scrutinized every instrument and tool, but nothing availed.
My thoughts were not speedily collected or calmed. I threw myself on thebed and resigned myself to musing. That my loss was irretrievable was asupposition not to be endured. Yet ominous terrors haunted me,--awhispering intimation that a relic which I valued more than life wastorn forever away by some malignant and inscrutable destiny. The samepower that had taken it from this receptacle was able to waft it overthe ocean or the mountains, and condemn me to a fruitless and eternalsearch.
But what was he that committed the theft? Thou only, of the beings wholive, wast acquainted with the existence of these manuscripts. Thou artmany miles distant, and art utterly a stranger to the mode or place oftheir concealment. Not only access to the cabinet, but access to theroom, without my knowledge and permission, was impossible. Both werelocked during this night. Not five hours had elapsed since the cabinetand drawer had been opened, and since the letters had been seen andtouched, being in their ordinary position. During this interval, thethief had entered, and despoiled me of my treasure.
This event, so inexplicable and so dreadful, threw my soul into a kindof stupor or distraction, from which I was suddenly roused by a footstepsoftly moving in the entry near my door. I started from my bed, as if Ihad gained a glimpse of the robber. Before I could run to the door, someone knocked. I did not think upon the propriety of answering the signal,but hastened with tremulous fingers and throbbing heart to open thedoor. My uncle, in his night-dress, and apparently just risen from hisbed, stood before me!
He marked the eagerness and perturbation of my looks, and inquired intothe cause. I did not answer his inquiries. His appearance in my chamberand in this guise added to my surprise. My mind was full of the latediscovery, and instantly conceived some connection between thisunseasonable visit and my lost manuscript. I interrogated him in my turnas to the cause of his coming.
"Why," said he, "I came to ascertain whether it was you or not whoamused himself so strangely at this time of night. What is the matterwith you? Why are you up so early?"
I told him that I had been roused by my dreams, and, finding noinclination to court my slumber back again, I had risen, though earlierby some hours than the usual period of my rising.
"But why did you go up-stairs? You might easily imagine that the soundof your steps would alarm those below, who would be puzzled to guess whoit was that had thought proper to amuse himself in this manner."
"Up-stairs? I have not left my room this night. It is not ten minutessince I awoke, and my door has not since been opened."
"Indeed! That is strange. Nay, it is impossible! It was your feet surelythat I heard pacing so solemnly and indefatigably across the _longroom_ for near an hour. I could not for my life conjecture, for atime, who it was, but finally concluded that it was you. There wasstill, however, some doubt, and I came hither to satisfy myself."
These tidings were adapted to raise all my emotions to a still higherpitch. I questioned him with eagerness as to the circumstances he hadnoticed. He said he had been roused by a sound, whose power ofdisturbing him arose, not from its loudness, but from its uncommonness.He distinctly heard some one pacing to and fro with bare feet, in thelong room: this sound continued, with little intermission, for an hour.He then noticed a cessation of the walking, and a sound as if some onewere lifting the lid of the large cedar chest that stood in the cornerof this room. The walking was not resumed, and all was silent. Helistened for a quarter of an hour, and busied himself in conjecturingthe cause of this disturbance. The most probable conclusion was, thatthe walker was his nephew, and his curiosity had led him to my chamberto ascertain the truth.
This dwelling has three stories. The two lower stories are divided intonumerous apartments. The upper story constitutes a single room whosesides are the four walls of the house, and whose ceiling is the roof.This room is unoccupied, except by lumber, and imperfectly lighted by asmall casement at one end. In this room were footsteps heard by myuncle.
The staircase leading to it terminated in a passage near my door. Isnatched the candle, and, desiring him to follow me, added that I wouldascertain the truth in a moment. He followed, but observed that thewalking had ceased long enough for the person to escape.
I ascended to the room, and looked behind and among the tables, andchairs, and casks, which were confusedly scattered through it, but foundnothing in the shape of man. The cedar chest, spoken of by Mr. Huntly,contained old books, and remnants of maps and charts, whoseworthlessness unfitted them for accomodation elsewhere. The lid waswithout hinges or lock. I examined this repository, but there wasnothing which attracted my attention.
The way between the kitchen-door and the door of the long room had noimpediments. Both were usually unfastened; but the motives by which anystranger to the dwelling, or indeed any one within it, could be promptedto choose this place and hour for an employment of this kind, werewholly incomprehensible.
When the family rose, inquiries were made; but no satisfaction wasobtained. The family consisted only of four persons,--my uncle, my twosisters, and myself. I mentioned to them the loss I had sustained, buttheir conjectures were no less unsatisfactory on this than on the formerincident.
There was no end to my restless meditations. Waldegrave was the onlybeing, besides myself, acquainted with the secrets of my cabinet. Duringhis life these manuscripts had been the objects of perpetual solicitude;to gain possession, to destroy or secrete them, was the strongest of hiswishes. Had he retained his sensibility on the approach of death, nodoubt he would have renewed, with irresistible solemnity, hisinjunctions to destroy them.
Now, however, they had vanished. There were no materials of conjecture;no probabilities to be weighed, or suspicions to revolve. Human artificeor power was unequal to this exploit. Means less than preternaturalwould not furnish a conveyance for this treasure.
It was otherwise with regard to this unseasonable walker. Hisinducements indeed were beyond my power to conceive; but to enter thesedoors and ascend these stairs demanded not the faculties of any beingmore than human.
This intrusion, and the pillage of my cabinet, were contemporary events.Was there no more connection between them than that which results fromtime? Was not the purloiner of my treasure and the wanderer the sameperson? I could not reconcile the former incident with the attributes ofman; and yet a secret faith, not to be outrooted or suspended, swayedme, and compelled me to imagine that the detection of this visitantwould unveil the thief.
These thoughts were pregnant with dejection and reverie. Clithero,during the day, was forgotten. On the succeeding night, my intentions,with regard to this man, returned. I derived some slender consolationfrom reflecting, that time, in its long lapse and ceaseless revolutions,might dissipate the gloom that environed me. Meanwhile, I struggled todismiss the images connected with my loss and to think only of Clithero.
My impatience was as strong as ever to obtain another interview withthis man. I longed with vehemence for the return of day. I believed thatevery moment added to his sufferings, intellectual and physical, andconfided in the efficacy of my presence to alleviate or suspend them.The provisions I had left would be speedily consumed, and the abstinenceof three days was sufficient to
undermine the vital energies. Isometimes hesitated whether I ought not instantly to depart. It wasnight indeed, but the late storm had purified the air, and the radianceof a full moon was universal and dazzling.
From this attempt I was deterred by reflecting that my own frame neededthe repairs of sleep. Toil and watchfulness, if prolonged another day,would deeply injure a constitution by no means distinguished for itsforce. I must, therefore, compel, if it were possible, some hours ofrepose. I prepared to retire to bed, when a new incident occurred todivert my attention for a time from these designs.
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