Clarice, relieved by the sudden
death of her friend, and unexpectedly by all, arrived at the same hour. "These tidings astonished, afflicted, and delighted the lady. Her
brother's death had been long believed by all but herself. To find her
doubts verified, and his existence ascertained, was the dearest
consolation that he ever could bestow. She was afflicted at the proofs
that had been noted of the continuance of his depravity, but she dreaded
no danger to herself from his malignity or vengeance. "The ignorance and prepossessions of this woman were remarkable. On this
subject only she was perverse, headstrong, obstinate. Her anxiety to
benefit this archruffian occupied her whole thoughts, and allowed her no
time to reflect upon the reasonings or remonstrances of others. She
could not be prevailed on to deny herself to his visits, and I parted
from her in the utmost perplexity. "A messenger came to me at midnight, entreating my immediate presence. Some disaster had happened, but of what kind the messenger was unable to
tell. My fears easily conjured up the image of Wiatte. Terror scarcely
allowed me to breathe. When I entered the house of Mrs. Lorimer, I was
conducted to her chamber. She lay upon the bed in a state of
stupefaction, that arose from some mental cause. Clarice sat by her,
wringing her hands, and pouring forth her tears without intermission. Neither could explain to me the nature of the scene. I made inquiries of
the servants and attendants. They merely said that the family as usual
had retired to rest, but their lady's bell rung with great violence, and
called them in haste to her chamber, where they found her in a swoon
upon the floor, and the young lady in the utmost affright and
perturbation. "Suitable means being used, Mrs. Lorimer had, at length, recovered, but
was still nearly insensible. I went to Clithero's apartments; but he was
not to be found, and the domestics informed me that, since he had gone
with me, he had not returned. The doors between this chamber and the
court were open; hence, that some dreadful interview had taken place,
perhaps with Wiatte, was an unavoidable conjecture. He had withdrawn,
however, without committing any personal injury. "I need not mention my reflections upon this scene. All was tormenting
doubt and suspense, till the morning arrived, and tidings were received
that Wiatte had been killed in the streets. This event was antecedent to
that which had occasioned Mrs. Lorimer's distress and alarm. I now
remembered that fatal prepossession by which the lady was governed, and
her frantic belief that her death and that of her brother were to fall
out at the same time. Could some witness of his death have brought her
tidings of it? Had he penetrated, unexpected and unlicensed, to her
chamber? and were these the effects produced by the intelligence? "Presently I knew that not only Wiatte was dead, but that Clithero had
killed him. Clithero had not been known to return, and was nowhere to be
found. He, then, was the bearer of these tidings, for none but he could
have found access or egress without disturbing the servants. "These doubts were at length at an end. In a broken and confused manner,
and after the lapse of some days, the monstrous and portentous truth was
disclosed. After our interview, the lady and her daughter had retired to
the same chamber; the former had withdrawn to her closet, and the latter
to bed. Some one's entrance alarmed the lady, and, coming forth after a
moment's pause, the spectacle which Clithero has too faithfully
described presented itself. "What could I think? A life of uniform hypocrisy, or a sudden loss of
reason, were the only suppositions to be formed. Clithero was the parent
of fury and abhorrence in my heart. In either case I started at the
name. I shuddered at the image of the apostate or the maniac. "What? Kill the brother whose existence was interwoven with that of his
benefactress and his friend? Then hasten to her chamber, and attempt her
life? Lift a dagger to destroy her who had been the author of his being
and his happiness? "He that could meditate a deed like this was no longer man. An agent
from hell had mastered his faculties. He was become the engine of
infernal malice, against whom it was the duty of all mankind to rise up
in arms and never to desist till, by shattering it to atoms, its power
to injure was taken away. "All inquiries to discover the place of his retreat were vain. No
wonder, methought, that he wrapped himself in the folds of impenetrable
secrecy. Curbed, checked, baffled in the midst of his career, no wonder
that he shrunk into obscurity, that he fled from justice and revenge,
that he dared not meet the rebukes of that eye which, dissolving in
tenderness or flashing with disdain, had ever been irresistible. "But how shall I describe the lady's condition? Clithero she had
cherished from his infancy. He was the stay, the consolation, the pride
of her life. His projected alliance with her daughter made him still
more dear. Her eloquence was never tired of expatiating on his purity
and rectitude. No wonder that she delighted in this theme, for he was
her own work. His virtues were the creatures of her bounty. "How hard to be endured was this sad reverse! She can be tranquil, but
never more will she be happy. To promote her forgetfulness of him, I
persuaded her to leave her country, which contained a thousand memorials
of past calamity, and which was lapsing fast into civil broils. Clarice
has accompanied us, and time may effect the happiness of others by her
means, though she can never remove the melancholy of her mother. "I have listened to your tale, not without compassion. What would you
have me to do? To prolong his life would be merely to protract his
misery. "He can never be regarded with complacency by my wife. He can never be
thought of without shuddering by Clarice. Common ills are not without a
cure less than death, but here all remedies are vain. Consciousness
itself is the malady, the pest, of which he only is cured who ceases to
think." I could not but assent to this mournful conclusion: yet, though death
was better to Clithero than life, could not some of his mistakes be
rectified? Euphemia Lorimer, contrary to his belief, was still alive. He
dreamed that she was dead, and a thousand evils were imagined to flow
from that death. This death, and its progeny of ills, haunted his fancy,
and added keenness to his remorse. Was it not our duty to rectify this
error? Sarsefield reluctantly assented to the truth of my arguments on this
head. He consented to return, and afford the dying man the consolation
of knowing that the being whom he adored as a benefactor and parent had
not been deprived of existence, though bereft of peace by his act. During Sarsefield's absence my mind was busy in revolving the incidents
that had just occurred. I ruminated on the last words of Clithero. There
was somewhat in his narrative that was obscure and contradictory.