Perhaps the motives which led me to this house suggested the suspicion
which presently succeeded to my doubts,--that the person within was
disabled by sickness. The circumstances of my own condition took away
the improbability from this belief. Why might not another be induced
like me to hide himself in this desolate retreat? Might not a servant,
left to take care of the house, a measure usually adopted by the opulent
at this time, be seized by the reigning malady? Incapacitated for
exertion, or fearing to be dragged to the hospital, he has shut himself
in this apartment. The robber, it may be, who came to pillage, was
overtaken and detained by disease. In either case, detection or
intrusion would be hateful, and would be assiduously eluded. These thoughts had no tendency to weaken or divert my efforts to obtain
access to this room. The person was a brother in calamity, whom it was
my duty to succour and cherish to the utmost of my power. Once more I
spoke:--

"Who is within? I beseech you answer me. Whatever you be, I desire to do
you good and not injury. Open the door and let me know your condition. I
will try to be of use to you." I was answered by a deep groan, and by a sob counteracted and devoured
as it were by a mighty effort. This token of distress thrilled to my
heart. My terrors wholly disappeared, and gave place to unlimited
compassion. I again entreated to be admitted, promising all the succour
or consolation which my situation allowed me to afford. Answers were made in tones of anger and impatience, blended with those
of grief:--"I want no succour; vex me not with your entreaties and
offers. Fly from this spot; linger not a moment, lest you participate my
destiny and rush upon your death." These I considered merely as the effusions of delirium, or the dictates
of despair. The style and articulation denoted the speaker to be
superior to the class of servants. Hence my anxiety to see and to aid
him was increased. My remonstrances were sternly and pertinaciously
repelled. For a time, incoherent and impassioned exclamations flowed
from him. At length, I was only permitted to hear strong aspirations and
sobs, more eloquent and more indicative of grief than any language. This deportment filled me with no less wonder than commiseration. By
what views this person was led hither, by what motives induced to deny
himself to my entreaties, was wholly incomprehensible. Again, though
hopeless of success, I repeated my request to be admitted. My perseverance seemed now to have exhausted all his patience, and he
exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, "Arthur Mervyn! Begone. Linger but a
moment, and my rage, tiger-like, will rush upon you and rend you limb
from limb." This address petrified me. The voice that uttered this sanguinary menace
was strange to my ears. It suggested no suspicion of ever having heard
it before. Yet my accents had betrayed me to him. He was familiar with
my name. Notwithstanding the improbability of my entrance into this
dwelling, I was clearly recognized and unhesitatingly named! My curiosity and compassion were in no wise diminished, but I found
myself compelled to give up my purpose. I withdrew reluctantly from the
door, and once more threw myself upon my bed. Nothing was more
necessary, in the present condition of my frame; than sleep; and sleep
had, perhaps, been possible, if the scene around me had been less
pregnant with causes of wonder and panic. Once more I tasked memory in order to discover, in the persons with whom
I had hitherto conversed, some resemblance, in voice or tones, to him
whom I had just heard. This process was effectual. Gradually my
imagination called up an image which, now that it was clearly seen, I
was astonished had not instantly occurred. Three years ago, a man, by
name Colvill, came on foot, and with a knapsack on his back, into the
district where my father resided. He had learning and genius, and
readily obtained the station for which only he deemed himself qualified;
that of a schoolmaster. His demeanour was gentle and modest; his habits, as to sleep, food, and
exercise, abstemious and regular. Meditation in the forest, or reading
in his closet, seemed to constitute, together with attention to his
scholars, his sole amusement and employment. He estranged himself from
company, not because society afforded no pleasure, but because studious
seclusion afforded him chief satisfaction. No one was more idolized by his unsuspecting neighbours. His scholars
revered him as a father, and made under his tuition a remarkable
proficiency. His character seemed open to boundless inspection, and his
conduct was pronounced by all to be faultless. At the end of a year the scene was changed. A daughter of one of his
patrons, young, artless, and beautiful, appeared to have fallen a prey
to the arts of some detestable seducer. The betrayer was gradually
detected, and successive discoveries showed that the same artifices had
been practised, with the same success, upon many others. Colvill was the
arch-villain. He retired from the storm of vengeance that was gathering
over him, and had not been heard of since that period. I saw him rarely, and for a short time, and I was a mere boy. Hence the
failure to recollect his voice, and to perceive that the voice of him
immured in the room above was the same with that of Colvill. Though I
had slight reasons for recognising his features or accents, I had
abundant cause to think of him with detestation, and pursue him with
implacable revenge, for the victim of his acts, she whose ruin was first
detected, was--_my sister_. This unhappy girl escaped from the upbraidings of her parents, from the
contumelies of the world, from the goadings of remorse, and the anguish
flowing from the perfidy and desertion of Colvill, in a voluntary death. She was innocent and lovely. Previous to this evil, my soul was linked
with hers by a thousand resemblances and sympathies, as well as by
perpetual intercourse from infancy, and by the fraternal relation. She
was my sister, my preceptress and friend; but she died--her end was
violent, untimely, and criminal! I cannot think of her without
heart-bursting grief; of her destroyer, without a rancour which I know
to be wrong, but which I cannot subdue. When the image of Colvill rushed, upon this occasion, on my thought, I
almost started on my feet. To meet him, after so long a separation,
here, and in these circumstances, was so unlooked-for and abrupt an
event, and revived a tribe of such hateful impulses and agonizing
recollections, that a total revolution seemed to have been effected in
my frame. His recognition of my person, his aversion to be seen, his
ejaculation of terror and surprise on first hearing my voice, all
contributed to strengthen my belief. How was I to act?