These I had industriously sought out; but this had hitherto escaped my
observation, and I formed the resolution of some time exploring it. At
present I determined to revisit the elm, and dig in the spot where this
person had been employed in a similar way. It might be that something
was here deposited which might exhibit this transaction in a new light. At the suitable hour, on the ensuing night, I took my former stand. The
person again appeared. My intention to dig was to be carried into effect
on condition of his absence, and was, consequently, frustrated. Instead of rushing on him, and breaking at once the spell by which his
senses were bound, I concluded, contrary to my first design, to wait his
departure, and allow myself to be conducted whithersoever he pleased. The track into which he now led me was different from the former one. It
was a maze, oblique, circuitous, upward and downward, in a degree which
only could take place in a region so remarkably irregular in surface, so
abounding with hillocks and steeps and pits and brooks, as
_Solesbury_. It seemed to be the sole end of his labours to
bewilder or fatigue his pursuer, to pierce into the deepest thickets, to
plunge into the darkest cavities, to ascend the most difficult heights,
and approach the slippery and tremulous verge of the dizziest
precipices. I disdained to be outstripped in this career. All dangers were
overlooked, and all difficulties defied. I plunged into obscurities, and
clambered over obstacles, from which, in a different state of mind, and
with a different object of pursuit, I should have recoiled with
invincible timidity. When the scene had passed, I could not review the
perils I had undergone without shuddering. At length my conductor struck into a path which, compared with the
ruggedness of that which we had lately trodden, was easy and smooth. This track led us to the skirt of the wilderness, and at no long time we
reached an open field, when a dwelling appeared, at a small distance,
which I speedily recognised to be that belonging to Inglefield. I now
anticipated the fulfilment of my predictions. My conductor directed his
steps towards the barn, into which he entered by a small door. How were my doubts removed! This was no other than Clithero Edny. There
was nothing in his appearance incompatible with this conclusion. He and
his fellow-servant occupied an apartment in the barn as a lodging-room. This arduous purpose was accomplished, and I retired to the shelter of a
neighbouring shed, not so much to repose myself after the fatigues of my
extraordinary journey, as to devise further expedients. Nothing now remained but to take Clithero to task; to repeat to him the
observations of the two last nights; to unfold to him my conjectures and
suspicions; to convince him of the rectitude of my intentions; and to
extort from him a disclosure of all the circumstances connected with the
death of Waldegrave which it was in his power to communicate. In order to obtain a conference, I resolved to invite him to my uncle's
to perform a certain piece of work for me under my own eyes. He would,
of course, spend the night with us, and in the evening I would take an
opportunity of entering into conversation with him. A period of the deepest deliberation was necessary to qualify myself for
performing suitably my part in this projected interview. I attended to
the feelings that were suggested in this new state of my knowledge. I
found reason to confide in my newly-acquired equanimity. "Remorse," said
I, "is an ample and proper expiation for all offences. What does
vengeance desire but to inflict misery? If misery come, its desires are
accomplished. It is only the obdurate and exulting criminal that is
worthy of our indignation. It is common for pity to succeed the
bitterest suggestions of resentment. If the vengeful mind be delighted
with the spectacle of woes of its own contriving, at least its canine
hunger is appeased, and thenceforth its hands are inactive." On the evening of the next day, I paid a visit to Inglefield. I wished
to impart to him the discoveries that I had made, and to listen to his
reflections on the subject. I likewise desired to obtain all possible
information from the family respecting the conduct of Clithero. My friend received me with his usual kindness. Thou art no stranger to
his character; thou knowest with what paternal affection I have ever
been regarded by this old man; with what solicitude the wanderings of my
reason and my freaks of passion have been noted and corrected by him. Thou knowest his activity to save the life of thy brother, and the hours
that have been spent by him in aiding my conjectures as to the cause of
his death, and inculcating the lessons of penitence and duty. The topics which could not but occur at such a meeting were quickly
discussed, and I hastily proceeded to that subject which was nearest my
heart. I related the adventures of the two preceding nights, and
mentioned the inference to which they irresistibly led. He said that this inference coincided with suspicions he had formed,
since our last interview, in consequence of certain communications from
his housekeeper. It seems the character of Clithero had, from the first,
exercised the inquisitiveness of this old lady. She had carefully marked
his musing and melancholy deportment. She had tried innumerable
expedients for obtaining a knowledge of his past life, and particularly
of his motives for coming to America. These expedients, however profound
and addressful, had failed. He took no pains to elude them. He contented
himself with turning a deaf ear to all indirect allusions and hints,
and, when more explicitly questioned, with simply declaring that he had
nothing to communicate worthy of her notice. During the day he was a sober and diligent workman. His evenings he
spent in incommunicative silence. On Sundays, he always rambled away, no
one knew whither, and without a companion. I have already observed that
he and his fellow-servant occupied the same apartment in the barn. This
circumstance was not unattended to by Miss Inglefield. The name of
Clithero's companion was Ambrose. This man was copiously interrogated by
his mistress, and she found him by no means so refractory as the other. Ambrose, in his tedious and confused way, related that, soon after
Clithero and he had become bedfellows, the former was considerably
disturbed by restlessness and talking in his sleep. His discourse was
incoherent. It was generally in the tone of expostulation, and appeared
to be entreating to be saved from some great injury. Such phrases as
these,--"have pity;" "have mercy," were frequently intermingled with
groans, and accompanied with weeping. Sometimes he seemed to be holding
conferences with some one who was making him considerable offers on
condition of his performing some dangerous service. What he said in his
own person, and in answer to his imaginary tempter, testified the utmost
reluctance.