"He, indeed," said I, "is the
murderer of excellence; and yet it shall be my province to emulate a
father's clemency, and restore this unhappy man to purity and to peace." Day after day passed, without hearing any thing of Clithero. I began to
grow uneasy and impatient. I had gained so much, and by means so
unexpected, that I could more easily endure uncertainty with respect to
what remained to be known. But my patience had its limits. I should,
doubtless, have made use of new means to accelerate this discovery, had
not his timely appearance made them superfluous. Sunday being at length arrived, I resolved to go to Inglefield's, seek
an interview with his servant, and urge him, by new importunities, to
confide to me the secret. On my way thither, Clithero appeared in sight. His visage was pale and wan, and his form emaciated and shrunk. I was
astonished at the alteration which the lapse of a week had made in his
appearance. At a small distance I mistook him for a stranger. As soon as
I perceived who it was, I greeted him with the utmost friendliness. My
civilities made little impression on him, and he hastened to inform me,
that he was coming to my uncle's, for the purpose of meeting and talking
with me. If I thought proper, we would go into the wood together, and
find some spot where we might discourse at our leisure and be exempt
from interruption. You will easily conceive with what alacrity I accepted his invitation. We returned from the road into the first path, and proceeded in silence,
till the wildness of the surrounding scenery informed us that we were in
the heart of Norwalk. We lighted on a recess, to which my companion
appeared to be familiar, and which had all the advantages of solitude,
and was suitable to rest. Here we stopped. Hitherto my companion had
displayed a certain degree of composure. Now his countenance betokened a
violent internal struggle. It was a considerable time before he could
command his speech. When he had so far effected the conquest of his
feelings, he began. Chapter IV. You call upon me for a confession of my offences. What a strange fortune
is mine! That a human being, in the present circumstances, should make
this demand, and that I should be driven, by an irresistible necessity,
to comply with it! That here should terminate my calamitous series! That
my destiny should call upon me to lie down and die, in a region so
remote from the scene of my crime; at a distance so great from all that
witnessed and endured their consequences! You believe me to be an assassin. You require me to explain the motives
that induced me to murder the innocent. While this is your belief, and
this the scope of your expectations, you may be sure of my compliance. I
could resist every demand but this. For what purpose have I come hither? Is it to relate my story? Shall I
calmly sit here, and rehearse the incidents of my life? Will my strength
be adequate to this rehearsal? Let me recollect the motives that
governed me, when I formed this design. Perhaps a strenuousness may be
imparted by them which, otherwise, I cannot hope to obtain. For the sake
of those, I consent to conjure up the ghost of the past, and to begin a
tale that, with a fortitude like mine, I am not sure that I shall live
to finish. You are unacquainted with the man before you. The inferences which you
have drawn, with regard to my designs and my conduct, are a tissue of
destructive errors. You, like others, are blind to the most momentous
consequences of your own actions. You talk of imparting consolation. You
boast the beneficence of your intentions. You set yourself to do me a
benefit. What are the effects of your misguided zeal and random efforts? They have brought my life to a miserable close. They have shrouded the
last scene of it in blood. They have put the seal to my perdition. My misery has been greater than has fallen to the lot of mortals. Yet it
is but beginning. My present path, full as it is of asperities, is
better than that into which I must enter when this is abandoned. Perhaps, if my pilgrimage had been longer, I might, at some future day,
have lighted upon hope. In consequence of your interference, I am
forever debarred from it. My existence is henceforward to be invariable. The woes that are reserved for me are incapable alike of alleviation or
intermission. But I came not hither to recriminate. I came not hither to accuse
others, but myself. I know the retribution that is appointed for guilt
like mine. It is just. I may shudder at the foresight of my punishment
and shrink in the endurance of it; but I shall be indebted for part of
my torment to the vigour of my understanding, which teaches me that my
punishment is just. Why should I procrastinate my doom and strive to
render my burden more light? It is but just that it should crush me. Its
procrastination is impossible. The stroke is already felt. Even now I
drink of the cup of retribution. A change of being cannot aggravate my
woe. Till consciousness itself be extinct, the worm that gnaws me will
never perish. Fain would I be relieved from this task. Gladly would I bury in oblivion
the transactions of my life. But no! My fate is uniform. The demon that
controlled me at first is still in the fruition of power. I am entangled
in his fold, and every effort that I make to escape only involves me in
deeper ruin. I need not conceal, for all the consequences of disclosure
are already experienced. I cannot endure a groundless imputation, though
to free me from it I must create and justify imputations still more
atrocious. My story may at least be brief. If the agonies of remembrance
must be awakened afresh, let me do all that in me lies to shorten them. I was born in the county of Armagh. My parents were of the better sort
of peasants, and were able to provide me with the rudiments of
knowledge. I should doubtless have trodden in their footsteps, and have
spent my life in the cultivation of their scanty fields, if an event had
not happened, Which, for a long time, I regarded as the most fortunate
of my life, but which I now regard as the scheme of some infernal agent,
and as the primary source of all my calamities. My father's farm was a portion of the demesne of one who resided wholly
in the metropolis and consigned the management of his estates to his
stewards and retainers. This person married a lady who brought him great
accession of fortune. Her wealth was her only recommendation in the eyes
of her husband, (whose understanding was depraved by the prejudices of
luxury and rank,) but was the least of her attractions in the estimate
of reasonable beings. They passed some years together. If their union were not a source of
misery to the lady, she was indebted for her tranquillity to the force
of her mind. She was, indeed, governed, in every action of her life, by
the precepts of duty, while her husband listened to no calls but those
of pernicious dissipation.