Ambrose had no curiosity on the subject. As this interruption prevented
him at first from sleeping, it was his custom to put an end to the
dialogue, by awakening his companion, who betrayed tokens of great alarm
and dejection on discovering how he had been employed. He would
solicitously inquire what were the words that he had uttered; but
Ambrose's report was seldom satisfactory, because he had attended to
them but little, and because he grudged every moment in which he was
deprived of his accustomed repose. Whether Clithero had ceased from this practice, or habit had reconciled
his companion to the sounds, they no longer occasioned any interruption
to his slumber. No one appeared more shocked than he at the death of Waldegrave. After
this event his dejection suddenly increased. This symptom was observed
by the family, but none but the housekeeper took the trouble to notice
it to him, or build conjectures on the incident. During nights, however,
Ambrose experienced a renewal of his ancient disturbances. He remarked
that Clithero, one night, had disappeared from his side. Ambrose's range
of reflection was extremely narrow. Quickly falling asleep, and finding
his companion beside him when he awoke, he dismissed it from his mind. On several ensuing nights he awakened in like manner, and always found
his companion's place empty. The repetition of so strange an incident at
length incited him to mention it to Clithero. The latter was confounded
at this intelligence. He questioned Ambrose with great anxiety as to the
particulars of this event, but he could gain no satisfaction from the
stupid inattention of the other. From this time there was a visible
augmentation of his sadness. His fits of taciturnity became more
obstinate, and a deeper gloom sat upon his brow. There was one other circumstance, of particular importance, mentioned by
the housekeeper. One evening some one on horseback stopped at this gate. He rattled at the gate, with an air of authority, in token of his desire
that some one would come from the house. Miss Inglefield was employed in
the kitchen, from a window of which she perceived who it was that made
the signal. Clithero happened, at the same moment, to be employed near
her. She, therefore, desired him to go and see whom the stranger wanted. He laid aside his work and went. The conference lasted above five
minutes. The length of it excited in her a faint degree of surprise,
inducing her to leave her employment and pay an unintermitted attention
to the scene. There was nothing, however, but its duration that rendered
it remarkable. Clithero at length entered, and the traveller proceeded. The countenance
of the former betrayed a degree of perturbation which she had never
witnessed before. The muscles of his face were distorted and tremulous. He immediately sat down to his work, but he seemed, for some time, to
have lost all power over his limbs. He struggled to avoid the sight of
the lady, and his gestures, irresolute or misdirected, betokened the
deepest dismay. After some time, he recovered, in some degree, his
self-possession; but, while the object was viewed through a new medium,
and the change existed only in the imagination of the observer, a change
was certainly discovered. These circumstances were related to me by Inglefield and corroborated by
his housekeeper. One consequence inevitably flowed from them. The
sleep-walker, he who had led me through so devious a tract, was no other
than Clithero. There was, likewise, a strong relation between this person
and him who stopped at the gate. What was the subject of discourse between
them? In answer to Miss Inglefield's interrogatories, he merely said
that the traveller inquired whither the road led which, at a small
distance forward, struck out of the principal one. Considering the
length of the interview, it was not likely that this was the only topic. My determination to confer with him in private acquired new force from
these reflections. Inglefield assented to my proposal. His own affairs
would permit the absence of his servant for one day. I saw no necessity
for delay, and immediately made my request to Clithero. I was fashioning
an implement, I told him, with respect to which I could not wholly
depend upon my own skill. I was acquainted with the dexterity of his
contrivances, and the neatness of his workmanship. He readily consented
to assist me on this occasion. Next day he came. Contrary to my
expectation, he prepared to return home in the evening. I urged him to
spend the night with us: but no; it was equally convenient, and more
agreeable to him, to return. I was not aware of this resolution. I might, indeed, have foreseen that,
being conscious of his infirmity, he would desire to avoid the scrutiny
of strangers. I was painfully disconcerted; but it occurred to me, that
the best that could be done was to bear him company, and seize some
opportunity, during this interval, of effecting my purpose. I told him,
that, since he would not remain, I cared not if, for the sake of
recreation, and of a much more momentous purpose, I went along with him. He tacitly, and without apparent reluctance, consented to my scheme,
and, accordingly, we set off together. This was an awful crisis. The
time had now come that was to dissipate my uncertainty. By what means
should I introduce a topic so momentous and singular? I had been
qualified by no experience for rightly conducting myself on so critical
an emergency. My companion preserved a mournful and inviolable silence. He afforded me no opening by which I might reach the point in view. His
demeanour was sedate, while I was almost disabled, by the confusion of
my thoughts, to utter a word. It was a dreadful charge that I was about to insinuate. I was to accuse
my companion of nothing less than murder. I was to call upon him for an
avowal of his guilt. I was to state the ground of my suspicions, and
desire him to confute or confirm them. In doing this, I was principally
stimulated by an ungovernable curiosity; yet, if I intended not the
conferring of a benefit, I did not, at least, purpose the infliction of
evil. I persuaded myself that I was able to exclude from my bosom all
sanguinary or vengeful impulses; and that, whatever should be the issue
of this conversation, my equanimity would be unsubdued. I revolved various modes of introducing the topic by which my mind was
engaged. I passed rapidly from one to another. None of them were
sufficiently free from objection to allow me to adopt it. My perplexity
became, every moment, more painful, and my ability to extricate myself,
less. In this state of uncertainty, so much time elapsed, that the elm at
length appeared in sight. This object had somewhat of a mechanical
influence upon me. I stopped short, and seized the arm of my companion. Till this moment, he appeared to have been engrossed by his own
reflections, and not to have heeded those emotions which must have been
sufficiently conspicuous in my looks.