The most probable conclusion was, that
the walker was his nephew, and his curiosity had led him to my chamber
to ascertain the truth. This dwelling has three stories. The two lower stories are divided into
numerous apartments. The upper story constitutes a single room whose
sides are the four walls of the house, and whose ceiling is the roof. This room is unoccupied, except by lumber, and imperfectly lighted by a
small casement at one end. In this room were footsteps heard by my
uncle. The staircase leading to it terminated in a passage near my door. I
snatched the candle, and, desiring him to follow me, added that I would
ascertain the truth in a moment. He followed, but observed that the
walking had ceased long enough for the person to escape. I ascended to the room, and looked behind and among the tables, and
chairs, and casks, which were confusedly scattered through it, but found
nothing in the shape of man. The cedar chest, spoken of by Mr. Huntly,
contained old books, and remnants of maps and charts, whose
worthlessness unfitted them for accomodation elsewhere. The lid was
without hinges or lock. I examined this repository, but there was
nothing which attracted my attention. The way between the kitchen-door and the door of the long room had no
impediments. Both were usually unfastened; but the motives by which any
stranger to the dwelling, or indeed any one within it, could be prompted
to choose this place and hour for an employment of this kind, were
wholly incomprehensible. When the family rose, inquiries were made; but no satisfaction was
obtained. The family consisted only of four persons,--my uncle, my two
sisters, and myself. I mentioned to them the loss I had sustained, but
their conjectures were no less unsatisfactory on this than on the former
incident. There was no end to my restless meditations. Waldegrave was the only
being, besides myself, acquainted with the secrets of my cabinet. During
his life these manuscripts had been the objects of perpetual solicitude;
to gain possession, to destroy or secrete them, was the strongest of his
wishes. Had he retained his sensibility on the approach of death, no
doubt he would have renewed, with irresistible solemnity, his
injunctions to destroy them. Now, however, they had vanished. There were no materials of conjecture;
no probabilities to be weighed, or suspicions to revolve. Human artifice
or power was unequal to this exploit. Means less than preternatural
would not furnish a conveyance for this treasure. It was otherwise with regard to this unseasonable walker. His
inducements indeed were beyond my power to conceive; but to enter these
doors and ascend these stairs demanded not the faculties of any being
more than human. This intrusion, and the pillage of my cabinet, were contemporary events. Was there no more connection between them than that which results from
time? Was not the purloiner of my treasure and the wanderer the same
person? I could not reconcile the former incident with the attributes of
man; and yet a secret faith, not to be outrooted or suspended, swayed
me, and compelled me to imagine that the detection of this visitant
would unveil the thief. These thoughts were pregnant with dejection and reverie. Clithero,
during the day, was forgotten. On the succeeding night, my intentions,
with regard to this man, returned. I derived some slender consolation
from reflecting, that time, in its long lapse and ceaseless revolutions,
might dissipate the gloom that environed me. Meanwhile, I struggled to
dismiss the images connected with my loss and to think only of Clithero. My impatience was as strong as ever to obtain another interview with
this man. I longed with vehemence for the return of day. I believed that
every moment added to his sufferings, intellectual and physical, and
confided in the efficacy of my presence to alleviate or suspend them. The provisions I had left would be speedily consumed, and the abstinence
of three days was sufficient to undermine the vital energies. I
sometimes hesitated whether I ought not instantly to depart. It was
night indeed, but the late storm had purified the air, and the radiance
of a full moon was universal and dazzling. From this attempt I was deterred by reflecting that my own frame needed
the repairs of sleep. Toil and watchfulness, if prolonged another day,
would deeply injure a constitution by no means distinguished for its
force. I must, therefore, compel, if it were possible, some hours of
repose. I prepared to retire to bed, when a new incident occurred to
divert my attention for a time from these designs. Chapter XIV. While sitting alone by the parlour-fire, marking the effects of
moonlight, I noted one on horseback coming towards the gate. At first
sight, methought his shape and guise were not wholly new to me; but all
that I could discern was merely a resemblance to some one whom I had
before seen. Presently he stopped, and, looking towards the house, made
inquiries of a passenger who chanced to be near. Being apparently
satisfied with the answers he received, he rode with a quick pace into
the court and alighted at the door. I started from my seat, and, going
forth, waited with some impatience to hear his purpose explained. He accosted me with the formality of a stranger, and asked if a young
man, by name Edgar Huntly, resided here. Being answered in the
affirmative, and being requested to come in, he entered, and seated
himself, without hesitation, by the fire. Some doubt and anxiety were
visible in his looks. He seemed desirous of information upon some topic,
and yet betrayed terror lest the answers he might receive should subvert
some hope or confirm some foreboding. Meanwhile I scrutinized his features with much solicitude. A nearer and
more deliberate view convinced me that the first impression was just;
but still I was unable to call up his name or the circumstances of our
former meeting. The pause was at length ended by his saying, in a
faltering voice,--

"My name is Weymouth. I came hither to obtain information on a subject
in which my happiness is deeply concerned." At the mention of his name, I started. It was a name too closely
connected with the image of thy brother, not to call up affecting and
vivid recollections. Weymouth, thou knowest, was thy brother's friend. It is three years since this man left America, during which time no
tidings had been heard of him,--at least, by thy brother. He had now
returned, and was probably unacquainted with the fate of his friend. After an anxious pause, he continued:--"Since my arrival I have heard of
an event which has, on many accounts, given me the deepest sorrow. I
loved Waldegrave, and know not any person in the world whose life was
dearer to me than his. There were considerations, however, which made it
more precious to me than the life of one whose merits might be greater. With his life, my own existence and property were, I have reason to
think, inseparably united.