“It is necessary to mention, that this clergyman had been for some years
abroad--that events had occurred to him in foreign countries, of which
strange reports were spread, but on the subject of which he had been
always profoundly silent--and that having but lately fixed his residence
in the neighbourhood, he was equally a stranger to Elinor, and to the
circumstances of her past life, and of her present situation. * * * * *
* * * *

“It was now autumn,--the evenings were growing short,--and the brief
twilight was rapidly succeeded by night. On the dubious verge of both,
the clergyman quitted his house, and went in the direction where Elinor
told him she was accustomed to meet the stranger. “They were there before him; and in the shuddering and averted form of
Elinor, and the stern but calm importunity of her companion, he read the
terrible secret of their conference. Suddenly he advanced and stood
before the stranger. They immediately recognised each other. An
expression that was never before beheld there--an expression of
fear--wandered over the features of the stranger! He paused for a
moment, and then departed without uttering a word--nor was Elinor ever
again molested by his presence. * * * * *

“It was some days before the clergyman recovered from the shock of this
singular encounter sufficiently to see Elinor, and explain to her the
cause of his deep and painful agitation. “He sent to announce to her when he was able to receive her, and
appointed the night for the time of meeting, for he knew that during the
day she never forsook the helpless object of her unalienated heart. The
night arrived--imagine them seated in the antique study of the
clergyman, whose shelves were filled with the ponderous volumes of
ancient learning--the embers of a peat fire shed a dim and fitful light
through the room, and the single candle that burned on a distant oaken
stand, seemed to shed its light on that alone--not a ray fell on the
figures of Elinor and her companion, as they sat in their massive chairs
of carved-like figures in the richly-wrought nitches of some Catholic
place of worship----”

“That is a most profane and abominable comparison,” said Aliaga,
starting from the doze in which he had frequently indulged during this
long narrative. “But hear the result,” said the pertinacious narrator. “The clergyman
confessed to Elinor that he had been acquainted with an Irishman of the
name of Melmoth, whose various erudition, profound intellect, and
intense appetency for information, had interested him so deeply as to
lead to a perfect intimacy between them. At the breaking out of the
troubles in England, the clergyman had been compelled, with his father’s
family, to seek refuge in Holland. There again he met Melmoth, who
proposed to him a journey to Poland--the offer was accepted, and to
Poland they went. The clergyman here told many extraordinary tales of Dr
Dee, and of Albert Alasco, the Polish adventurer, who were their
companions both in England and Poland--and he added, that he felt his
companion Melmoth was irrevocably attached to the study of that art
which is held in just abomination by all “who name the name of Christ.”
The power of the intellectual vessel was too great for the narrow seas
where it was coasting--it longed to set out on a voyage of discovery--in
other words, Melmoth attached himself to those impostors, or worse, who
promised him the knowledge and the power of the future world--on
conditions that are unutterable.” A strange expression crossed his face
as he spoke. He recovered himself, and added, “From that hour our
intercourse ceased. I conceived of him as of one given up to diabolical
delusions--to the power of the enemy. “I had not seen Melmoth for some years. I was preparing to quit Germany,
when, on the eve of my departure, I received a message from a person who
announced himself as my friend, and who, believing himself dying, wished
for the attendance of a Protestant minister. We were then in the
territories of a Catholic electoral bishop. I lost no time in attending
the sick person. As I entered his room, conducted by a servant, who
immediately closed the door and retired, I was astonished to see the
room filled with an astrological apparatus, books and implements of a
science I did not understand; in a corner there was a bed, near which
there was neither priest or physician, relative or friend--on it lay
extended the form of Melmoth. I approached, and attempted to address to
him some words of consolation. He waved his hand to me to be silent--and
I was so. The recollection of his former habits and pursuits, and the
view of his present situation, had an effect that appalled more than it
amazed me. “Come near,” said Melmoth, speaking very faintly--“nearer. I
am dying--how my life has been passed you know but too well. Mine was
the great angelic sin--pride and intellectual glorying! It was the first
mortal sin--a boundless aspiration after forbidden knowledge! I am now
dying. I ask for no forms of religion--I wish not to hear words that
have to me no meaning, or that I wish had none! Spare your look of
horror. I sent for you to exact your solemn promise that you will
conceal from every human being the fact of my death--let no man know
that I died, or when, or where.”

“He spoke with a distinctness of tone, and energy of manner, that
convinced me he could not be in the state he described himself to be,
and I said, “But I cannot believe you are dying--your intellects are
clear, your voice is strong, your language is coherent, and but for the
paleness of your face, and your lying extended on that bed, I could not
even imagine you were ill.” He answered, “Have you patience and courage
to abide by the proof that what I say is true?” I replied, that I
doubtless had patience, and for the courage, I looked to that Being for
whose name I had too much reverence to utter in his hearing. He
acknowledged my forbearance by a ghastly smile which I understood too
well, and pointed to a clock that stood at the foot of his bed. “Observe,” said he, “the hour-hand is on eleven, and I am now sane,
clear of speech, and apparently healthful--tarry but an hour, and you
yourself will behold me dead!”

“I remained by his bed-side--the eyes of both were fixed intently on the
slow motion of the clock. From time to time he spoke, but his strength
now appeared obviously declining. He repeatedly urged on me the
necessity of profound secresy, its importance to myself, and yet he
hinted at the possibility of our future meeting. I asked why he thought
proper to confide to me a secret whose divulgement was so perilous, and
which might have been so easily concealed? Unknowing whether he existed,
or where, I must have been equally ignorant of the mode and place of his
death. To this he returned no answer. As the hand of the clock
approached the hour of twelve, his countenance changed--his eyes became
dim--his speech inarticulate--his jaw dropped--his respiration ceased.