I extinguished the light, and
left it in the kitchen, intending to relight it, by the embers that
still glowed on the hearth, on my return. I began to remove the sod and cast out the earth, with little confidence
in the success of my project. The issue of my examination of the box
humbled and disheartened me. For some time I found nothing that tended
to invigorate my hopes. I determined, however, to descend, as long as
the unsettled condition of the earth showed me that some one had
preceded me. Small masses of stone were occasionally met with, which
served only to perplex me with groundless expectations. At length my
spade struck upon something which emitted a very different sound. I
quickly drew it forth, and found it to be wood. Its regular form, and
the crevices which were faintly discernible, persuaded me that it was
human workmanship, and that there was a cavity within. The place in
which it was found easily suggested some connection between this and the
destiny of Clithero. Covering up the hole with speed, I hastened with my
prize to the house. The door by which the kitchen was entered was not to
be seen from the road. It opened on a field, the farther limit of which
was a ledge of rocks, which formed, on this side, the boundary of
Inglefield's estate and the westernmost barrier of Norwalk. As I turned the angle of the house, and came in view of this door,
methought I saw a figure issue from it. I was startled at this incident,
and, stopping, crouched close to the wall, that I might not be
discovered. As soon as the figure passed beyond the verge of the shade,
it was easily distinguished to be that of Clithero! He crossed the field
with a rapid pace, and quickly passed beyond the reach of my eye. This appearance was mysterious. For what end he should visit this
habitation could not be guessed. Was the contingency to be lamented in
consequence of which an interview had been avoided? Would it have
compelled me to explain the broken condition of his trunk? I knew not
whether to rejoice at having avoided this interview, or to deplore it. These thoughts did not divert me from examining the nature of the prize
which I had gained. I relighted my candle and hied once more to the
chamber. The first object which, on entering it, attracted my attention,
was the cabinet broken into twenty fragments, on the hearth. I had left
it on a low table, at a distant corner of the room. No conclusion could be formed but that Clithero had been here, had
discovered the violence which had been committed on his property, and,
in the first transport of his indignation, had shattered it to pieces. I
shuddered on reflecting how near I had been to being detected by him in
the very act, and by how small an interval I had escaped that resentment
which, in that case, would have probably been wreaked upon me. My attention was withdrawn, at length, from this object, and fixed upon
the contents of the box which I had dug up. This was equally
inaccessible with the other. I had not the same motives for caution and
forbearance. I was somewhat desperate, as the consequences of my
indiscretion could not be aggravated, and my curiosity was more
impetuous with regard to the smaller than to the larger cabinet. I
placed it on the ground and crushed it to pieces with my heel. Something was within. I brought it to the light, and, after loosing
numerous folds, at length drew forth a volume. No object in the circle
of nature was more adapted than this to rouse up all my faculties. My
feelings were anew excited on observing that it was a manuscript. I
bolted the door, and, drawing near the light, opened and began to read. A few pages were sufficient to explain the nature of the work. Clithero
had mentioned that his lady had composed a vindication of her conduct
towards her brother when her intercession in his favour was solicited
and refused. This performance had never been published, but had been
read by many, and was preserved by her friends as a precious monument of
her genius and her virtue. This manuscript was now before me. That Clithero should preserve this manuscript, amidst the wreck of his
hopes and fortunes, was apparently conformable to his temper. That,
having formed the resolution to die, he should seek to hide this volume
from the profane curiosity of survivors, was a natural proceeding. To
bury it rather than to burn, or disperse it into fragments, would be
suggested by the wish to conceal, without committing what his heated
fancy would regard as sacrilege. To bury it beneath the elm was dictated
by no fortuitous or inexplicable caprice. This event could scarcely fail
of exercising some influence on the perturbations of his sleep, and
thus, in addition to other causes, might his hovering near this trunk,
and throwing up this earth, in the intervals of slumber, be accounted
for. Clithero, indeed, had not mentioned this proceeding in the course
of his narrative; but that would have contravened the end for which he
had provided a grave for this book. I read this copious tale with unspeakable eagerness. It essentially
agreed with that which had been told by Clithero. By drawing forth
events into all their circumstances, more distinct impressions were
produced on the mind, and proofs of fortitude and equanimity were here
given to which I had hitherto known no parallel. No wonder that a soul
like Clithero's, pervaded by these proofs of inimitable excellence, and
thrillingly alive to the passion of virtuous fame, and the value of that
existence which he had destroyed, should be overborne by horror at the
view of the past. The instability of life and happiness was forcibly illustrated, as well
as the perniciousness of error. Exempt as this lady was from almost
every defect, she was indebted for her ruin to absurd opinions of the
sacredness of consanguinity, to her anxiety for the preservation of a
ruffian because that ruffian was her brother. The spirit of Clithero was
enlightened and erect, but he weakly suffered the dictates of eternal
justice to be swallowed up by gratitude. The dread of unjust upbraiding
hurried him to murder and to suicide, and the imputation of imaginary
guilt impelled him to the perpetration of genuine and enormous crimes. The perusal of this volume ended not but with the night. Contrary to my
hopes, the next day was stormy and wet. This did not deter me from
visiting the mountain. Slippery paths and muddy torrents were no
obstacles to the purposes which I had adopted. I wrapped myself, and a
bag of provisions, in a cloak of painted canvas, and speeded to the
dwelling of Clithero. I passed through the cave and reached the bridge which my own ingenuity
had formed. At that moment, torrents of rain poured from above, and
stronger blasts thundered amidst these desolate recesses and profound
chasms. Instead of lamenting the prevalence of this tempest, I now began
to regard it with pleasure. It conferred new forms of sublimity and
grandeur on this scene.