Edgar Huntly | Page 5

mournful vision that dissolved him in tears, and extorted from him
tokens of inconsolable distress? What did he seek, or what endeavour
to conceal, in this fatal spot? The incapacity of sound sleep denotes a
mind sorely wounded. It is thus that atrocious criminals denote the
possession of some dreadful secret. The thoughts, which considerations
of safety enable them to suppress or disguise during wakefulness,
operate without impediment, and exhibit their genuine effects, when
the notices of sense are partly excluded and they are shut out from a
knowledge of their entire condition.
This is the perpetrator of some nefarious deed. What but the murder of
Waldegrave could direct his steps hither? His employment was part of
some fantastic drama in which his mind was busy. To comprehend it
demands penetration into the recesses of his soul. But one thing is sure:
an incoherent conception of his concern in that transaction bewitches
him hither. This it is that deluges his heart with bitterness and supplies
him with ever-flowing tears.
But whence comes he? He does not start from the bosom of the earth,
or hide himself in airy distance. He must have a name and a terrestrial
habitation. It cannot be at an immeasurable distance from the haunted

elm. Inglefield's house is the nearest. This may be one of its inhabitants.
I did not recognise his features, but this was owing to the dusky
atmosphere and to the singularity of his garb. Inglefield has two
servants, one of whom was a native of this district, simple, guileless,
and incapable of any act of violence. He was, moreover, devoutly
attached to his sect. He could not be the criminal.
The other was a person of a very different cast. He was an emigrant
from Ireland, and had been six months in the family of my friend. He
was a pattern of sobriety and gentleness. His mind was superior to his
situation. His natural endowments were strong, and had enjoyed all the
advantage of cultivation. His demeanour was grave, and thoughtful,
and compassionate. He appeared not untinctured with religion; but his
devotion, though unostentatious, was of a melancholy tenor.
There was nothing in the first view of his character calculated to
engender suspicion. The neighbourhood was populous. But, as I conned
over the catalogue, I perceived that the only foreigner among us was
Clithero. Our scheme was, for the most part, a patriarchal one. Each
farmer was surrounded by his sons and kinsmen. This was an exception
to the rule. Clithero was a stranger, whose adventures and character,
previously to his coming hither, were unknown to us. The elm was
surrounded by his master's domains. An actor there must be, and no one
was equally questionable.
The more I revolved the pensive and reserved deportment of this man,
the ignorance in which we were placed respecting his former situation,
his possible motives for abandoning his country and choosing a station
so much below the standard of his intellectual attainments, the stronger
my suspicions became. Formerly, when occupied with conjectures
relative to the same topic, the image of this man did not fail to occur;
but the seeming harmlessness of his ordinary conduct had raised him to
a level with others, and placed him equally beyond the reach of
suspicion. I did not, till now, advert to the recentness of his appearance
among us, and to the obscurity that hung over his origin and past life.
But now these considerations appeared so highly momentous as almost
to decide the question of his guilt.

But how were these doubts to be changed into absolute certainty?
Henceforth this man was to become the subject of my scrutiny. I was to
gain all the knowledge, respecting him, which those with whom he
lived, and were the perpetual witnesses of his actions, could impart. For
this end I was to make minute inquiries, and to put seasonable
interrogatories. From this conduct I promised myself an ultimate
solution of my doubts.
I acquiesced in this view of things with considerable satisfaction. It
seemed as if the maze was no longer inscrutable. It would be quickly
discovered who were the agents and instigators of the murder of my
friend.
But it suddenly occurred to me, For what purpose shall I prosecute this
search? What benefit am I to reap from this discovery? How shall I
demean myself when the criminal is detected? I was not insensible, at
that moment, of the impulses of vengeance, but they were transient. I
detested the sanguinary resolutions that I had once formed. Yet I was
fearful of the effects of my hasty rage, and dreaded an encounter in
consequence of which I might rush into evils which no time could
repair, nor penitence expiate.
"But why," said I, "should it be impossible to arm myself