Book: Wieland; or The Transformation, An American Tale

C >> Charles Brockden Brown >> Wieland; or The Transformation, An American Tale




Yet was not this the man whom we had treated with unwearied
kindness? Whose society was endeared to us by his intellectual
elevation and accomplishments? Who had a thousand times
expatiated on the usefulness and beauty of virtue? Why should
such a one be dreaded? If I could have forgotten the
circumstances in which our interview had taken place, I might
have treated his words as jests. Presently, he resumed:

"Fear me not: the space that severs us is small, and all
visible succour is distant. You believe yourself completely in
my power; that you stand upon the brink of ruin. Such are your
groundless fears. I cannot lift a finger to hurt you. Easier
it would be to stop the moon in her course than to injure you.
The power that protects you would crumble my sinews, and reduce
me to a heap of ashes in a moment, if I were to harbour a
thought hostile to your safety.
"Thus are appearances at length solved. Little did I expect
that they originated hence. What a portion is assigned to you?
Scanned by the eyes of this intelligence, your path will be
without pits to swallow, or snares to entangle you. Environed
by the arms of this protection, all artifices will be
frustrated, and all malice repelled."

Here succeeded a new pause. I was still observant of every
gesture and look. The tranquil solemnity that had lately
possessed his countenance gave way to a new expression. All now
was trepidation and anxiety.

"I must be gone," said he in a faltering accent. "Why do I
linger here? I will not ask your forgiveness. I see that your
terrors are invincible. Your pardon will be extorted by fear,
and not dictated by compassion. I must fly from you forever.
He that could plot against your honor, must expect from you and
your friends persecution and death. I must doom myself to
endless exile."

Saying this, he hastily left the room. I listened while he
descended the stairs, and, unbolting the outer door, went forth.
I did not follow him with my eyes, as the moon-light would have
enabled me to do. Relieved by his absence, and exhausted by the
conflict of my fears, I threw myself on a chair, and resigned
myself to those bewildering ideas which incidents like these
could not fail to produce.



Chapter X


Order could not readily be introduced into my thoughts. The
voice still rung in my ears. Every accent that was uttered by
Carwin was fresh in my remembrance. His unwelcome approach, the
recognition of his person, his hasty departure, produced a
complex impression on my mind which no words can delineate. I
strove to give a slower motion to my thoughts, and to regulate
a confusion which became painful; but my efforts were nugatory.
I covered my eyes with my hand, and sat, I know not how long,
without power to arrange or utter my conceptions.

I had remained for hours, as I believed, in absolute
solitude. No thought of personal danger had molested my
tranquillity. I had made no preparation for defence. What was
it that suggested the design of perusing my father's manuscript?
If, instead of this, I had retired to bed, and to sleep, to what
fate might I not have been reserved? The ruffian, who must
almost have suppressed his breathing to screen himself from
discovery, would have noticed this signal, and I should have
awakened only to perish with affright, and to abhor myself.
Could I have remained unconscious of my danger? Could I have
tranquilly slept in the midst of so deadly a snare?

And who was he that threatened to destroy me? By what means
could he hide himself in this closet? Surely he is gifted with
supernatural power. Such is the enemy of whose attempts I was
forewarned. Daily I had seen him and conversed with him.
Nothing could be discerned through the impenetrable veil of his
duplicity. When busied in conjectures, as to the author of the
evil that was threatened, my mind did not light, for a moment,
upon his image. Yet has he not avowed himself my enemy? Why
should he be here if he had not meditated evil?

He confesses that this has been his second attempt. What was
the scene of his former conspiracy? Was it not he whose
whispers betrayed him? Am I deceived; or was there not a faint
resemblance between the voice of this man and that which talked
of grasping my throat, and extinguishing my life in a moment?
Then he had a colleague in his crime; now he is alone. Then
death was the scope of his thoughts; now an injury unspeakably
more dreadful. How thankful should I be to the power that has
interposed to save me!

That power is invisible. It is subject to the cognizance of
one of my senses. What are the means that will inform me of
what nature it is? He has set himself to counterwork the
machinations of this man, who had menaced destruction to all
that is dear to me, and whose cunning had surmounted every human
impediment. There was none to rescue me from his grasp. My
rashness even hastened the completion of his scheme, and
precluded him from the benefits of deliberation. I had robbed
him of the power to repent and forbear. Had I been apprized of
the danger, I should have regarded my conduct as the means of
rendering my escape from it impossible. Such, likewise, seem to
have been the fears of my invisible protector. Else why that
startling intreaty to refrain from opening the closet? By what
inexplicable infatuation was I compelled to proceed?

Yet my conduct was wise. Carwin, unable to comprehend my
folly, ascribed my behaviour to my knowledge. He conceived
himself previously detected, and such detection being possible
to flow only from MY heavenly friend, and HIS enemy, his
fears acquired additional strength.

He is apprized of the nature and intentions of this being.
Perhaps he is a human agent. Yet, on that supposition his
atchievements are incredible. Why should I be selected as the
object of his care; or, if a mere mortal, should I not recognize
some one, whom, benefits imparted and received had prompted to
love me? What were the limits and duration of his guardianship?
Was the genius of my birth entrusted by divine benignity with
this province? Are human faculties adequate to receive stronger
proofs of the existence of unfettered and beneficent
intelligences than I have received?

But who was this man's coadjutor? The voice that
acknowledged an alliance in treachery with Carwin warned me to
avoid the summer-house. He assured me that there only my safety
was endangered. His assurance, as it now appears, was
fallacious. Was there not deceit in his admonition? Was his
compact really annulled? Some purpose was, perhaps, to be
accomplished by preventing my future visits to that spot. Why
was I enjoined silence to others, on the subject of this
admonition, unless it were for some unauthorized and guilty
purpose?

No one but myself was accustomed to visit it. Backward, it
was hidden from distant view by the rock, and in front, it was
screened from all examination, by creeping plants, and the
branches of cedars. What recess could be more propitious to
secrecy? The spirit which haunted it formerly was pure and
rapturous. It was a fane sacred to the memory of infantile
days, and to blissful imaginations of the future! What a gloomy
reverse had succeeded since the ominous arrival of this
stranger! Now, perhaps, it is the scene of his meditations.
Purposes fraught with horror, that shun the light, and
contemplate the pollution of innocence, are here engendered, and
fostered, and reared to maturity.

Such were the ideas that, during the night, were tumultuously
revolved by me. I reviewed every conversation in which Carwin
had borne a part. I studied to discover the true inferences
deducible from his deportment and words with regard to his
former adventures and actual views. I pondered on the comments
which he made on the relation which I had given of the closet
dialogue. No new ideas suggested themselves in the course of
this review. My expectation had, from the first, been
disappointed on the small degree of surprize which this
narrative excited in him. He never explicitly declared his
opinion as to the nature of those voices, or decided whether
they were real or visionary. He recommended no measures of
caution or prevention.

But what measures were now to be taken? Was the danger which
threatened me at an end? Had I nothing more to fear? I was
lonely, and without means of defence. I could not calculate the
motives and regulate the footsteps of this person. What
certainty was there, that he would not re-assume his purposes,
and swiftly return to the execution of them?

This idea covered me once more with dismay. How deeply did
I regret the solitude in which I was placed, and how ardently
did I desire the return of day! But neither of these
inconveniencies were susceptible of remedy. At first, it
occurred to me to summon my servant, and make her spend the
night in my chamber; but the inefficacy of this expedient to
enhance my safety was easily seen. Once I resolved to leave the
house, and retire to my brother's, but was deterred by
reflecting on the unseasonableness of the hour, on the alarm
which my arrival, and the account which I should be obliged to
give, might occasion, and on the danger to which I might expose
myself in the way thither. I began, likewise, to consider
Carwin's return to molest me as exceedingly improbable. He had
relinquished, of his own accord, his design, and departed
without compulsion.
"Surely," said I, "there is omnipotence in the cause that
changed the views of a man like Carwin. The divinity that
shielded me from his attempts will take suitable care of my
future safety. Thus to yield to my fears is to deserve that
they should be real."

Scarcely had I uttered these words, when my attention was
startled by the sound of footsteps. They denoted some one
stepping into the piazza in front of my house. My new-born
confidence was extinguished in a moment. Carwin, I thought, had
repented his departure, and was hastily returning. The
possibility that his return was prompted by intentions
consistent with my safety, found no place in my mind. Images of
violation and murder assailed me anew, and the terrors which
succeeded almost incapacitated me from taking any measures for
my defence. It was an impulse of which I was scarcely
conscious, that made me fasten the lock and draw the bolts of my
chamber door. Having done this, I threw myself on a seat; for
I trembled to a degree which disabled me from standing, and my
soul was so perfectly absorbed in the act of listening, that
almost the vital motions were stopped.

The door below creaked on its hinges. It was not again
thrust to, but appeared to remain open. Footsteps entered,
traversed the entry, and began to mount the stairs. How I
detested the folly of not pursuing the man when he withdrew, and
bolting after him the outer door! Might he not conceive this
omission to be a proof that my angel had deserted me, and be
thereby fortified in guilt?

Every step on the stairs, which brought him nearer to my
chamber, added vigor to my desperation. The evil with which I
was menaced was to be at any rate eluded. How little did I
preconceive the conduct which, in an exigence like this, I
should be prone to adopt. You will suppose that deliberation
and despair would have suggested the same course of action, and
that I should have, unhesitatingly, resorted to the best means
of personal defence within my power. A penknife lay open upon
my table. I remembered that it was there, and seized it. For
what purpose you will scarcely inquire. It will be immediately
supposed that I meant it for my last refuge, and that if all
other means should fail, I should plunge it into the heart of my
ravisher.

I have lost all faith in the stedfastness of human resolves.
It was thus that in periods of calm I had determined to act. No
cowardice had been held by me in greater abhorrence than that
which prompted an injured female to destroy, not her injurer ere
the injury was perpetrated, but herself when it was without
remedy. Yet now this penknife appeared to me of no other use
than to baffle my assailant, and prevent the crime by destroying
myself. To deliberate at such a time was impossible; but among
the tumultuous suggestions of the moment, I do not recollect
that it once occurred to me to use it as an instrument of direct
defence.
The steps had now reached the second floor. Every footfall
accelerated the completion, without augmenting, the certainty of
evil. The consciousness that the door was fast, now that
nothing but that was interposed between me and danger, was a
source of some consolation. I cast my eye towards the window.
This, likewise, was a new suggestion. If the door should give
way, it was my sudden resolution to throw myself from the
window. Its height from the ground, which was covered beneath
by a brick pavement, would insure my destruction; but I thought
not of that.

When opposite to my door the footsteps ceased. Was he
listening whether my fears were allayed, and my caution were
asleep? Did he hope to take me by surprize? Yet, if so, why
did he allow so many noisy signals to betray his approach?
Presently the steps were again heard to approach the door. An
hand was laid upon the lock, and the latch pulled back. Did he
imagine it possible that I should fail to secure the door? A
slight effort was made to push it open, as if all bolts being
withdrawn, a slight effort only was required.

I no sooner perceived this, than I moved swiftly towards the
window. Carwin's frame might be said to be all muscle. His
strength and activity had appeared, in various instances, to be
prodigious. A slight exertion of his force would demolish the
door. Would not that exertion be made? Too surely it would;
but, at the same moment that this obstacle should yield, and he
should enter the apartment, my determination was formed to leap
from the window. My senses were still bound to this object. I
gazed at the door in momentary expectation that the assault
would be made. The pause continued. The person without was
irresolute and motionless.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that Carwin might conceive me to
have fled. That I had not betaken myself to flight was, indeed,
the least probable of all conclusions. In this persuasion he
must have been confirmed on finding the lower door unfastened,
and the chamber door locked. Was it not wise to foster this
persuasion? Should I maintain deep silence, this, in addition
to other circumstances, might encourage the belief, and he would
once more depart. Every new reflection added plausibility to
this reasoning. It was presently more strongly enforced, when
I noticed footsteps withdrawing from the door. The blood once
more flowed back to my heart, and a dawn of exultation began to
rise: but my joy was short lived. Instead of descending the
stairs, he passed to the door of the opposite chamber, opened
it, and having entered, shut it after him with a violence that
shook the house.

How was I to interpret this circumstance? For what end could
he have entered this chamber? Did the violence with which he
closed the door testify the depth of his vexation? This room
was usually occupied by Pleyel. Was Carwin aware of his absence
on this night? Could he be suspected of a design so sordid as
pillage? If this were his view there were no means in my power
to frustrate it. It behoved me to seize the first opportunity
to escape; but if my escape were supposed by my enemy to have
been already effected, no asylum was more secure than the
present. How could my passage from the house be accomplished
without noises that might incite him to pursue me?

Utterly at a loss to account for his going into Pleyel's
chamber, I waited in instant expectation of hearing him come
forth. All, however, was profoundly still. I listened in vain
for a considerable period, to catch the sound of the door when
it should again be opened. There was no other avenue by which
he could escape, but a door which led into the girl's chamber.
Would any evil from this quarter befall the girl?

Hence arose a new train of apprehensions. They merely added
to the turbulence and agony of my reflections. Whatever evil
impended over her, I had no power to avert it. Seclusion and
silence were the only means of saving myself from the perils of
this fatal night. What solemn vows did I put up, that if I
should once more behold the light of day, I would never trust
myself again within the threshold of this dwelling!

Minute lingered after minute, but no token was given that
Carwin had returned to the passage. What, I again asked, could
detain him in this room? Was it possible that he had returned,
and glided, unperceived, away? I was speedily aware of the
difficulty that attended an enterprize like this; and yet, as if
by that means I were capable of gaining any information on that
head, I cast anxious looks from the window.

The object that first attracted my attention was an human
figure standing on the edge of the bank. Perhaps my penetration
was assisted by my hopes. Be that as it will, the figure of
Carwin was clearly distinguishable. From the obscurity of my
station, it was impossible that I should be discerned by him,
and yet he scarcely suffered me to catch a glimpse of him. He
turned and went down the steep, which, in this part, was not
difficult to be scaled.

My conjecture then had been right. Carwin has softly opened
the door, descended the stairs, and issued forth. That I should
not have overheard his steps, was only less incredible than that
my eyes had deceived me. But what was now to be done? The
house was at length delivered from this detested inmate. By one
avenue might he again re-enter. Was it not wise to bar the
lower door? Perhaps he had gone out by the kitchen door. For
this end, he must have passed through Judith's chamber. These
entrances being closed and bolted, as great security was gained
as was compatible with my lonely condition.

The propriety of these measures was too manifest not to make
me struggle successfully with my fears. Yet I opened my own
door with the utmost caution, and descended as if I were afraid
that Carwin had been still immured in Pleyel's chamber. The
outer door was a-jar. I shut, with trembling eagerness, and
drew every bolt that appended to it. I then passed with light
and less cautious steps through the parlour, but was surprized
to discover that the kitchen door was secure. I was compelled
to acquiesce in the first conjecture that Carwin had escaped
through the entry.

My heart was now somewhat eased of the load of apprehension.
I returned once more to my chamber, the door of which I was
careful to lock. It was no time to think of repose. The
moon-light began already to fade before the light of the day.
The approach of morning was betokened by the usual signals. I
mused upon the events of this night, and determined to take up
my abode henceforth at my brother's. Whether I should inform
him of what had happened was a question which seemed to demand
some consideration. My safety unquestionably required that I
should abandon my present habitation.

As my thoughts began to flow with fewer impediments, the
image of Pleyel, and the dubiousness of his condition, again
recurred to me. I again ran over the possible causes of his
absence on the preceding day. My mind was attuned to
melancholy. I dwelt, with an obstinacy for which I could not
account, on the idea of his death. I painted to myself his
struggles with the billows, and his last appearance. I imagined
myself a midnight wanderer on the shore, and to have stumbled on
his corpse, which the tide had cast up. These dreary images
affected me even to tears. I endeavoured not to restrain them.
They imparted a relief which I had not anticipated. The more
copiously they flowed, the more did my general sensations appear
to subside into calm, and a certain restlessness give way to
repose.

Perhaps, relieved by this effusion, the slumber so much
wanted might have stolen on my senses, had there been no new
cause of alarm.



Chapter XI


I was aroused from this stupor by sounds that evidently arose
in the next chamber. Was it possible that I had been mistaken
in the figure which I had seen on the bank? or had Carwin, by
some inscrutable means, penetrated once more into this chamber?
The opposite door opened; footsteps came forth, and the person,
advancing to mine, knocked.

So unexpected an incident robbed me of all presence of mind,
and, starting up, I involuntarily exclaimed, "Who is there?" An
answer was immediately given. The voice, to my inexpressible
astonishment, was Pleyel's.

"It is I. Have you risen? If you have not, make haste; I
want three minutes conversation with you in the parlour--I will
wait for you there." Saying this he retired from the door.

Should I confide in the testimony of my ears? If that were
true, it was Pleyel that had been hitherto immured in the
opposite chamber: he whom my rueful fancy had depicted in so
many ruinous and ghastly shapes: he whose footsteps had been
listened to with such inquietude! What is man, that knowledge
is so sparingly conferred upon him! that his heart should be
wrung with distress, and his frame be exanimated with fear,
though his safety be encompassed with impregnable walls! What
are the bounds of human imbecility! He that warned me of the
presence of my foe refused the intimation by which so many
racking fears would have been precluded.

Yet who would have imagined the arrival of Pleyel at such an
hour? His tone was desponding and anxious. Why this
unseasonable summons? and why this hasty departure? Some
tidings he, perhaps, bears of mysterious and unwelcome import.

My impatience would not allow me to consume much time in
deliberation: I hastened down. Pleyel I found standing at a
window, with eyes cast down as in meditation, and arms folded on
his breast. Every line in his countenance was pregnant with
sorrow. To this was added a certain wanness and air of fatigue.
The last time I had seen him appearances had been the reverse of
these. I was startled at the change. The first impulse was to
question him as to the cause. This impulse was supplanted by
some degree of confusion, flowing from a consciousness that love
had too large, and, as it might prove, a perceptible share in
creating this impulse. I was silent.

Presently he raised his eyes and fixed them upon me. I read
in them an anguish altogether ineffable. Never had I witnessed
a like demeanour in Pleyel. Never, indeed, had I observed an
human countenance in which grief was more legibly inscribed. He
seemed struggling for utterance; but his struggles being
fruitless, he shook his head and turned away from me.

My impatience would not allow me to be longer silent:
"What," said I, "for heaven's sake, my friend, what is the
matter?"

He started at the sound of my voice. His looks, for a
moment, became convulsed with an emotion very different from
grief. His accents were broken with rage.

"The matter--O wretch!--thus exquisitely fashioned--on whom
nature seemed to have exhausted all her graces; with charms so
awful and so pure! how art thou fallen! From what height
fallen! A ruin so complete--so unheard of!"

His words were again choaked by emotion. Grief and pity were
again mingled in his features. He resumed, in a tone half
suffocated by sobs:

"But why should I upbraid thee? Could I restore to thee what
thou hast lost; efface this cursed stain; snatch thee from the
jaws of this fiend; I would do it. Yet what will avail my
efforts? I have not arms with which to contend with so
consummate, so frightful a depravity.

"Evidence less than this would only have excited resentment
and scorn. The wretch who should have breathed a suspicion
injurious to thy honor, would have been regarded without anger;
not hatred or envy could have prompted him; it would merely be
an argument of madness. That my eyes, that my ears, should bear
witness to thy fall! By no other way could detestible
conviction be imparted.

"Why do I summon thee to this conference? Why expose myself
to thy derision? Here admonition and entreaty are vain. Thou
knowest him already, for a murderer and thief. I had thought to
have been the first to disclose to thee his infamy; to have
warned thee of the pit to which thou art hastening; but thy eyes
are open in vain. O foul and insupportable disgrace!

"There is but one path. I know you will disappear together.
In thy ruin, how will the felicity and honor of multitudes be
involved! But it must come. This scene shall not be blotted by
his presence. No doubt thou wilt shortly see thy detested
paramour. This scene will be again polluted by a midnight
assignation. Inform him of his danger; tell him that his crimes
are known; let him fly far and instantly from this spot, if he
desires to avoid the fate which menaced him in Ireland.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.