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EUGENE ARAM
disarranged, his fl ushed cheeks and rolling eyes, betrayed
the source ofconsolation to which he had fl own from his domestic affl iction. “What do ye here?” said he, reeling forward.
“Ha! human bones? And whose may they be, think ye?”
“They are Clarke’s!” said the woman, who had fi rst given
rise to that supposition.
“Yes, we think they are Daniel Clarke’s, — he who disappeared some years ago!” cried two or three voices in concert.
“Clarke’s?” repeated Houseman, stooping down and picking up a thigh-bone, which lay at a little distance from the rest;
“Clarke’s? Ha! ha! they are no more Clarke’s than mine!”
“Behold!” shouted Walter, in a voice that rang from cliff to
plain; and springing forward, he seized Houseman with a giant’s grasp, — “behold the murderer!”
As if the avenging voice ofHeaven had spoken, a thrilling,
an electric conviction darted through the crowd. Each ofthe
elder spectators remembered at once the person ofHouseman,
and the suspicion that had attached to his name.
“Seize him! seize him!” burst forth from twenty voices.
“Houseman is the murderer!”
“Murderer!” faltered Houseman, trembling in the iron
hands ofWalter, — “murderer ofwhom? I tell ye these are not
Clarke’s bones!”
“Where then do they lie?” cried his arrester.
Pale, confused, conscience-stricken, the bewilderment of
intoxication mingling with that offear, Houseman turned
a ghastly look around him, and, shrinking from the eyes ofall,
reading in the eyes ofall his condemnation, he gasped out,
“Search St. Robert’s Cave, in the turn at the entrance!”
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EDWARD BULWER LYTTON
“Away!” rang the deep voice ofWalter, on the instant;
“away! To the cave, to the cave!”
On the banks ofthe River Nid, whose waters keep an everlasting murmur to the crags and trees that overhang them, is
a wild and dreary cavern, hollowed from a rock which, according to tradition, was formerly the hermitage ofone ofthose
early enthusiasts who made their solitude in the sternest recesses ofearth, and from the austerest thoughts and the bitterest penance wrought their joyless offerings to the great
Spirit ofthe lovely world. To this desolate spot, called, from
the name ofi ts once celebrated eremite, St. Robert’s Cave,
the crowd now swept, increasing its numbers as it advanced.
The old man who had discovered the unknown remains,
which were gathered up and made a part ofthe procession,
led the way; Houseman, placed between two strong and active men, went next; and Walter followed behind, fi xing his
eyes mutely upon the ruffi an. The curate had had the precaution to send on before for torches, for the wintry evening now
darkened round them, and the light from the torch-bearers,
who met them at the cavern, cast forth its red and lurid fl are at
the mouth ofthe chasm. One ofthese torches Walter himself
seized, and his was the fi rst step that entered the gloomy passage. At this place and time, Houseman, who till then, throughout their short journey, had seemed to have recovered a sort ofdogged self-possession, recoiled, and the big drops offear or
agony fell fast from his brow. He was dragged forward forcibly
into the cavern; and now as the space fi lled, and the torches
fl ickered against the grim walls, glaring on faces which caught,
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EUGENE ARAM
from the deep and thrilling contagion ofa common sentiment,
one common expression, it was not well possible for the wildest imagination to conceive a scene better fi tted for the unhallowed burial-place ofthe murdered dead.
The eyes ofall now turned upon Houseman; and he, after
twice vainly endeavoring to speak, for the words died inarticulate and choked within him, advancing a few steps, pointed towards a spot on which, the next moment, fell the concentrated
light ofevery torch. An indescribable and universal murmur,
and then a breathless silence, ensued. On the spot which
Houseman had indicated, with the head placed to the right,
lay what once had been a human body!
“Can you swear,” said the priest, solemnly, as he turned to
Houseman, “that these are the bones ofClarke?”
“Before God, I can swear it!” replied Houseman, at length
fi nding his voice.
“MY FATHER!” broke from Walter’s lips as he sank upon
his knees; and that exclamation completed the awe and horror which prevailed in the breasts ofall present. Stung by
a sense ofthe danger he had drawn upon himself, and despair
and excitement restoring, in some measure, not only his natural hardihood, but his natural astuteness, Houseman, here
mastering his emotions, and making that effort which he was
afterwards enabled to follow up with an advantage to himself ofwhich he could not then have dreamed, — Houseman,
I say, cried aloud,
“But I did not do the deed; I am not the murderer.”
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EDWARD BULWER LYTTON
“Speak out! Whom do you accuse?” said the curate. Drawing his breath hard, and setting his teeth as with some steeled
determination, Houseman replied, —
“The murderer is Eugene Aram!”
“Aram!” shouted Walter, starting to his feet: “O God, thy
hand hath directed me hither!” And suddenly and at once
sense left him, and he fell, as if a shot had pierced through
his heart, beside the remains ofthat father whom he had thus
mysteriously discovered.
BOOK V
Surely the man that plotteth ill against his
neighbor perpetrateth ill against himself,
and the evil design is most evil to him that
deviseth it.
— Hesiod
CHAPTER I
GRASSDALE. — THE MORNING OF
THE MARRIAGE. — THE CRONES GOSSIP. —
THE BRIDE AT HER TOILET. — THE ARRIVAL.
JAM veniet virgo, jam dicetur Hymenaeus,
Hymen, O Hymenae! Hymen ades, O Hymenae!
CATULLUS: Carmen Nuptiale.
It was now the morning in which Eugene Aram was to be
married to Madeline Lester. The student’s house had been
set in order for the arrival ofthe bride; and though it was yet
early morn, two old women, whom his domestic (now not
the only one, for a bu xom lass ofeighteen had been transplanted from Lester’s household to meet the additional cares that
the change ofcircumstances brought to Aram’s) had invited to
assist her in arranging what was already arranged, were bustling about the lower apartments and making matters, as they
call it, “tidy.”
“Them fl owers look but poor things, after all,” muttered
an old crone, whom our readers will recognize as Dame Dark-
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EDWARD BULWER LYTTON
mans, placing a bowl ofexotics on the table. “They does not
look nigh so cheerful as them as grows in the open air.”
“Tush! Goody Darkmans,” said the second gossip. “They be
much prettier and fi ner, to my mind; and so said Miss Nelly
when she plucked them last night and sent me down with
them. They says there is not a blade o’ grass that the master
does not know. He must be a good man to love the things ofthe
fi eld so.”
“Ho!” said Dame Darkmans, “ho! When Joe Wrench
was hanged for shooting the lord’s keeper, and he mounted
the scaffold wid a nosegay in his hand, he said, in a peevish
voice, says he: ‘Why does not they give me a tarnation? I always
loved them sort o’ fl owers, — I wore them when I went a courting Bess Lucas, — an’ I would like to die with one in my hand!’
So a man may like fl owers, and be but a hempen dog after all!”
“Now don’t you, Goody; be still, can’t you? What a tale for
a marriage day!”
“Tally vally!” returned the grim hag, “many a blessing carries a curse in its arms, as the new moon carries the old. This
won’t be one ofyour happy weddings, I tell ye.”
“And why d’ ye say that?”
“Did you ever see a man with a look like that make a happy
husband? No, no! Can ye fancy the merry laugh o’ childer in
this house, or a babe on the father’s knee, or the happy, still
smile on the mother’s winsome face, some few years hence?
No, Madge! the devil has set his black claw on the man’s brow.”
“Hush, hush, Goody Darkmans; he may hear o’ ye!” said
the second gossip, who, having now done all that remained to
do, had seated herself down by the window, while the more
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