Chapter 7

On my return, I found the following letter from my father:—

When I returned, I found this letter from my father:

“You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of your return to us; and I was at first tempted to write only a few lines, merely mentioning the day on which I should expect you. But that would be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it. What would be your surprise, my son, when you expected a happy and glad welcome, to behold, on the contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate our misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on my long absent son? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news, but I know it is impossible; even now your eye skims over the page to seek the words which are to convey to you the horrible tidings.

“You have probably been waiting impatiently for a letter telling you when to return to us. At first, I was tempted to write only a few lines, telling you when I expected you. But that would be a cruel kindness, and I cannot do it. My son, how shocked you would be to find tears and misery when you expected a joyful welcome! And how, Victor, can I tell you of our misfortune? Your absence cannot have made you indifferent to our joys and sorrows. How can I cause pain to my son, who has been away so long? I wish I could prepare you for the terrible news, but I know I cannot. Even now, your eyes are scanning the page for the words that will tell you the horrible news.

“William is dead!—that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor, he is murdered!

“William is dead! That sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed my heart, was so gentle and cheerful! Victor, he was murdered!

“I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the circumstances of the transaction.

“I will not try to comfort you. I will simply tell you what happened.

“Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged our walk farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of returning; and then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone on before, were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until they should return. Presently Ernest came, and enquired if we had seen his brother; he said, that he had been playing with him, that William had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and afterwards waited for a long time, but that he did not return.

“Last Thursday (May 7th), my niece, your two brothers, and I went for a walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and calm, so we walked farther than usual. It was already dusk when we thought of returning. Then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone ahead, were nowhere to be found. So we sat on a bench to wait for them. Soon Ernest came and asked if we had seen his brother. He said he had been playing with William, who had run away to hide. Ernest had searched for him in vain and then waited a long time, but William did not return.

“This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have returned to the house. He was not there. We returned again, with torches; for I could not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had lost himself, and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night; Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish. About five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming and active in health, stretched on the grass livid and motionless; the print of the murder’s finger was on his neck.

“This account alarmed us, and we continued to search for him until night fell. Then Elizabeth thought he might have returned to the house. He was not there. We went back out with torches. I could not rest when I thought of my sweet boy, lost and exposed to the damp and dew of night. Elizabeth was also in great anguish. Around five in the morning, I found my lovely boy lying pale and motionless on the grass. The night before, I had seen him blooming with health and full of energy. The marks of the murderer’s fingers were on his neck.

“He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest to see the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent her but she persisted, and entering the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the victim, and clasping her hands exclaimed, ‘O God! I have murdered my darling child!’

“He was brought home, and the anguish on my face revealed the secret to Elizabeth. She desperately wanted to see the body. At first I tried to stop her, but she insisted. She entered the room where the body lay and quickly examined the victim’s neck. Then she clasped her hands and cried, ‘O God! I have murdered my darling child!’

“She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she again lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me, that that same evening William had teased her to let him wear a very valuable miniature that she possessed of your mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed. We have no trace of him at present, although our exertions to discover him are unremitted; but they will not restore my beloved William!

“She fainted, and we had great difficulty bringing her around. When she came to, she could only weep and sigh. She told me that William had begged her that same evening to let him wear a miniature portrait of your mother. The portrait belonged to her and was very valuable. It is gone, and it was doubtless what tempted the murderer to kill William. We have no trace of him yet, although we continue to do everything we can to find him. But that will not bring back my beloved William!

“Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth. She weeps continually, and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of his death; her words pierce my heart. We are all unhappy; but will not that be an additional motive for you, my son, to return and be our comforter? Your dear mother! Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not live to witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!

“Come, dearest Victor. You alone can comfort Elizabeth. She weeps constantly and wrongly blames herself for his death. Her words break my heart. We are all unhappy. But surely that gives you even more reason to return and comfort us, my son? Your dear mother! Oh, Victor! I now thank God she did not live to see the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!

“Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin, but with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal, instead of festering, the wounds of our minds. Enter the house of mourning, my friend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and not with hatred for your enemies.

“Come, Victor, do not dwell on revenge against the murderer. Instead, come with peace and gentleness, which will heal the wounds in our minds instead of letting them fester. Enter this house of mourning, my friend, with kindness and affection for those who love you, not hatred for your enemies.

Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, was surprised to observe the despair that succeeded the joy I at first expressed on receiving news from my friends. I threw the letter on the table, and covered my face with my hands.

Clerval watched my face as I read the letter. He was surprised to see my joy turn to despair. At first, I had been joyful to receive news from my friends. I threw the letter on the table and covered my face with my hands.

“My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep with bitterness, “are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend, what has happened?”

“My dear Frankenstein,” Henry exclaimed when he saw me weeping bitterly, “will you always be unhappy? My dear friend, what happened?”

I motioned him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the room in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune.

I gestured for him to pick up the letter while I paced around the room, deeply distressed. Tears also streamed from Clerval’s eyes as he read about my misfortune.

“I can offer you no consolation, my friend,” said he; “your disaster is irreparable. What do you intend to do?”

“I can offer you no comfort, my friend,” he said. “Your disaster cannot be undone. What do you plan to do?”

“To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses.”

“To go to Geneva immediately. Come with me, Henry, to arrange for the horses.”

During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of consolation; he could only express his heartfelt sympathy. “Poor William!” said he, “dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Who that had seen him bright and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over his untimely loss! To die so miserably; to feel the murderer’s grasp! How much more a murdered that could destroy radiant innocence! Poor little fellow! one only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings are at an end for ever. A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable survivors.”

During our walk, Clerval tried to offer a few words of comfort, but he could only express his heartfelt sympathy. “Poor William!” he said, “dear, lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Who could have seen him so bright and joyful in his youthful beauty without weeping at his untimely death? To die so miserably, to feel the murderer’s grip! How much more of a murderer is the one who could destroy such radiant innocence! Poor little fellow! We have only one comfort. His friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest. His anguish is over, and his suffering has ended forever. The earth covers his gentle body, and he knows no pain. He can no longer be pitied. We must save our pity for those he left behind in misery.”

Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words impressed themselves on my mind and I remembered them afterwards in solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a cabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend.

Clerval spoke these words as we hurried through the streets. They stayed in my mind, and I remembered them later when I was alone. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a carriage and said goodbye to my friend.

My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I longed to console and sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends; but when I drew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for nearly six years. How altered every thing might be during that time! One sudden and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand little circumstances might have by degrees worked other alterations, which, although they were done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive. Fear overcame me; I dared no advance, dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble, although I was unable to define them.

My journey was deeply sad. At first, I wanted to hurry on, longing to comfort and share the grief of my loved ones. But as I drew near my hometown, I slowed down. I could hardly bear the flood of feelings that filled my mind. I passed through places I knew from my youth, but had not seen for nearly six years. How much everything might have changed in that time! One sudden and devastating change had taken place. But a thousand small events might gradually have brought about other changes. Though those changes had happened more peacefully, they might have been just as decisive. Fear overcame me, and I dared not go on. I dreaded a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble, though I could not describe them.

I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm; and the snowy mountains, “the palaces of nature,” were not changed. By degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my journey towards Geneva.

I spent two days in Lausanne, feeling distressed. I looked out at the lake. The water was still, and everything around me was calm. The snowy mountains, “the palaces of nature,” had not changed. Gradually, the peaceful, heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my journey toward Geneva.

The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I approached my native town. I discovered more distinctly the black sides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc. I wept like a child. “Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome your wanderer? Your summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?”

The road ran along the lake, which grew narrower as I approached my hometown. I could see the dark slopes of Jura and the bright summit of Mont Blanc more clearly. I cried like a child. “Dear mountains! My own beautiful lake! How do you welcome your wanderer? Your peaks are clear. The sky and lake are blue and calm. Is this a sign of peace, or a mockery of my unhappiness?”

I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on these preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative happiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved country! who but a native can tell the delight I took in again beholding thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely lake!

I fear, my friend, that I may bore you by spending so much time on these early events. But those were comparatively happy days, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved country! Only someone born there can know how delighted I was to see its streams and mountains again, and above all, its lovely lake!

Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt still more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil, and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched of human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure.

Yet as I came closer to home, grief and fear overwhelmed me again. Night fell, and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt even more gloomy. The landscape seemed like a vast, dim scene of evil. I had a vague sense that I was destined to become the most miserable person alive. Alas! My prediction came true, and I was wrong about only one thing. For all the misery I imagined and feared, I did not imagine even a hundredth of the anguish I would endure.

It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the gates of the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night at Secheron, a village at the distance of half a league from the city. The sky was serene; and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass through the town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw the lightning playing on the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly, and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe its progress. It advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly increased.

It was completely dark when I reached the outskirts of Geneva. The town gates were already closed, so I had to spend the night in Secheron, a village half a league from the city. The sky was clear, and, unable to rest, I decided to visit the place where my poor William had been murdered. Since I could not pass through the town, I had to cross the lake by boat to reach Plainpalais. During the short trip, I saw lightning flashing in beautiful patterns above the summit of Mont Blanc. The storm seemed to be approaching rapidly. When I landed, I climbed a low hill to watch its progress. The storm drew closer, and clouds covered the sky. Soon I felt large drops of rain falling slowly, but the rain quickly grew heavier.

I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash over my head. It was echoed from Salêve, the Juras, and the Alps of Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself from the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The most violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over the part of the lake which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copêt. Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened and sometimes disclosed the Môle, a peaked mountain to the east of the lake.

I left my seat and walked on, although the darkness and storm grew stronger every minute. Thunder crashed terribly overhead, echoing from Salêve, the Juras, and the Alps of Savoy. Vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes and lit up the lake, making it look like a vast sheet of fire. Then, for an instant, everything seemed pitch dark, until my eyes recovered from the flash. As often happens in Switzerland, storms appeared in several parts of the sky at once. The fiercest storm hung directly north of the town. It was over the part of the lake between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copêt. Another storm lit up Jura with faint flashes. A third darkened the Môle, a peaked mountain east of the lake, and sometimes revealed it in flashes.

While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud, “William, dear angel! this is thy funeral, this thy dirge!” As I said these words, I perceived in the gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy dæmon, to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be (I shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its truth; my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for support. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in human shape could have destroyed the fair child. He was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would have been in vain, for another flash discovered him to me hanging among the rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Salêve, a hill that bounds Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the summit, and disappeared.

As I watched the storm, so beautiful yet terrifying, I walked on quickly. The magnificent battle in the sky lifted my spirits. I clasped my hands and cried aloud, “William, dear angel! This is your funeral, this is your funeral song!” As I spoke, I saw a figure slip from behind a clump of trees near me. I stood still, staring at it. I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning lit up the figure and showed me its shape clearly. Its enormous height and its face, more hideous than any human face, told me at once who it was. It was the wretch, the filthy demon I had brought to life. What was he doing there? Could he be my brother’s murderer? I shuddered at the thought. But as soon as the idea crossed my mind, I became convinced it was true. My teeth chattered, and I had to lean against a tree for support. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost sight of him in the darkness. Nothing in human form could have killed the beautiful child. He was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere fact that the idea had occurred to me was irresistible proof that it was true. I thought of chasing the devil, but it would have been useless. Another flash showed him clinging to the rocks on the nearly vertical slope of Mont Salêve, a hill that borders Plainpalais to the south. He soon reached the top and disappeared.

I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still continued, and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness. I revolved in my mind the events which I had until now sought to forget: the whole train of my progress toward the creation; the appearance of the works of my own hands at my bedside; its departure. Two years had now nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life; and was this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not murdered my brother?

I remained motionless. The thunder stopped, but the rain continued, and everything was wrapped in complete darkness. I thought over the events I had tried to forget until now. I remembered every step that had led me to create the creature. I recalled seeing the work of my own hands at my bedside, and then its departure. Nearly two years had passed since the night he first came to life. Was this his first crime? Alas! I had set loose upon the world a depraved wretch who delighted in bloodshed and misery. Had he not murdered my brother?

No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not feel the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in scenes of evil and despair. I considered the being whom I had cast among mankind, and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes of horror, such as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light of my own vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to destroy all that was dear to me.

No one can imagine the anguish I suffered during the rest of that night. I spent it outdoors, cold and wet. But I did not feel the discomfort of the weather. My imagination was full of scenes of evil and despair. I thought of the being I had set loose among humanity. I had given him the will and power to carry out horrors like the deed he had just committed. I saw him almost as my own vampire, my own spirit released from the grave and forced to destroy all that I held dear.

Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates were open, and I hastened to my father’s house. My first thought was to discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be made. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I remembered also the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at the time that I dated my creation, and which would give an air of delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well knew that if any other had communicated such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it as the ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal would elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade my relatives to commence it. And then of what use would be pursuit? Who could arrest a creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont Salêve? These reflections determined me, and I resolved to remain silent.

Day broke, and I headed toward the town. The gates were open, and I hurried to my father’s house. My first thought was to reveal what I knew about the murderer and have him pursued at once. But I paused to consider the story I had to tell. A being I had created and brought to life had met me at midnight among the cliffs of an inaccessible mountain. I also remembered the nervous fever that had struck me just when I created him. That fever would make my already utterly improbable story sound like delirium. I knew that if anyone else had told me such a story, I would have thought it the ravings of a madman. Besides, the creature’s strange nature would allow him to escape any pursuit. That would be true even if my relatives believed me enough to begin a search. And what good would a search do? Who could capture a creature capable of climbing the overhanging sides of Mont Salêve? These thoughts settled the matter, and I decided to remain silent.

It was about five in the morning when I entered my father’s house. I told the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library to attend their usual hour of rising.

It was about five in the morning when I entered my father’s house. I told the servants not to disturb the family. Then I went into the library to wait until they usually woke up.

Six years had elapsed, passed in a dream but for one indelible trace, and I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable parent! He still remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the mantel-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my father’s desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardly permitted the sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of William; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome me: “Welcome, my dearest Victor,” said he. “Ah! I wish you had come three months ago, and then you would have found us all joyous and delighted. You come to us now to share a misery which nothing can alleviate; yet your presence will, I hope, revive our father, who seems sinking under his misfortune; and your persuasions will induce poor Elizabeth to cease her vain and tormenting self-accusations.—Poor William! he was our darling and our pride!”

Six years had passed like a dream, except for one lasting mark. I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before leaving for Ingolstadt. My beloved and respected father! I still had him. I looked at my mother’s picture above the fireplace. My father had asked for this painting of a scene from her life. It showed Caroline Beaufort kneeling in agony and despair beside her dead father’s coffin. She wore simple country clothes, and her face was pale. But she looked so dignified and beautiful that one could hardly feel pity. Below this picture was a miniature portrait of William. Tears flowed as I looked at it. While I was looking, Ernest came in. He had heard me arrive and hurried to welcome me. “Welcome, my dearest Victor,” he said. “Ah, I wish you had come three months ago. Then you would have found us all joyful and delighted. Now you have come to share a misery that nothing can ease. Yet I hope your presence will revive our father, who seems to be sinking under his misfortune. I also hope you can persuade poor Elizabeth to stop blaming herself in vain and tormenting herself. Poor William! He was our darling and our pride!”

Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother’s eyes; a sense of mortal agony crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the wretchedness of my desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and a not less terrible, disaster. I tried to calm Ernest; I enquired more minutely concerning my father, and here I named my cousin.

Tears flowed freely from my brother’s eyes. A feeling of unbearable agony crept over me. Before, I had only imagined the misery of my devastated home. Facing the reality was a new disaster, no less terrible than the first. I tried to calm Ernest. I asked more about my father, and then I mentioned my cousin.

“She most of all,” said Ernest, “requires consolation; she accused herself of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her very wretched. But since the murderer has been discovered—”

“She needs comfort most of all,” said Ernest. “She blamed herself for causing my brother’s death, and that made her miserable. But now that the murderer has been discovered...”

“The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw. I saw him too; he was free last night!”

“The murderer has been found! Good God! How can that be? Who could even try to chase him? It’s impossible. You might as well try to catch the wind or hold back a mountain stream with a straw. I saw him too. He was free last night!”

“I do not know what you mean,” replied my brother, in accents of wonder, “but to us the discovery we have made completes our misery. No one would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family, could suddenly become so capable of so frightful, so appalling a crime?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” my brother replied in surprise, “but the discovery we have made makes our misery complete. At first, no one would believe it. Even now, Elizabeth is not convinced, despite all the evidence. Who could believe that Justine Moritz could suddenly be capable of such a terrifying, appalling crime? She was so kind and loved the whole family.”

“Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?”

“Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the one accused? But she’s been wrongly accused. Everyone knows that. Surely no one believes she did it, Ernest?”

“No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have almost forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour has been so confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried today, and you will then hear all.”

“No one did at first. But several facts have come to light that have almost convinced us. Her behavior has been so confused that it adds to the evidence. I fear it leaves no room for doubt. But she will be tried today, and then you will hear everything.”

He then related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed for several days. During this interval, one of the servants, happening to examine the apparel she had worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly showed it to one of the others, who, without saying a word to any of the family, went to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition, Justine was apprehended. On being charged with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by her extreme confusion of manner.

He then told me that Justine had fallen ill on the morning poor William’s murder was discovered. She had been confined to her bed for several days. During that time, a servant happened to examine the clothes she had worn on the night of the murder. In her pocket, the servant found the picture of my mother, which was believed to have tempted the murderer. The servant immediately showed it to another servant. Without telling anyone in the family, the second servant went to a magistrate. Based on their statements, Justine was arrested. When accused of the murder, the poor girl’s extreme confusion did much to confirm the suspicion against her.

This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied earnestly, “You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor, good Justine, is innocent.”

It was a strange story, but it did not shake my faith. I replied earnestly, “You are all mistaken. I know who the murderer is. Justine, poor, good Justine, is innocent.”

At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and, after we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced some other topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, “Good God, papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer of poor William.”

At that moment, my father entered. I saw deep sadness on his face, but he tried to welcome me cheerfully. After we exchanged our sorrowful greetings, he would have changed the subject from our tragedy. But Ernest exclaimed, “Good God, Papa! Victor says he knows who murdered poor William.”

“We do also, unfortunately,” replied my father, “for indeed I had rather have been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity and ungratitude in one I valued so highly.”

“Unfortunately, we do too,” my father replied. “I would rather never have known than have discovered such wickedness and ingratitude in someone I valued so highly.”

“My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent.”

“My dear father, you're wrong. Justine is innocent.”

“If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She is to be tried today, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted.”

“If she is, God forbid she should be punished as if she were guilty. She is on trial today, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be found not guilty.”

This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder. I had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be brought forward strong enough to convict her. My tale was not one to announce publicly; its astounding horror would be looked upon as madness by the vulgar. Did any one indeed exist, except I, the creator, who would believe, unless his senses convinced him, in the existence of the living monument of presumption and rash ignorance which I had let loose upon the world?

Her words calmed me. I was certain that Justine was innocent of the murder, as was every other human being. So I had no fear that circumstantial evidence could be strong enough to convict her. I could not tell my story publicly. Ordinary people would think its shocking horror was madness. Would anyone but me, its creator, believe the creature existed without seeing it for themselves? It was a living monument to the arrogance and reckless ignorance I had unleashed upon the world.

We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her since I last beheld her; it had endowed her with loveliness surpassing the beauty of her childish years. There was the same candour, the same vivacity, but it was allied to an expression more full of sensibility and intellect. She welcomed me with the greatest affection. “Your arrival, my dear cousin,” said she, “fills me with hope. You perhaps will find some means to justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she be convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not only lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I never shall know joy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not; and then I shall be happy again, even after the sad death of my little William.”

Elizabeth soon joined us. She had changed since I last saw her. She had grown even more lovely than she had been as a child. She was just as open and lively as before, but now she also showed greater feeling and intelligence. She welcomed me with great affection. “Your arrival, my dear cousin,” she said, “fills me with hope. Perhaps you can find some way to prove that my poor Justine is innocent. Alas! Who is safe if she is convicted? I am as certain of her innocence as I am of my own. Our misfortune is doubly painful. We have lost that lovely, darling boy. And now this poor girl, whom I sincerely love, may be torn from us by an even worse fate. If she is condemned, I will never know joy again. But she will not be condemned. I am sure she will not. Then I will be happy again, even after the sad death of my little William.”

“She is innocent, my Elizabeth,” said I, “and that shall be proved; fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of her acquittal.”

“She is innocent, my Elizabeth,” I said, “and we will prove it. Don’t be afraid. Take comfort in knowing that she will be acquitted.”

“How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her guilt, and that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible: and to see every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me hopeless and despairing.” She wept.

“How kind and generous you are! Everyone else believes she is guilty, and that made me miserable. I knew it was impossible for her to be guilty. Seeing everyone else so dangerously biased left me hopeless and despairing.” She wept.

“Dearest niece,” said my father, “dry your tears. If she is, as you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our laws, and the activity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality.”

“Dearest niece,” said my father, “dry your tears. If she is innocent, as you believe, trust in the fairness of our laws. I will do everything I can to prevent even the slightest hint of bias.”