Brown, Charles Brockden, 1771-1810 [1827], The Novels... (S. G. Goodrich, Boston) [word count] [eaf033d].
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CHAPTER XXIV.
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Here ended the narrative of Mervyn. Surely its incidents
were of no common kind. During this season of
pestilence, my opportunities of observation had been numerous,
and I had not suffered them to pass unimproved.
The occurrences which fell within my own experience, bore
a general resemblance to those which had just been related,
but they did not hinder the latter from striking on my mind
with all the force of novelty. They served no end, but as
vouchers for the truth of the tale.
Surely the youth had displayed inimitable and heroic
qualities. His courage was the growth of benevolence and
reason, and not the child of insensibility and the nursling
of habit. He had been qualified for the encounter of gigantic
dangers by no laborious education. He stepped forth
upon the stage, unfurnished, by anticipation or experience,
with the means of security against fraud; and yet, by the
aid of pure intentions, had frustrated the wiles of an accomplished
and veteran deceiver.
I blessed the chance which placed the youth under my
protection. When I reflected on that tissue of nice contingencies
which led him to my door, and enabled me to
save from death a being of such rare endowments, my
heart overflowed with joy, not unmingled with regrets and
trepidation. How many have been cut off by this disease,
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in their career of virtue and their blossom time of genius!
How many deeds of heroism and self-devotion are ravished
from existence, and consigned to hopeless oblivion!
I had saved the life of this youth. This was not the
limit of my duty or my power. Could I not render that
life profitable to himself and to mankind? The gains of
my profession were slender; but these gains were sufficient
for his maintenance as well as my own. By residing with
me, partaking my instructions, and reading my books, he
would, in a few years, be fitted for the practice of physic.
A science, whose truths are so conducive to the welfare of
mankind, and which comprehends the whole system of nature,
could not but gratify a mind so beneficent and strenuous
as his.
This scheme occurred to me as soon as the conclusion of
his tale allowed me to think. I did not immediately mention
it, since the approbation of my wife, of whose concurrence,
however, I entertained no doubt, was previously to
be obtained. Dismissing it, for the present, from my
thoughts, I reverted to the incidents of his tale.
The lady whom Welbeck had betrayed and deserted,
was not unknown to me. I was but too well acquainted
with her fate. If she had been single in calamity, her tale
would have been listened to with insupportable sympathy;
but the frequency of the spectacle of distress, seems to lessen
the compassion with which it is reviewed. Now that
those scenes are only remembered, my anguish is greater
than when they were witnessed. Then every new day
was only a repetition of the disasters of the foregoing. My
sensibility, if not extinguished, was blunted; and I gazed
upon the complicated ills of poverty and sickness with a
degree of unconcern, on which I should once have reflected
with astonishment.
The fate of Clemenza Lodi was not, perhaps, more signal
than many which have occurred. It threw detestable light
upon the character of Welbeck, and showed him to be more
inhuman than the tale of Mervyn had evinced him to be.
That man, indeed, was hitherto imperfectly seen. The
time had not come which should fully unfold the enormity
of his transgressions, and the complexity of his frauds.
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There lived in a remote quarter of the city, a woman, by
name Villars, who passed for the widow of an English
officer. Her manners and mode of living were specious.
She had three daughters, well trained in the school of
fashion, and elegant in person, manners, and dress. They
had lately arrived from Europe, and for a time, received
from their neighbors that respect to which their education
and fortune appeared to lay claim.
The fallacy of their pretensions slowly appeared. It began
to be suspected that their subsistence was derived not from
pension or patrimony, but from the wages of pollution.
Their habitation was clandestinely frequented by men who
were unfaithful to their secret; one of these was allied to
me by ties, which authorized me in watching his steps and
detecting his errors, with a view to his reformation. From
him I obtained a knowledge of the genuine character of
these women.
A man like Welbeck, who was the slave of depraved
appetites, could not fail of being quickly satiated with innocence
and beauty. Some accident introduced him to the
knowledge of this family, and the youngest daughter found
him a proper subject on which to exercise her artifices. It
was to the frequent demands made upon his purse, by this
woman, that part of the embarrassments in which Mervyn
found him involved, are to be ascribed.
To this circumstance must likewise be imputed his anxiety
to transfer to some other the possession of the unhappy
stranger. Why he concealed from Mervyn his connexion
with Lucy Villars, may be easily imagined. His silence,
with regard to Clemenza's asylum, will not create surprise,
when it is told that she was placed with Mrs. Villars. On
what conditions she was received under this roof, cannot be
so readily conjectured. It is obvious, however, to suppose,
that advantage was to be taken of her ignorance and weakness,
and that they hoped, in time, to make her an associate
in their profligate schemes.
The appearance of pestilence, meanwhile, threw them
into panic, and they hastened to remove from danger. Mrs.
Villars appears to have been a woman of no ordinary views.
She stooped to the vilest means of amassing money; but
this money was employed to secure to herself and her
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daughters the benefits of independence. She purchased
the house which she occupied in the city, and a mansion in
the environs, well built and splendidly furnished. To the
latter, she and her family, of which the Italian girl was now
a member, retired at the close of July.
I have mentioned that the source of my intelligence was
a kinsman, who had been drawn from the paths of sobriety
and rectitude, by the impetuosity of youthful passions. He
had power to confess and deplore, but none to repair his
errors. One of these women held him by a spell which
he struggled in vain to dissolve, and by which, in spite of
resolutions and remorses, he was drawn to her feet, and
made to sacrifice to her pleasure, his reputation and his
fortune.
My house was his customary abode during those intervals
in which he was persuaded to pursue his profession. Some
time before the infection began its progress, he had disappeared.
No tidings were received of him, till a messenger
arrived, entreating my assistance. I was conducted to the
house of Mrs. Villars, in which I found no one but my kinsman.
Here it seems he had immured himself from my
inquiries, and on being seized by the reigning malady, had
been deserted by the family, who, ere they departed, informed
me by a messenger of his condition.
Despondency combined with his disease to destroy him.
Before he died, he informed me fully of the character of
his betrayers. The late arrival, name, and personal condition
of Clemenza Lodi were related. Welbeck was not
named, but was described in terms, which, combined with
the narrative of Mervyn, enabled me to recognise the paramour
of Lucy Villars in the man whose crimes had been
the principal theme of our discourse.
Mervyn's curiosity was greatly roused when I intimated
my acquaintance with the fate of Clemenza. In answer to
his eager interrogations, I related what I knew. The tale
plunged him into reverie. Recovering, at length, from his
thoughtfulness, he spoke.
Her condition is perilous. The poverty of Welbeck will
drive him far from her abode. Her profligate protectors
will entice her or abandon her to ruin. Cannot she be
saved?
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I know not, answered I, by what means.
The means are obvious. Let her remove to some other
dwelling. Let her be apprized of the vices of those who
surround her. Let her be entreated to fly. The will need
only be inspired, the danger need only be shown, and she is
safe, for she will remove beyond its reach.
Thou art an adventurous youth. Who wilt thou find to
undertake the office? Who will be persuaded to enter the
house of a stranger, seek without an introduction the presence
of this girl, tell her that the house she inhabits is a
house of prostitution, prevail on her to believe the tale, and
persuade her to accompany him? Who will open his house
to the fugitive? Whom will you convince that her illicit intercourse
with Welbeck, of which the opprobrious tokens
cannot be concealed, has not fitted her for the company of
prostitutes, and made her unworthy of protection? Who
will adopt into their family, a stranger, whose conduct has
incurred infamy, and whose present associates have, no
doubt, made her worthy of the curse?
True. These are difficulties which I did not foresee.
Must she then perish! Shall not something be done to
rescue her from infamy and guilt?
It is neither in your power nor in mine to do any thing.
The lateness of the hour put an end to our conversation
and summoned us to repose. I seized the first opportunity
of imparting to my wife the scheme which had occurred,
relative to our guest; with which, as I expected, she readily
concurred. In the morning, I mentioned it to Mervyn. I
dwelt upon the benefits that adhered to the medical profession,
the power which it confers of lightening the distresses of
our neighbors, the dignity which popular opinion annexes to
it, the avenue which it opens to the acquisition of competence,
the freedom from servile cares which attends it, and
the means of intellectual gratification with which it supplies
us.
As I spoke, his eyes sparkled with joy. Yes, said he
with vehemence, I willingly embrace your offer. I accept
this benefit, because I know that if my pride should refuse
it, I should prove myself less worthy than you think, and
give you pain, instead of that pleasure which I am bound to
confer. I would enter on the duties and studies of my new
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profession immediately, but somewhat is due to Mr. Hadwin
and his daughters. I cannot vanquish my inquietudes
respecting them, but by returning to Malverton and ascertaining
their state with my own eyes. You know in what
circumstances I parted with Wallace and Mr. Hadwin. I
am not sure, that either of them ever reached home, or that
they did not carry the infection along with them. I now
find myself sufficiently strong to perform the journey, and
purposed to have acquainted you, at this interview, with my
intentions. An hour's delay is superfluous, and I hope you
will consent to my setting out immediately. Rural exercise
and air, for a week or fortnight, will greatly contribute
to my health.
No objection could be made to this scheme. His narrative
had excited no common affection in our bosoms for
the Hadwins. His visit could not only inform us of their
true state, but would dispel that anxiety which they could
not but entertain respecting our guest. It was a topic of
some surprise that neither Wallace nor Hadwin had returned
to the city, with a view to obtain some tidings of their
friend. It was more easy to suppose them to have been detained
by some misfortune, than by insensibility or indolence.
In a few minutes Mervyn bade us adieu, and set out upon
his journey, promising to acquaint us with the state of affairs,
as soon as possible after his arrival. We parted from him
with reluctance, and found no consolation but in the prospect
of his speedy return.
During his absence, conversation naturally turned upon
those topics which were suggested by the narrative and deportment
of this youth. Different conclusions were formed
by his two auditors. They had both contracted a deep interest
in his welfare, and an ardent curiosity as to those particulars
which his unfinished story had left in obscurity.
The true character and actual condition of Welbeck, were
themes of much speculation. Whether he were dead or
alive, near or distant from his ancient abode, was a point on
which neither Mervyn, nor any of those with whom I had
means of intercourse, afforded any information. Whether
he had shared the common fate, and had been carried by
the collectors of the dead from the highway or the hovel to
the pits opened alike for the rich and the poor, the known
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and the unknown; whether he had escaped to a foreign
shore, or were destined to reappear upon this stage, were
questions involved in uncertainty.
The disappearance of Watson would, at a different time,
have excited much inquiry and suspicion; but as this had
taken place on the eve of the epidemic, his kindred and
friends would acquiesce, without scruple, in the belief that
he had been involved in the general calamity, and was to be
numbered amongst the earliest victims. Those of his profession
usually resided in the street where the infection began,
and where its ravages had been most destructive; and
this circumstance would corroborate the conclusions of his
friends.
I did not perceive any immediate advantage to flow from
imparting the knowledge I had lately gained to others.
Shortly after Mervyn's departure to Malverton, I was visited
by Wortley. Inquiring for my guest, I told him that, having
recovered his health, he had left my house. He repeated
his invectives against the villany of Welbeck, his suspicions
of Mervyn, and his wishes for another interview with the
youth. Why had I suffered him to depart, and whither
had he gone?
He has gone for a short time into the country. I expect
him to return in less than a week, when you will meet with
him here as often as you please, for I expect him to take up
his abode in this house.
Much astonishment and disapprobation were expressed
by my friend. I hinted that the lad had made disclosures
to me, which justified my confidence in his integrity. These
proofs of his honesty were not of a nature to be indiscriminately
unfolded. Mervyn had authorized me to communicate
so much of his story to Wortley, as would serve to vindicate
him from the charge of being Welbeck's copartner in
fraud; but this end would only be counteracted by an imperfect
tale, and the full recital, though it might exculpate
Mervyn, might produce inconveniences by which this advantage
would be outweighed.
Wortley, as might be naturally expected, was by no
means satisfied with this statement. He suspected that
Mervyn was a wily imposter; that he had been trained in
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the arts of fraud, under an accomplished teacher; that the
tale which he had told to me, was a tissue of ingenious and
plausible lies; that the mere assertions, however plausible
and solemn, of one like him, whose conduct had incurred
such strong suspicions, were unworthy of the least credit.
It cannot be denied, continued my friend, that he lived
with Welbeck at the time of his elopement; that they disappeared
together; that they entered a boat, at Pine-street
wharf, at midnight; that this boat was discovered by the
owner in the possession of a fisherman at Red-bank, who
affirmed that he had found it stranded near his door, the day
succeeding that on which they disappeared. Of all this, I
can supply you with incontestible proof. If, after this proof,
you can give credit to his story, I shall think you made of
very perverse and credulous materials.
The proof you mention, said I, will only enhance his
credibility. All the facts which you have stated, have been
admitted by him. They constitute an essential portion of
his narrative.
What then is the inference? Are not these evidences
of a compact between them? Has he not acknowledged
this compact in confessing that he knew Welbeck was my
debtor; that he was apprized of his flight, but that, (what
matchless effrontery!) he had promised secrecy, and would,
by no means, betray him? You say he means to return;
but of that I doubt. You will never see his face more. He
is too wise to thrust himself again into the noose; but I do
not utterly despair of lighting upon Welbeck. Old Thetford,
Jamieson and I, have sworn to hunt him through the
world. I have strong hopes that he has not strayed far.
Some intelligence has lately been received, which has enabled
us to place our hounds upon the scent. He may
double and skulk; but if he does not fall into our toils at
last, he will have the agility and cunning, as well as the
malignity of devils.
The vengeful disposition thus betrayed by Wortley, was
not without excuse. The vigor of his days had been spent
in acquiring a slender capital; his diligence and honesty
had succeeded, and he had lately thought his situation such
as to justify marriage with an excellent woman, to whom
he had for years been betrothed, but from whom his
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poverty had hitherto compelled him to live separate.
Scarcely had this alliance taken place, and the full career
of nuptial enjoyments begun, when his ill fate exposed him
to the frauds of Welbeck, and brought him, in one evil
hour, to the brink of insolvency.
Jamieson and Thetford, however, were rich, and I had
not till now been informed that they had reasons for pursuing
Welbeck with peculiar animosity. The latter was the
uncle of him whose fate had been related by Mervyn, and
was one of those who employed money, not as the medium
of traffic, but as in itself a commodity. He had neither
wines nor cloths, to transmute into silver. He thought it
a tedious process to exchange to day, one hundred dollars
for a cask or bale, and tomorrow exchange the bale or
cask for one hundred and ten dollars. It was better to give
the hundred for a piece of paper, which, carried forthwith
to the money changers, he could procure a hundred
twenty-three and three-fourths. In short, this man's coffers
were supplied by the despair of honest men and the stratagems
of rogues. I did not immediately suspect how this
man's prudence and indefatigable attention to his own interest
should allow him to become the dupe of Welbeck.
What, said I, is old Thetford's claim upon Welbeck?
It is a claim, he replied, that, if it ever be made good,
will doom Welbeck to imprisonment and wholesome labor
for life.
How? Surely it is nothing more than debt.
Have you not heard? But that is no wonder. Happily
you are a stranger to mercantile anxieties and revolutions.
Your fortune does not rest on a basis which an untoward
blast may sweep away, or four strokes of a pen may demolish.
That hoary dealer in suspicions was persuaded to
put his hand to three notes for eight hundred dollars each.
The eight was then dexterously prolonged to eighteen; they
were duly deposited in time and place, and the next day
Welbeck was credited for fifty-three hundred and seventy-three,
which an hour after, were told out to his messenger.
Hard to say whether the old man's grief, shame or rage, be
uppermost. He disdains all comfort but revenge, and that
he will procure at any price. Jamieson, who deals in the
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same stuff with Thetford, was outwitted in the same manner,
to the same amount, and on the same day.
This Welbeck must have powers above the common rate
of mortals. Grown grey in studying the follies and the
stratagems of men, these veterans were overreached. No
one pities them. 'Twere well if his artifices had been
limited to such, and he had spared the honest and the poor.
It is for his injuries to men who have earned their scanty
subsistence without forfeiting their probity, that I hate him,
and shall exult to see him suffer all the rigors of the law.
Here Wortley's engagements compelled him to take his
leave.
CHAPTER XXV.
While musing upon these facts, I could not but reflect
with astonishment on the narrow escapes which Mervyn's
virtue had experienced. I was by no means certain that
his fame or his life was exempt from all danger, or that the
suspicions which had already been formed respecting him,
could possibly be wiped away. Nothing but his own narrative,
repeated with that simple but nervous eloquence,
which we had witnessed, could rescue him from the most
heinous charges. Was there any tribunal that would not
acquit him on merely hearing his defence?
Surely the youth was honest. His tale could not be the
fruit of invention; and yet, what are the bounds of fraud?
Nature has set no limits to the combinations of fancy. A
smooth exterior, a show of virtue, and a specious tale, are,
a thousand times, exhibited in human intercourse by craft
and subtlety. Motives are endlessly varied, while actions
continue the same; and an acute penetration may not find
it hard to select and arrange motives, suited to exempt from
censure any action that a human being can commit.
Had I heard Mervyn's story from another, or read it in
a book, I might, perhaps, have found it possible to suspect
the truth; but, as long as the impression, made by his tones,
gestures and looks, remained in my memory, this
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suspicion was impossible. Wickedness may sometimes be ambiguous,
its mask may puzzle the observer; our judgment
may be made to falter and fluctuate, but the face of Mervyn
is the index of an honest mind. Calm or vehement,
doubting or confident, it is full of benevolence and candor.
He that listens to his words may question their truth, but he
that looks upon his countenance when speaking, cannot
withhold his faith.
It was possible, however, to find evidence, supporting or
confuting his story. I chanced to be acquainted with a
family, by name Althorpe, who were natives of that part of
the country where his father resided. I paid them a visit,
and, after a few preliminaries, mentioned, as if by accident,
the name of Mervyn. They immediately recognised this
name as belonging to one of their ancient neighbors. The
death of the wife and sons, and the seduction of the only
daughter by Colvill, with many pathetic incidents connected
with the fate of this daughter, were mentioned.
This intelligence induced me to inquire of Mrs. Althorpe,
a sensible and candid woman, if she were acquainted with
the recent or present situation of this family.
I cannot say much, she answered, of my own knowledge.
Since my marriage, I am used to spend a few weeks of
summer, at my father's, but am less inquisitive than I once
was into the concerns of my old neighbors. I recollect,
however, when there, last year, during the fever, to have
heard that Sawny Mervyn had taken a second wife; that
his only son, a youth of eighteen, had thought proper to be
highly offended with his father's conduct, and treated the
new mistress of the house with insult and contempt. I
should not much wonder at this, seeing children are so apt
to deem themselves unjustly treated by a second marriage
of their parent, but it was hinted that the boy's jealousy and
discontent was excited by no common cause. The new
mother was not much older than himself, had been a servant
of the family, and a criminal intimacy had subsisted
between her, while in that condition, and the son. Her
marriage with his father was justly accounted by their neighbors,
a most profligate and odious transaction. The son,
perhaps, had, in such a case, a right to scold, but he ought
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not to have carried his anger to such extremes as have been
imputed to him. He is said to have grinned upon her with
contempt, and even to have called her strumpet in the presence
of his father and of strangers.
It was impossible for such a family to keep together.
Arthur took leave one night to possess himself of all his
father's cash, mount the best horse in his meadow, and
elope. For a time, no one knew whither he had gone.
At last, one was said to have met with him in the streets
of this city, metamorphosed from a rustic lad into a fine
gentleman. Nothing could be quicker than this change, for
he left the country on a Saturday morning, and was seen
in a French frock and silk stockings, going into Christ's
Church the next day. I suppose he kept it up with a high
hand, as long as his money lasted.
My father paid us a visit last week, and among other
country news, told us that Sawny Mervyn had sold his
place. His wife had persuaded him to try his fortune in
the Western Country. The price of his hundred acres here
would purchase a thousand there, and the man being very
gross and ignorant, and withal, quite a simpleton, found no
difficulty in perceiving that a thousand are ten times more
than a hundred. He was not aware that a rood of ground
upon Schuylkill is tenfold better than an acre on the
Tennessee.
The woman turned out to be an artful profligate. Having
sold his ground and gotten his money, he placed it in her
keeping, and she, to enjoy it with the more security, ran
away to the city; leaving him to prosecute his journey to
Kentucky, moneyless and alone. Sometime after, Mr Althorpe
and I were at the play, when he pointed out to me
a group of females in an upper box, one of whom was no
other than Betty Lawrence. It was not easy to recognise,
in her present gaudy trim, all flaunting with ribbons and
shining with trinkets the same Betty who used to deal out
pecks of potatoes and superintend her basket of cantilopes in
the Jersey market, in pasteboard bonnet and linsey petticoat.
Her companions were of the infamous class. If Arthur
were still in the city, there is no doubt that the mother and
son might renew the ancient terms of their acquaintance.
The old man thus robbed and betrayed, sought
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consolation in the bottle, of which he had been at all times over fond.
He wandered from one tavern to another till his credit was
exhausted, and then was sent to jail, where, I believe, he is
likely to continue till his death. Such, my friend, is the
history of the Mervyns.
What proof, said I, have you of the immoral conduct of
the son? Of his mistreatment of his mother, and his elopement
with his father's horse and money?
I have no proof but the unanimous report of Mervyn's
neighbors. Respectable and honest men have affirmed, in
my hearing, that they had been present when the boy treated
his mother in the way that I have described. I was, besides,
once in company with the old man, and heard him bitterly
inveigh against his son, and charge him with the fact of stealing
his horse and money. I well remember that tears rolled
from his eyes while talking on the subject. As to his being
seen in the city the next day after his elopement, dressed in
a most costly and fashionable manner, I can doubt that as
little as the rest, for he that saw him was my father, and you
who know my father, know what credit is due to his eyes
and his word. He had seen Arthur often enough not to be
mistaken, and described his appearance with great exactness.
The boy is extremely handsome, give him his due; his dark
hazle eyes, auburn hair, and very elegant proportions. His
air and gate have nothing of the clown in them. Take
away his jacket and trowsers, and you have as spruce a fellow
as ever came from dancing-school or college. He is
the exact picture of his mother, and the most perfect contrast
to the sturdy legs, squat figure, and broad, unthinking,
sheepish face of the father that can be imagined. You must
confess that his appearance here is a pretty strong proof of
the father's assertions. The money given for these clothes
could not possibly have been honestly acquired. It is to be
presumed that they were bought or stolen, for how else
should they have been gotten?
What was this lad's personal deportment during the life
of his mother, and before his father's second marriage?
Very little to the credit of his heart or his intellects.
Being the youngest son, the only one who at length survived,
and having a powerful resemblance to herself, he became
the mother's favorite. His constitution was feeble, and he
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loved to stroll in the woods more than to plough or sow.
This idleness was much against his father's inclination and
judgment; and, indeed, it was the foundation of all his vices.
When he could be prevailed upon to do any thing it was in
a bungling manner, and so as to prove that his thoughts
were fixed on any thing except his business. When his assistance
was wanted he was never to be found at hand.
They were compelled to search for him among the rocks
and bushes, and he was generally discovered sauntering
along the bank of the river, or lolling in the shade of a tree.
This disposition to inactivity and laziness, in so young a man,
was very strange. Persons of his age are rarely fond of
work, but then they are addicted to company, and sports,
and exercises. They ride, or shoot, or frolic; but this being
moped away his time in solitude, never associated with other
young people, never mounted a horse but when he could
not help it, and never fired a gun or angled for a fish in his
life. Some people supposed him to be half an idiot, or, at
least, not to be right in his mind; and, indeed, his conduct
was so very perverse and singular, that I do not wonder at
those who accounted for it in this way.
But, surely, said I, he had some object of pursuit. Perhaps
he was addicted to books.
Far from it. On the contrary, his aversion to school was
as great as his hatred of the plough. He never could get
his lessons or bear the least constraint. He was so much
indulged by his mother at home, that tasks and discipline of
any kind were intolerable. He was a perpetual truant; till
the master one day attempting to strike him, he ran out of
the room and never entered it more. The mother excused
and countenanced his frowardness, and the foolish father was
obliged to give way. I do not believe he had two month's
schooling in his life.
Perhaps, said I, he preferred studying by himself, and at
liberty. I have known boys endowed with great curiosity
and aptitude to learning, who never could endure set tasks,
and spurned at the pedagogue and his rod.
I have known such likewise, but this was not one of them.
I know not whence he could derive his love of knowledge
or the means of acquiring it. The family were totally
illiterate. The father was a Scotch peasant, whose
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ignorance was so great that he could not sign his name. His
wife, I believe, could read, and might sometimes decypher
the figures in an almanac, but that was all. I am apt to
think, that the son's ability was not much greater. You
might as well look for silver platters or marble tables in his
house, as for a book or a pen.
I remember calling at their house one evening in the
winter before last. It was intensely cold; and my father,
who rode with me, having business with Sawny Mervyn, we
stopped a minute at his gate; and, while the two old men
were engaged in conversation, I begged leave to warm myself
by the kitchen fire. Here, in the chimney corner, seated
on a block, I found Arthur busily engaged in knitting stockings!
I thought this a whimsical employment for a young
active man. I told him so, for I wanted to put him to the
blush; but he smiled in my face, and answered, without the
least discomposure, just as whimsical a business for a young
active woman. Pray, did you never knit a stocking?
Yes; but that was from necessity. Were I of a different
sex, or did I possess the strength of a man, I should rather
work in my field or study my book.
Rejoice that you are a woman, then, and are at liberty to
pursue that which costs least labor and demands most skill.
You see, though a man, I use your privilege, and prefer
knitting yarn to threshing my brain with a book or the barn
floor with a flail.
I wonder, said I contemptuously, you do not put on the
petticoat as well as handle the needle.
Do not wonder, he replied; it is because I hate a petticoat
incumbrance as much as I love warm feet. Look there
(offering the stocking to my inspection) is it not well done?
I did not touch it, but sneeringly said, excellent! I wonder
you do not apprentice yourself to a tailor.
He looked at me with an air of ridiculous simplicity, and
said, how prone the woman is to wonder. You call the
work excellent, and yet wonder that I do not make myself
a slave to improve my skill! Did you learn needle work
from seven year's squatting on a tailor's board? Had you
come to me, I would have taught you in a day.
I was taught at school.
And paid your instructer?
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To be sure.
'Twas liberty and money thrown away. Send your sister,
if you have one, to me, and I will teach her without either
rod or wages. Will you?
You have an old and a violent antipathy, I believe, to any
thing like a school.
True. It was early and violent. Had not you?
No. I went to school with pleasure; for I thought to
read and write were accomplishments of some value.
Indeed? Then I misunderstood you just now. I thought
you said, that, had you the strength of a man, you should
prefer the plough and the book to the needle. Whence, supposing
you a female, I inferred that you had a woman's love
for the needle and a fool's hatred of books.
My father calling me from without, I now made a motion
to go. Stay, continued he with great earnestness, throwing
aside his knitting apparatus, and beginning in great haste to
pull off his stockings. Draw these stockings over your shoes.
They will save your feet from the snow while walking to
your horse.
Half angry, and half laughing, I declined the offer. He
had drawn them off, however, and holding them in his hand,
be persuaded, said he; only lift your feet, and I will slip
them on in a trice.
Finding me positive in my refusal, he dropped the stockings;
and, without more ado, caught me up in his arms,
rushed out of the room, and, running barefoot through the
snow, set me fairly on my horse. All was done in a moment,
and before I had time to reflect on his intentions.
He then seized my hand, and, kissing it with great fervor,
exclaimed, a thousand thanks to you for not accepting my
stockings. You have thereby saved yourself and me the
time and toil of drawing on and drawing off. Since you have
taught me to wonder, let me practise the lesson in wondering
at your folly, in wearing worsted shoes and silk stockings
at a season like this. Take my counsel, and turn your
silk to worsted and your worsted to leather. Then may
you hope for warm feet and dry. What! Leave the gate
without a blessing on your counsellor?
I spurred my horse into a gallop, glad to escape from
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so strange a being. I could give you many instances of
behaviour equally singular, and which betrayed a mixture of
shrewdness and folly, of kindness and impudence, which
justified, perhaps, the common notion that his intellects were
unsound. Nothing was more remarkable than his impenetrability
to ridicule and censure. You might revile him for
hours, and he would listen to you with invincible composure.
To awaken anger or shame in him was impossible. He
would answer, but in such a way as to show him totally
unaware of your true meaning. He would afterwards talk
to you with all the smiling affability and freedom of an old
friend. Every one despised him for his idleness and folly,
no less conspicuous in his words than his actions; but no
one feared him, and few were angry with him, till after the
detection of his commerce with Betty, and his inhuman
treatment of his father.
Have you good reasons for supposing him to have been
illicitly connected with that girl?
Yes. Such as cannot be discredited. It would not be
proper for me to state these proofs. Nay, he never denied
it. When reminded, on one occasion, of the inference
which every impartial person would draw from appearances,
he acknowledged, with his usual placid effrontery, that the
inference was unavoidable. He even mentioned other concurring
and cotemporary incidents, which had eluded the
observation of his censurer, and which added still more
force to the conclusion. He was studious to palliate the
vices of this woman, as long as he was her only paramour;
but after her marriage with his father, the tone was
changed. He confessed that she was tidy, notable, industrious;
but, then, she was a prostitute, When charged with
being instrumental in making her such, and when his companions
dwelt upon the depravity of reviling her for vices
which she owed to him: True, he would say, there is depravity
and folly in the conduct you describe. Make me
out, if you please, to be a villain. What then? I was
talking, not of myself, but of Betty. Still this woman is a
prostitute. If it were I that made her such, with more
confidence may I make the charge. But think not that I
blame Betty. Place me in her situation, and I should have
acted just so. I should have formed just such notions of
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my interest, and pursued it by the same means. Still, say
I, I would fain have a different woman for my father's wife,
and the mistress of his family.
CHAPTER XXVI.
This conversation was interrupted by a messenger from
my wife, who desired my return immediately. I had some
hopes of meeting with Mervyn, some days having now
elapsed since his parting from us, and not being conscious
of any extraordinary motives for delay. It was Wortley,
however, and not Mervyn, to whom I was called.
My friend came to share with me his suspicions and inquietudes
respecting Welbeck and Mervyn. An accident
had newly happened which had awakened these suspicions
afresh. He desired a patient audience while he explained
them to me. These were his words.
To day a person presented me a letter from a mercantile
friend at Baltimore. I easily discerned the bearer to be a
sea captain. He was a man of sensible and pleasing aspect,
and was recommended to my friendship and counsel in the
letter which he brought. The letter stated, that a man, by
name Amos Watson, by profession a mariner, and a resident
at Baltimore, had disappeared in the summer of last year,
in a mysterious and incomprehensible manner. He was
known to have arrived in this city from Jamaica, and to
have intended an immediate journey to his family, who lived
at Baltimore; but he never arrived there, and no trace of
his existence has since been discovered. The bearer had
come to investigate, if possible, the secret of his fate, and I
was earnestly entreated to afford him all the assistance and
advice in my power, in the prosecution of his search. I
expressed my willingness to serve the stranger, whose name
was Williams; and, after offering him entertainment at my
house, which was thankfully accepted, he proceeded to
unfold to me the particulars of this affair. His story was
this.
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On the 20th of last June, I arrived, said he, from the
West Indies, in company with Captain Watson. I commanded
the ship in which he came as a passenger, his own
ship being taken and confiscated by the English. We had
long lived in habits of strict friendship, and I loved him for
his own sake, as well as because he had married my sister.
We landed in the morning, and went to dine with Mr.
Keysler, since dead, but who then lived in Water-street.
He was extremely anxious to visit his family, and having a
few commissions to perform in the city, which would not
demand more than a couple of hours, he determined to set
out next morning in the stage. Meanwhile, I had engagements
which required me to repair with the utmost expedition
to New York. I was scarcely less anxious than my
brother to reach Baltimore, where my friends also reside,
but there was an absolute necessity of going eastward. I
expected, however, to return hither in three days, and then
to follow Watson home. Shortly after dinner we parted;
he to execute his commissions, and I to embark in the mail
stage.
In the time prefixed I returned. I arrived early in the
morning, and prepared to depart again at noon. Meanwhile,
I called at Keysler's. This is an old acquaintance of
Watson's and mine; and, in the course of talk, he expressed
some surprise that Watson had so precipitately deserted
his house. I stated the necessity there was for Watson's
immediate departure southward, and added, that no doubt
my brother had explained this necessity.
Why, said Keysler, it is true, Captain Watson mentioned
his intention of leaving town early next day; but then he
gave me reason to expect that he would sup and lodge with
me that night, whereas he has not made his appearance
since. Besides, his trunk was brought to my house. This,
no doubt, he intended to carry home with him, but here it
remains still. It is not likely that in the hurry of departure
his baggage was forgotten. Hence, I inferred that he was
still in town, and have been puzzling myself these three
days with conjectures, as to what is become of him. What
surprises me more is, that, on inquiring among the few
friends which he has in this city, I find them as ignorant of
-- 022 --
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his motions as myself. I have not, indeed, been wholly
without apprehensions that some accident or other has befallen
him.
I was not a little alarmed by this intimation. I went myself,
agreeably to Keysler's directions, to Watson's friends,
and made anxious inquiries, but none of them had seen my
brother since his arrival. I endeavored to recollect the
commissions which he designed to execute, and, if possible,
to trace him to the spot where he last appeared. He had
several packets to deliver, one of which was addressed to
Walter Thetford. Him, after some inquiry, I found out,
but unluckily he chanced to be in the country. I found, by
questioning a clerk, who transacted his business in his absence,
that a person, who answered the minute description
which I gave of Watson, had been there on the day on
which I parted with him, and had left papers relative to the
capture of one of Thetford's vessels by the English. This
was the sum of the information he was able to afford me.
I then applied to three merchants for whom my brother
had letters. They all acknowledged the receipt of these
letters, but they were delivered through the medium of the
post-office.
I was extremely anxious to reach home. Urgent engagements
compelled me to go on without delay. I had
already exhausted all the means of inquiry within my reach,
and was obliged to acquiesce in the belief, that Watson had
proceeded homeward at the time appointed, and left, by
forgetfulness or accident, his trunk behind him. On examining
the books kept at the stage offices, his name no where
appeared, and no conveyance by water had occurred during
the last week. Still the only conjecture I could form, was
that he had gone homeward.
Arriving at Baltimore, I found that Watson had not yet
made his appearance. His wife produced a letter, which,
by the post mark, appeared to have been put into the office
at Philadelphia, on the morning after our arrival, and on
which he had designed to commence his journey. This
letter had been written by my brother, in my presence, but
I had dissuaded him from sending it, since the same coach
that should bear the letter, was likewise to carry himself. I
had seen him put it unwafered in his pocket-book, but this
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[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
letter, unaltered in any part, and containing money which he
had at first intended to enclose in it, was now conveyed to
his wife's hand. In this letter he mentioned his design of
setting out for Baltimore, on the twenty-first, yet, on that
day the letter itself had been put into the office.
We hoped that a short time would clear up this mystery,
and bring the fugitive home, but from that day till the present,
no atom of intelligence has been received concerning him.
The yellow fever, which quickly followed, in this city, and
my own engagements, have hindered me, till now, from
coming hither and resuming the search.
My brother was one of the most excellent of men. His
wife loved him to distraction, and, together with his children,
depended for subsistence upon his efforts. You will not,
therefore, be surprised that his disappearance excited, in us,
the deepest consternation and distress; but I have other, and
peculiar reasons for wishing to know his fate. I gave him
several bills of exchange on merchants of Baltimore, which
I had received in payment of my cargo, in order that they
might, as soon as possible, be presented and accepted.
These have disappeared with the bearer. There is likewise
another circumstance that makes his existence of no small
value.
There is an English family, who formerly resided in
Jamaica, and possessed an estate of great value, but who,
for some years, have lived in the neighborhood of Baltimore.
The head of this family died a year ago, and left a widow
and three daughters. The lady thought it eligible to sell
her husband's property in Jamaica, the island becoming
hourly more exposed to the chances of war and revolution,
and transfer it to the United States, where she purposes
henceforth to reside. Watson had been her husband's
friend, and his probity and disinterestedness being well
known, she entrusted him with legal powers to sell this estate.
This commission was punctually performed, and the purchase
money was received. In order to confer on it the
utmost possible security, he rolled up four bills of exchange,
drawn upon opulent merchants of London, in a thin sheet of
lead, and depositing this roll in a leathern girdle, fastened it
round his waist, and under his clothes; a second set he gave
to me, and a third he despatched to Mr. Keysler, by a vessel
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
which sailed a few days before him. On our arrival in this
city, we found that Keysler had received those transmitted
to him, and which he had been charged to keep till our
arrival. They were now produced, and, together with those
which I had carried, were delivered to Watson. By him
they were joined to those in the girdle, which he still wore,
conceiving this method of conveyance to be safer than any
other, and, at the same time, imagining it needless, in so
short a journey as remained to be performed, to resort to
other expedients.
The sum which he thus bore about him, was no less than
ten thousand pounds sterling. It constituted the whole patrimony
of a worthy and excellent family, and the loss of it
reduces them to beggary. It is gone with Watson, and
whither Watson has gone, it is impossible even to guess.
You may now easily conceive, Sir, the dreadful disasters
which may be connected with this man's fate, and with what
immeasurable anxiety his family and friends have regarded
his disappearance. That he is alive, can scarcely be believed,
for in what situation could he be placed in which he
would not be able and willing to communicate some tidings
of his fate to his family?
Our grief has been unspeakably aggravated by the suspicions
which Mrs. Maurice and her friends have allowed
themselves to admit. They do not scruple to insimuate,
that Watson, tempted by so great a prize, has secretly embarked
for England, in order to obtain payment for these
bills, and retain the money for his own use.
No man was more impatient of poverty than Watson,
but no man's honesty was more inflexible. He murmured
at the destiny that compelled him to sacrifice his ease, and
risk his life upon the ocean in order to procure the means
of subsistence; and all the property which he had spent the
best part of his life in collecting, had just been ravished
away from him by the English; but if he had yielded to
this temptation at any time, it would have been on receiving
these bills at Jamaica. Instead of coming hither, it would
have been infinitely more easy and convenient to have embarked
directly for London; but none, who thoroughly knew
him, can, for a moment, harbor a suspicion of his truth.
If he be dead, and if the bills are not to be recovered,
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yet, to ascertain this, will, at least, serve to vindicate his
character. As long as his fate is unknown, his fame will be
loaded with the most flagrant imputations, and if these bills
be ever paid in London, these imputations will appear to be
justified. If he has been robbed, the robber will make haste
to secure the payment, and the Maurices may not unreasonably
conclude that the robber was Watson himself. Many
other particulars were added by the stranger, to show the
extent of the evils flowing from the death of his brother, and
the loss of the papers which he carried with him.
I was greatly at a loss, continued Wortley, what directions
or advice to afford this man. Keysler, as you know, died
early of the pestilence; but Keysler was the only resident
in this city with whom Williams had any acquaintance. On
mentioning the propriety of preventing the sale of these bills
in America, by some public notice, he told me that this
caution had been early taken; and I now remembered seeing
the advertisement, in which the bills had been represented
as having been lost or stolen in this city, and a reward
of a thousand dollars was offered to any one who should
restore them. This caution had been published in September,
in all the trading towns from Portsmouth to Savannah,
but had produced no satisfaction.
I accompanied Williams to the mayor's office, in hopes
of finding in the records of his proceedings, during the last
six months, some traces of Watson, but neither these records
nor the memory of the magistrate, afforded us any satisfaction.
Watson's friends had drawn up, likewise, a description
of the person and dress of the fugitive, an account of
the incidents attending his disappearance, and of the papers
which he had in his possession, with the manner in which
these papers had been secured. These had been already
published in the Southern newspapers, and have been just
reprinted in our own. As the former notice had availed
nothing, this second expedient was thought necessary to be
employed.
After some reflection, it occurred to me that it might be
proper to renew the attempt which Williams had made to
trace the footsteps of his friend to the moment of his final
disappearance. He had pursued Watson to Thetford's, but
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Thetford himself had not been seen, and he had been contented
with the vague information of his clerk. Thetford
and his family, including his clerk, had perished, and it
seemed as if this source of information was dried up. It was
possible, however, that old Thetford might have some knowledge
of his nephew's transactions, by which some light might
chance to be thrown upon this obscurity. I therefore called
on him, but found him utterly unable to afford me the light
that I wished. My mention of the packet which Watson had
brought to Thetford, containing documents respecting the
capture of a certain ship, reminded him of the injuries
which he had received from Welbeck, and excited him to
renew his menaces and imputations on that wretch. Having
somewhat exhausted this rhetoric, he proceeded to tell me
what connexion there was between the remembrance of his
injuries and the capture of this vessel.
This vessel and its cargo were, in fact, the property of
Welbeck. They had been sent to a good market and had
been secured by an adequate insurance. The value of this
ship and cargo, and the validity of the policy he had taken
care to ascertain by means of his two nephews, one of whom
had gone out supercargo. This had formed his inducement
to lend his three notes to Welbeck, in exchange for three
other notes, the whole amount of which included the equitable
interest of five per cent. per month on his own loan. For
the payment of these notes, he by no means relied, as the
world foolishly imagined, on the seeming opulence and secret
funds of Welbeck. These were illusions too gross to
have any influence on him. He was too old a bird to be
decoyed into the net by such chaff. No; his nephew, the
supercargo, would of course receive the produce of the
voyage, and so much of this produce as would pay his debt.
He had procured the owner's authority to intercept its passage
from the pocket of his nephew to that of Welbeck. In
case of loss, he had obtained a similar security upon the policy.
Jamieson's proceedings had been the same with his
own, and no affair in which he had ever engaged, had appeared
to be more free from hazard than this. Their calculations,
however, though plausible, were defeated. The
ship was taken and condemned, for a cause which rendered
the insurance ineffectual.
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I bestowed no time in reflecting on this tissue of extortions
and frauds, and on that course of events which so often
disconcerts the stratagems of cunning. The names of
Welbeck and Watson were thus associated together, and
filled my thoughts with restlessness and suspicion. Welbeck
was capable of any wickedness. It was possible an
interview had happened between these men, and that the fugitive
had been some way instrumental in Watson's fate.
These thoughts were mentioned to Williams, whom the name
of Welbeck threw into the utmost perturbation. On finding
that one of this name had dwelt in this city, and, that he
had proved a villain, he instantly admitted the most dreary
forebodings.
I have heard, said Williams, the history of this Welbeck
a score of times from my brother. There formerly subsisted
a very intimate connexion between them. My brother
had conferred upon one whom he thought honest, innumerable
benefits, but all his benefits had been repaid by
the blackest treachery. Welbeck's character and guilt had
often been made the subject of talk between us, but, on
these occasions, my brother's placid and patient temper forsook
him. His grief for the calamities which had sprung
from this man, and his desire of revenge, burst all bounds,
and transported him to a pitch of temporary frenzy. I
often inquired in what manner he intended to act, if a meeting
should take place between them. He answered, that
doubtless he should act like a maniac, in defiance of his sober
principles, and of the duty which he owed his family.
What, said I, would you stab or pistol him?
No! I was not born for an assassin. I would upbraid
him in such terms as the furious moment might suggest, and
then challenge him to a meeting, from which either he or I
should not part with life. I would allow time for him to
make his peace with Heaven, and for me to blast his reputation
upon earth, and to make such provision for my possible
death, as duty and discretion would prescribe.
Now, nothing is more probable than that Welbeck and
my brother have met. Thetford would of course mention
his name and interest in the captured ship, and hence the
residence of this detested being in this city, would be made
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known. Their meeting could not take place without some
dreadful consequence. I am fearful that to that meeting
we must impute the disappearance of my brother.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Here was new light thrown upon the character of Welbeck,
and new food administered to my suspicions. No
conclusion could be more plausible than that which Williams
had drawn; but how should it be rendered certain? Walter
Thetford, or some of his family, had possibly been witnesses
of something, which, added to our previous knowledge,
might strengthen or prolong that clue, one end of which
seemed now to be put into our hands; but Thetford's father-in-law
was the only one of his family, who, by seasonable
flight from the city, had escaped the pestilence. To him,
who still resided in the country, I repaired with all speed,
accompanied by Williams.
The old man being reminded, by a variety of circumstances,
of the incidents of that eventful period, was, at length,
enabled to relate that he had been present at the meeting
which took place between Watson and his son Walter, when
certain packets were delivered by the former, relative, as he
quickly understood, to the condemnation of a ship in which
Thomas Thetford had gone supercargo. He had noticed
some emotion of the stranger, occasioned by his son's mentioning
the concern which Welbeck had in the vessel. He
likewise remembered the stranger's declaring his intention
of visiting Welbeck, and requesting Walter to afford him
directions to his house.
“Next morning at the breakfast table, continued the old
man, I adverted to yesterday's incidents, and asked my son
how Welbeck had borne the news of the loss of his ship.
He bore it, said Walter, as a man of his wealth ought to
bear so trivial a loss. But there was something very strange
in his behaviour, says my son, when I mentioned the name
of the captain who brought the papers; and when I mentioned
the captain's design of paying him a visit, he stared
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upon me, for a moment, as if he were frighted out of his
wits, and then, snatching up his hat, ran furiously out of the
house. This was all my son said upon that occasion; but,
as I have since heard, it was on that very night, that Welbeck
absconded from his creditors.”
I have this moment returned from this interview with old
Thetford. I come to you, because I thought it possible
that Mervyn, agreeably to your expectations, had returned,
and I wanted to see the lad once more. My suspicions with
regard to him have been confirmed, and a warrant was this
day issued for apprehending him as Welbeck's accomplice.
I was startled by this news. My friend, said I, be cautious
how you act, I beseech you. You know not in what
evils you may involve the innocent. Mervyn I know to
be blameless; but Welbeck is indeed, a villain. The latter
I shall not be sorry to see brought to justice, but the
former, instead of meriting punishment, is entitled to rewards.
So you believe, on the mere assertion of the boy, perhaps,
his plausible lies might produce the same effect upon
me, but I must stay till he thinks proper to exert his skill.
The suspicions to which he is exposed will not easily be obviated;
but if he has any thing to say in his defence, his
judicial examination will afford him the suitable opportunity.
Why are you so much afraid to subject his innocence to
this test? It was not till you heard his tale, that your own
suspicions were removed. Allow me the same privilege of
unbelief.
But you do me wrong, in deeming me the cause of his
apprehension. It is Jamieson and Thetford's work, and
they have not proceeded on shadowy surmises and the impulses
of mere revenge. Facts have come to light of which
you are wholly unaware, and which, when known to you,
will conquer even your incredulity as to the guilt of
Mervyn.
Facts? Let me know them, I beseech you. If Mervyn
has deceived me, there is an end to my confidence
in human nature. All limits to dissimulation, and all distinctness
between vice and virtue will be effaced. No
man's word, nor force of collateral evidence shall weigh
with me a hair.
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It was time, replied my friend, that your confidence in
smooth features and fluent accents should have ended long
ago. Till I gained from my present profession, some
knowledge of the world, a knowledge which was not gained
in a moment, and has not cost a trifle, I was equally wise
in my own conceit; and, in order to decide upon the truth
of any one's pretensions, needed only a clear view of his
face and a distinct hearing of his words. My folly, in that
respect, was only to be cured, however, by my own experience,
and I suppose your credulity will yield to no other
remedy. These are the facts:—
Mrs. Wentworth, the proprietor of the house in which
Welbeck lived, has furnished some intelligence respecting
Mervyn, whose truth cannot be doubted, and which furnishes
the strongest evidence of a conspiracy between this
lad and his employer. It seems, that, some years since, a
nephew of this lady left his father's family clandestinely,
and has not been heard of since. This nephew was intended
to inherit her fortunes, and her anxieties and inquiries
respecting him have been endless and incessant. These,
however, have been fruitless. Welbeck, knowing these
circumstances, and being desirous of substituting a girl whom
he had moulded for his purpose, in place of the lost youth,
in the affections of the lady while living, and in her testament
when dead, endeavored to persuade her that the youth
had died in some foreign country. For this end, Mervyn
was to personate a kinsman of Welbeck who had just arrived
from Europe, and who had been a witness of her nephew's
death. A story was, no doubt, to be contrived, where
truth should be copied with the most exquisite dexterity,
and the lady, being prevailed upon to believe the story,
the way was cleared for accomplishing the remainder of
the plot.
In due time, and after the lady's mind had been artfully
prepared by Welbeck, the pupil made his appearance; and,
in a conversation full of studied ambiguities, assured the
lady, that her nephew was dead. For the present he declined
relating the particulars of his death, and displayed a
constancy and intrepidity in resisting her entreaties, that
would have been admirable in a better cause. Before she
had time to fathom this painful mystery, Welbeck's frauds
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were in danger of detection, and he and his pupil suddenly
disappeared.
While the plot was going forward, there occurred an incident
which the plotters had not foreseen or precluded, and
which possibly might have created some confusion or impediment
in their designs. A bundle was found one night
in the street, consisting of some coarse clothes, and containing,
in the midst of it, the miniature portrait of Mrs.
Wentworth's nephew. It fell into the hands of one of that
lady's friends, who immediately despatched the bundle to
her. Mervyn, in his interview with this lady, spied the
portrait on the mantelpiece. Led by some freak of fancy,
or some web of artifice, he introduced the talk respecting
her nephew, by boldly claiming it as his; but, when the
mode in which it had been found was mentioned, he was
disconcerted and confounded, and precipitately withdrew.
This conduct, and the subsequent flight of the lad, afforded
ground enough to question the truth of his intelligence
respecting her nephew; but it has since been confuted,
in a letter just received from her brother in England.
In this letter she is informed, that her nephew had been
seen by one who knew him well, in Charleston; that some
intercourse took place between the youth and the bearer of
the news, in the course of which the latter had persuaded
the nephew to return to his family, and that the youth had
given some tokens of compliance. The letter-writer, who
was father to the fugitive, had written to certain friends at
Charleston, entreating them to use their influence with the
runaway to the same end, and, at any rate, to cherish and
protect him. Thus, I hope you will admit that the duplicity
of Mervyn is demonstrated.
The facts which you have mentioned, said I, after some
pause, partly correspond with Mervyn's story; but the last
particular is irreconcilably repugnant to it. Now, for the
first time, I begin to feel that my confidence is shaken. I
feel my mind bewildered and distracted by the multitude
of new discoveries which have just taken place. I want
time to revolve them slowly, to weigh them accurately, and
to estimate their consequences fully. I am afraid to speak;
fearing, that, in the present trouble of my thoughts, I may
say something which I may afterwards regret. I want a
-- 032 --
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counsellor; but you, Wortley, are unfit for the office.
Your judgment is unfurnished with the same materials; your
sufferings have soured your humanity and biassed your candor.
The only one qualified to divide with me these cares,
and aid in selecting the best mode of action, is my wife.
She is mistress of Mervyn's history; an observer of his
conduct during his abode with us; and is hindered, by her
education and temper, from deviating into rigor and malevolence.
Will you pardon me, therefore, if I defer commenting
on your narrative till I have had an opportunity of
reviewing it and comparing it with my knowledge of the lad,
collected from himself and from my own observation.
Wortley could not but admit the justice of my request,
and after some desultory conversation we parted. I hastened
to communicate to my wife the various intelligence which I
had lately received. Mrs. Althorpe's portrait of the Mervyns
contained lineaments which the summary detail of Arthur
did not enable us fully to comprehend. The treatment
which the youth is said to have given to his father; the illicit
commerce that subsisted between him and his father's wife;
the pillage of money and his father's horse, but ill accorded
with the tale which we had heard, and disquieted our minds
with doubts, though far from dictating our belief.
What, however, more deeply absorbed our attention, was
the testimony of Williams and of Mrs. Wentworth. That
which was mysterious and inscrutable to Wortley and the
friends of Watson, was luminous to us. The coincidence
between the vague hints, laboriously collected by these inquirers,
and the narrative of Mervyn, afforded the most
cogent attestation of the truth of that narrative.
Watson had vanished from all eyes, but the spot where
rested his remains was known to us. The girdle spoken of
by Williams, would not be suspected to exist by his murderer.
It was unmolested, and was doubtless buried with
him. That which was so earnestly sought, and which constituted
the subsistence of the Maurices, would probably
be found adhering to his body. What conduct was incumbent
upon me who possessed this knowledge?
It was just to restore these bills to their true owner; but
how could this be done without hazardous processes and
tedious disclosures? To whom ought these disclosures to
-- 033 --
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be made? By what authority or agency could these half
decayed limbs be dug up, and the lost treasure be taken
from amidst the horrible corruption in which it was immersed?
This ought not to be the act of a single individual. This
act would entangle him in a maze of perils and suspicions,
of concealments and evasions, from which he could not hope
to escape with his reputation inviolate. The proper method
was through the agency of the law. It is to this that
Mervyn must submit his conduct. The story which he told
to me he must tell to the world. Suspicions have fixed
themselves upon him, which allow him not the privilege of
silence and obscurity. While he continued unknown and
unthought of, the publication of his story would only give
unnecessary birth to dangers; but now dangers are incurred
which it may probably contribute to lessen, if not to
remove.
Meanwhile the return of Mervyn to the city was anxiously
expected. Day after day passed and no tidings were received.
I had business of an urgent nature which required
my presence in Jersey, but which, in the daily expectation
of the return of my young friend, I postponed a week
longer than rigid discretion allowed. At length I was
obliged to comply with the exigence, and left the city, but
made such arrangements that I should be apprized by my
wife of Mervyn's return with all practicable expedition.
These arrangements were superfluous, for my business
was despatched, and my absence at an end, before the
youth had given us any tokens of his approach. I now remembered
the warnings of Wortley, and his assertions that
Mervyn had withdrawn himself forever from cur view. The
event had hitherto unwelcomely coincided with these predictions,
and a thousand doubts and misgivings were awakened.
One evening, while preparing to shake off gloomy
thoughts by a visit to a friend, some one knocked at my
door, and left a billet containing these words:
“Dr. Stevens is requested to come immediately to the
Debtors' Apartments in Prune Street.”
This billet was without signature. The hand-writing was
-- 034 --
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unknown, and the precipitate departure of the bearer, left
me wholly at a loss with respect to the person of the writer,
or the end for which my presence was required. This uncertainty
only hastened my compliance with the summons.
The evening was approaching—a time when the prison
doors are accustomed to be shut and strangers to be excluded.
This furnished an additional reason for despatch.
As I walked swiftly along, I revolved the possible motives
that might have prompted this message. A conjecture was
soon formed, which led to apprehension and inquietude.
One of my friends, by name Carlton, was embarrassed
with debts which he was unable to discharge. He had lately
been menaced with arrest, by a creditor not accustomed to
remit any of his claims. I dreaded that this catastrophe
had now happened, and called to mind the anguish with
which this untoward incident would overwhelmn his family.
I knew his incapacity to take away the claim of his creditor
by payment, or to sooth him into clemency by supplication.
So prone is the human mind to create for itself distress,
that I was not aware of the uncertainty of this evil till I arrived
at the prison. I checked myself at the moment when
I opened my lips to utter the name of my friend, and was
admitted without particular inquiries. I supposed that he by
whom I had been summoned hither would meet me in the
common room.
The apartment was filled with pale faces and withered
forms. The marks of negligence and poverty were visible
in all; but few betrayed, in their features or gestures, any
symptoms of concern on account of their condition. Ferocious
gaiety, or stupid indifference, seemed to sit upon every
brow. The vapor from a heated stove, mingled with the
fumes of beer and tallow that were spilled upon it, and with
the tainted breath of so promiscuous a crowd, loaded the
stagnant atmosphere. At my first transition from the cold
and pure air without, to this noxious element, I found it difficult
to breathe. A moment, however, reconciled me to
my situation, and I looked anxiously round to discover some
face which I knew.
Almost every mouth was furnished with a cigar, and
every hand with a glass of porter. Conversation, carried on
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
with much emphasis of tone and gesture, was not wanting.
Sundry groups, in different corners, were beguiling the
tedious hours at whist. Others, unemployed, were strolling
to and fro, and testified their vacancy of thought and care
by humming or whistling a tune.
I fostered the hope that my prognostics had deceived me.
This hope was strengthened by reflecting that the billet received
was written in a different hand from that of my friend.
Meanwhile I continued my search. Seated on a bench,
silent and aloof from the crowd, his eyes fixed upon the
floor, and his face half concealed by his hand, a form was
at length discovered which verified all my conjectures and
fears. Carlton was he.
My heart drooped, and my tongue faltered at this sight.
I surveyed him for some minutes in silence. At length, approaching
the bench on which he sat, I touched his hand
and awakened him from his reverie. He looked up. A
momentary gleam of joy and surprise was succeeded by a
gloom deeper than before.
It was plain that my friend needed consolation. He was
governed by an exquisite sensibility to disgrace. He was
impatient of constraint. He shrunk, with fastidious abhorrence,
from the contact of the vulgar and the profligate.
His constitution was delicate and feeble. Impure airs, restraint
from exercise, unusual aliment, unwholesome or
incommodious accommodations, and perturbed thoughts,
were, at any time, sufficient to generate disease and to deprive
him of life.
To these evils he was now subjected. He had no money
wherewith to purchase food. He had been dragged
hither in the morning. He had not tasted a morsel since
his entrance. He had not provided a bed on which to lie;
or inquired in what room, or with what companions, the
night was to be spent.
Fortitude was not among my friend's qualities. He was
more prone to shrink from danger than encounter it, and to
yield to the flood rather than sustain it; but it is just to observe,
that his anguish, on the present occasion, arose not
wholly from selfish considerations. His parents were dead,
and two sisters were dependant on him for support. One
of these was nearly of his own age. The other was scarcely
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[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
emerged from childhood. There was an intellectual as
well as a personal resemblance between my friend and his
sisters. They possessed his physical infirmities, his vehement
passions, and refinements of taste; and the misery of
his condition was tenfold increased, by reflecting on the
feelings which would be awakened in them by the knowledge
of his state, and the hardships to which the loss of his succor
would expose them.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
It was not in my power to release my friend by the payment
of his debt; but, by contracting with the keeper of the
prison for his board, I could save him from famine; and, by
suitable exertions, could procure him lodging as convenient
as the time would admit. I could promise to console and
protect his sisters, and, by cheerful tones and frequent visits,
dispel some part of the evil which encompassed him.
After the first surprise had subsided, he inquired by what
accident this meeting had been produced. Conscious of my
incapacity to do him any essential service, and unwilling to
make me a partaker in his miseries, he had forborne to inform
me of his condition.
This assurance was listened to with some wonder. I
showed him the billet. It had not been written by him.
He was a stranger to the penmanship. None but the attorney
and officer were apprized of his fate. It was obvious
to conclude, that this was the interposition of some friend,
who, knowing my affection for Carlton, had taken this mysterious
method of calling me to his succor.
Conjectures, as to the author and motives of this interposition,
were suspended by more urgent considerations. I
requested an interview with the keeper, and inquired how
Carlton could be best accommodated.
He said, that all his rooms were full but one, which, in
consequence of the dismission of three persons in the morning,
had at present but one tenant. This person had lately
arrived, was sick, and had with him, at this time, one of his
friends. Carlton might divide the chamber with this person.
-- 037 --
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No doubt his consent would be readily given; though this
arrangement, being the best, must take place whether he
consented or not.
This consent I resolved immediately to seek, and, for
that purpose, desired to be led to the chamber. The door
of the apartment was shut. I knocked for admission. It
was instantly opened, and I entered. The first person who
met my view was—Arthur Mervyn.
I started with astonishment. Mervyn's countenance betrayed
nothing but satisfaction at the interview. The traces
of fatigue and anxiety gave place to tenderness and joy. It
readily occurred to me that Mervyn was the writer of the
note which I had lately received. To meet him within
these walls, and at this time, was the most remote and undesirable
of all contingencies. The same hour had thus made
me acquainted with the kindred and unwelcome fate of two
beings whom I most loved.
I had scarcely time to return his embrace, when, taking
my hand, he led me to a bed that stood in one corner.
There was stretched upon it one whom a second glance
enabled me to call by his name, though I had never before
seen him. The vivid portrait which Mervyn had drawn was
conspicuous in the sunken and haggard visage before me.
This face had, indeed, proportions and lines which could
never be forgotten or mistaken. Welbeck, when once seen or
described, was easily distinguished from the rest of mankind.
He had stronger motives than other men for abstaining from
guilt, the difficulty of concealment or disguise being tenfold
greater in him than in others, by reason of the indelible and
eye-attracting marks which nature had set upon him.
He was pallid and emaciated. He did not open his eyes
on my entrance. He seemed to be asleep; but, before I
had time to exchange glances with Mervyn, or to inquire
into the nature of the scene, he awoke. On seeing me he
started, and cast a look of upbraiding on my companion.
The latter comprehended his emotion and endeavored to
appease him.
This person said he is my friend. He is likewise a physician;
and, perceiving your state to require medical assistance,
I ventured to send for him.
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
Welbeck, replied, in a contemptuous and indignant tone,
thou mistakest my condition, boy. My disease lies deeper
than his scrutiny will ever reach. I had hoped thou wert
gone. Thy importunities are well meant, but they aggravate
my miseries.
He now rose from the bed, and continued, in a firm and
resolute tone, you are intruders into this apartment. It is
mine, and I desire to be left alone.
Mervyn returned at first, no answer to this address. He
was immersed in perplexity. At length, raising his eyes from
the floor, he said, my intentions are indeed honest, and I am
grieved that I want the power of persuasion. Tomorrow,
perhaps, I may reason more cogently with your despair, or
your present mood may be changed. To aid my own
weakness I will entreat the assistance of this friend.
These words roused a new spirit in Welbeck. His confusion
and anger increased. His tongue faltered as he exclaimed,
good God! what mean you? Headlong and rash
as you are, you will not share with this person your knowledge
of me? Here he checked himself, conscious that
the words he had already uttered tended to the very end
which he dreaded. This consciousness, added to the terror
of more ample disclosures, which the simplicity and
rectitude of Mervyn might prompt him to make, chained
up his tongue, and covered him with dismay.
Mervyn was not long in answering.—I comprehend your
fears and your wishes. I am bound to tell you the truth.
To this person your story has already been told. Whatever
I have witnessed under your roof, whatever I have heard
from your lips, have been faithfully disclosed to him.
The countenance of Welbeck now betrayed a mixture of
incredulity and horror. For a time his utterance was stifled
by his complicated feelings.
It cannot be. So enormous a deed is beyond thy power.
Thy qualities are marvellous. Every new act of thine outstrips
the last, and belies the newest calculations. But this—
this perfidy exceeds—this outrage upon promises, this
violation of faith, this blindness to the future is incredible.
There he stopped; while his looks seemed to call upon
Mervyn for a contradiction of his first assertion.
I know full well how inexpiably stupid or wicked my
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
act will appear to you, but I will not prevaricate or lie. I
repeat, that every thing is known to him. Your birth; your
early fortunes; the incidents at Charleston and Wilmington;
your treatment of the brother and sister; your interview
with Watson, and the fatal issue of that interview—I have
told him all, just as it was told to me.
Here the shock that was felt by Welbeck overpowered
his caution and his strength. He sunk upon the side of the
bed. His air was still incredulous, and he continued to
gaze upon Mervyn. He spoke in a tone less vehement.
And hast thou then betrayed me? Hast thou shut every
avenue to my return to honor? Am I known to be a seducer
and assassin? To have mediated all crimes, and to have
perpetrated the worst?
Infamy and death are my portion. I know they are reserved
for me; but I did not think to receive them at thy
hands, that under that innocent guise there lurked a heart
treacherous and cruel. But go; leave me to myself. This
stroke has exterminated my remnant of hope. Leave me
to prepare my neck for the halter, and my lips for this last,
and bitterest cup.
Mervyn struggled with his tears and replied, all this was
foreseen, and all this I was prepared to endure. My friend
and I will withdraw, as you wish; but tomorrow I return;
not to vindicate my faith or my humanity; not to make you
recant your charges, or forgive the faults which I seem to
have committed, but to extricate you from your present evil,
or to arm you with fortitude.
So saying he led the way out of the room. I followed
him in silence. The strangeness and abruptness of this
scene left me no power to assume a part in it. I looked on
with new and indescribable sensations. I reached the
street before my recollection was perfectly recovered. I
then reflected on the purpose that had led me to Welbeck's
chamber. This purpose was yet unaccomplished. I desired
Mervyn to linger a moment while I returned into the
house. I once more inquired for the keeper, and told him
I should leave to him the province of acquainting Welbeck
with the necessity of sharing his apartment with a stranger.
I speedily rejoined Mervyn in the street.
I lost no time in requiring an explanation of the scene
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
that I had witnessed. How became you once more the
companion of Welbeck? Why did you not inform me by
letter of your arrival at Malverton, and of what occurred
during your absence? What is the fate of Mr. Hadwin and
of Wallace?
Alas! said he, I perceive, that, though I have written,
you have never received my letters. The tale of what has
occurred since we parted is long and various. I am not only
willing but eager to communicate the story, but this is no
suitable place. Have patience till we reach your house. I
have involved myself in perils and embarrassments from
which I depend upon your counsel and aid to release me.
I had scarcely reached my own door, when I was over-taken
by a servant, whom I knew to belong to the family
in which Carlton and his sisters resided. Her message,
therefore, was readily guessed. She came, as I expected,
to inquire for my friend, who had left his home in the morning
with a stranger, and had not yet returned. His absence
had occasioned some inquietude, and his sister had
sent this message to me, to procure what information respecting
the cause of his detention I was able to give.
My perplexity hindered me, for some time, from answering.
I was willing to communicate the painful truth with
my own mouth. I saw the necessity of putting an end to
her suspense, and of preventing the news from reaching
her with fallacious aggravations or at an unseasonable time.
I told the messenger, that I had just parted with Mr.
Carlton, that he was well, and that I would speedily come
and acquaint his sister with the cause of his absence.
Though burning with curiosity respecting Mervyn and
Welbeck, I readily postponed its gratification till my visit to
Miss Carlton was performed. I had rarely seen this lady; my
friendship for her brother, though ardent, having been lately
formed, and chiefly matured by interviews at my house. I
had designed to introduce her to my wife, but various accidents
had hindered the execution of my purpose. Now
consolation and counsel was more needed than ever, and
delay or reluctance in bestowing it would have been, in a
high degree, unpardonable.
I therefore parted with Mervyn, requesting him to await
my return, and promising to perform the engagement which
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
compelled me to leave him, with the utmost despatch. On
entering Miss Carlton's apartment, I assumed an air of as
much tranquillity as possible. I found the lady seated at
a desk, with pen in hand and parchment before her. She
greeted me with affectionate dignity, and caught from my
countenance that cheerfulness of which on my entrance she
was destitute.
You come, said she, to inform me what has made my
brother a truant to day. Till your message was received
I was somewhat anxious. This day he usually spends in
rambling through the fields, but so bleak and stormy an
atmosphere, I suppose, would prevent his excursion. I pray,
sir, what is it detains him?
To conquer my embarrassment, and introduce the subject
by indirect and cautious means, I eluded her question,
and casting an eye at the parchment, How now? said I;
this is strange employment for a lady. I knew that my
friend pursued this trade, and lived by binding fast the bargains
which others made, but I knew not that the pen was
ever usurped by his sister.
The usurpation was prompted by necessity. My brother's
impatient temper and delicate frame, unfitted him for this
trade. He pursued it with no less reluctance than diligence,
devoting to the task three nights in the week, and the whole
of each day. It would long ago have killed him, had I not
bethought myself of sharing his tasks. The pen was irksome
and toilsome at first, but use has made it easy, and
far more eligible than the needle, which was formerly my
only tool.
This arrangement affords my brother opportunities of
exercise and recreation, without diminishing our profits;
and my time, though not less constantly, is more agreeably,
as well as more lucratively employed than formerly.
I admire your reasoning. By this means provision is
made against untoward accidents. If sickness should disable
him, you are qualified to pursue the same means of
support.
At these words the lady's countenance changed. She
put her hand on my arm, and said, in a fluttering and hurried
accent, is my brother sick?
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
No. He is in perfect health. My observation was a
harmless one. I am sorry to observe your readiness to
draw alarming inferences. If I were to say, that your
scheme is useful to supply deficiencies, not only when
your brother is disabled by sickness, but when thrown, by
some inhuman creditor, into jail, no doubt you would perversely
and hastily infer that he is now in prison.
I had scarcely ended the sentence, when the piercing
eyes of the lady were anxiously fixed upon mine. After a
moment's pause, she exclaimed:—The inference, indeed, is
too plain. I know his fate. It has long been foreseen and
expected, and I have summoned up my equanimity to meet
it. Would to Heaven he may find the calamity as light as
I should find it; but I fear his too irritable spirit.
When her fears were confirmed, she started out into no
vehemence of exclamation. She quickly suppressed a few
tears which would not be withheld, and listened to my narrative
of what had lately occurred, with tokens of gratitude.
Formal consolation was superfluous. Her mind was indeed
more fertile than my own in those topics which take
away its keenest edge from affliction. She observed that it
was far from being the heaviest calamity which might have
happened. The creditor was perhaps vincible by arguments
and supplications. If these should succeed, the disaster
would not only be removed, but that security from future
molestation be gained, to which they had for a long time
been strangers.
Should he be obdurate, their state was far from being
hopeless. Carlton's situation allowed him to pursue his profession.
His gains would be equal, and his expenses would
not be augmented. By their mutual industry they might
hope to amass sufficient to discharge the debt at no very
remote period.
What she chiefly dreaded was the pernicious influence of
dejection and sedentary labor on her brother's health. Yet
this was not to be considered as inevitable. Fortitude
might be inspired by exhortation and example, and no condition
precluded us from every species of bodily exertion.
The less inclined he should prove to cultivate the means
of deliverance and happiness within his reach, the more
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
necessary it became for her to stimulate and fortify his
resolution.
If I were captivated by the charms of this lady's person
and carriage, my reverence was excited by these proofs of
wisdom and energy. I zealously promised to concur with
her in every scheme she should adopt for her own or her
brother's advantage; and after spending some hours with
her, took my leave.
I now regretted the ignorance in which I had hitherto
remained respecting this lady. That she was, in an eminent
degree, feminine and lovely, was easily discovered; but
intellectual weakness had been rashly inferred from external
frailty. She was accustomed to shrink from observation,
and reserve was mistaken for timidity. I called on Carlton
only when numerous engagements would allow, and when
by some accident, his customary visits had been intermitted.
On those occasions, my stay was short, and my attention
chiefly confined to her brother. I now resolved to atone for
my ancient negligence, not only by my own assiduities, but
by those of my wife.
On my return home, I found Mervyn and my wife in
earnest discourse. I anticipated the shock which the sensibility
of the latter would receive from the tidings which I
had to communicate respecting Carlton. I was unwilling,
and yet perceived the necessity of disclosing the truth. I
desired to bring these women, as soon as possible, to the
knowledge of each other, but the necessary prelude to this
was an acquaintance with the disaster that had happened.
Scarcely had I entered the room, when Mervyn turned
to me, and said, with an air of anxiety and impatience—
Pray, my friend, have you any knowledge of Francis
Carlton?
The mention of this name by Mervyn, produced some
surprise. I acknowledged my acquaintance with him.
Do you know in what situation he now is?
In answer to this question, I stated by what singular
means his situation had been made known to me, and the
purpose, from the accomplishment of which, I had just
returned. I inquired, in my turn, whence originated this
question?
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[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
He had overheard the name of Carlton in the prison.
Two persons were communing in a corner, and accident
enabled him to catch this name, though uttered by them in
a half whisper, and to discover that the person talked about
had lately been conveyed thither.
This name was not now heard for the first time. It was
connected with remembrances that made him anxious for
the fate of him to whom it belonged. In discourse with
my wife, this name chanced to be again mentioned, and his
curiosity was roused afresh. I was willing to communicate
all that I knew, but Mervyn's own destiny was too remarkable
not to absorb all my attention, and I refused to discuss
any other theme till that were fully explained. He postponed
his own gratification to mine, and consented to relate
the incidents that had happened from the moment of our
separation till the present.
CHAPTER XXIX.
At parting with you, my purpose was to reach the abode
of the Hadwins as speedily as possible. I travelled therefere
with diligence. Setting out so early, I expected, though on
foot, to reach the end of my journey before noon. The
activity of muscles is no obstacle to thought. So far from
being inconsistent with intense masing, it is, in my own
case, propitious to that state of mind.
Probably no one had stronger motives for ardent meditation
than I. My second journey to the city was prompted
by reasons, and attended by incidents, that seemed to have
a present existence. To think upon them, was to view, more
deliberately and thoroughly, objects and persons that still
hovered in my sight. Instead of their attributes being
already seen, and their consequences at an end, it seemed
as if a series of numerous years and unintermitted contemplation
were requisite to comprehend them fully, and bring
into existence their most momentous effects.
If men be chiefly distinguished from each other by the
modes in which attention is employed, either on external
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[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
and sensible objects, or merely on abstract ideas and the
creatures of reflection, I may justly claim to be enrolled
in the second class. My existence is a series of thoughts
rather than of motions. Ratiocination and deduction leave
my senses unemployed. The fulness of my fancy renders
my eye vacant and inactive. Sensations do not precede
and suggest, but follow and are secondary to the acts of
my mind.
There was one motive, however, which made me less inattentive
to the scene that was continually shifting before
and without me than I am wont to be. The loveliest form
which I had hitherto seen, was that of Clemenza Lodi. I
recalled her condition as I had witnessed it, as Welbeck
had described, and as you had painted it. The past was
without remedy; but the future was, in some degree, within
our power to create and to fashion. Her state was probably
dangerous. She might already be forlorn, beset with
temptation or with anguish; or danger might only be approaching
her, and the worst evils be impending ones.
I was ignorant of her state. Could I not remove this
ignorance? Would not some benefit redound to her from
beneficient and seasonable interposition?
You had mentioned that her abode had lately been with
Mrs. Villars, and that this lady still resided in the country.
The residence had been sufficiently described, and I perceived
that I was now approaching it. In a short time I
spied its painted roof and five chimnies through an avenue
of catalpas.
When opposite the gate which led into this avenue, I
paused. It seemed as if this moment were to decide upon
the liberty and innocence of this being. In a moment I
might place myself before her, ascertain her true condition,
and point out to her the path of honor and safety. This
opportunity might be the last. Longer delay might render
interposition fruitless.
But how was I to interpose? I was a stranger to her language,
and she was unacquainted with mine. To obtain
access to her, it was necessary only to demand it. But
how should I explain my views and state my wishes when
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an interview was gained? And what expedient was it in
my power to propose?
Now, said I, I perceive the value of that wealth which I
have been accustomed to despise. The power of eating
and drinking, the nature and limits of existence and physical
enjoyment, are not changed or enlarged by the increase
of wealth. Our corporeal and intellectual wants are
supplied at little expense; but our own wants are the wants
of others, and that which remains, after our own necessities
are obviated, it is always easy and just to employ in
relieving the necessities of others.
There are no superfluities in my store. It is not in my
power to supply this unfortunate girl with decent raiment
and honest bread. I have no house to which to conduct
her. I have no means of securing her from famine and
cold.
Yet, though indigent and feeble, I am not destitute of
friends and of home. Cannot she be admitted to the same
asylum to which I am now going? This thought was sudden
and new. The more it was revolved, the more plausible
it seemed. This was not merely the sole expedient, but
the best that could have been suggested.
The Hadwins were friendly, hospitable, unsuspicious.
Their board, though simple and uncouth, was wholesome
and plenteous. Their residence was sequestered and obscure,
and not obnoxious to impertinent inquiries and malignant
animadversion. Their frank and ingenuous temper
would make them easy of persuasion, and their sympathies
were prompt and overflowing.
I am nearly certain, continued I, that they will instantly
afford protection to this desolate girl. Why shall I not anticipate
their consent, and present myself to their embraces
and their welcomes in her company?
Slight reflection shewed me, that this precipitation was
improper. Whether Wallace had ever arrived at Malverton?
Whether Mr. Hadwin had escaped infection? whether
his house were the abode of security and quiet, or a
scene of desolation? Were questions yet to be determined.
The obvious and best proceeding was to hasten forward,
to afford the Hadwins, if in distress, the feeble consolations
of my friendship; or, if their state were happy,
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to procure their concurrence to my scheme respecting
Clemenza.
Actuated by these considerations, I resumed my journey.
Looking forward, I perceived a chaise and horse standing
by the left hand fence, at the distance of some hundred
yards. This object was not uncommon or strange, and,
therefore, it was scarcely noticed. When I came near, however,
methought I recognised in this carriage the same in
which my importunities had procured a seat for the languishing
Wallace, in the manner which I have formerly related.
It was a crazy vehicle and old fashioned. When once
seen it could scarcely be mistaken or forgotten. The horse
was held by his bridle to a post, but the seat was empty.
My solicitude with regard to Wallace's destiny, of which he
to whom the carriage belonged might possibly afford me
some knowledge, made me stop and reflect on what measures
it was proper to pursue.
The rider could not be at a great distance from this spot.
His absence would probably be short. By lingering a few
minutes an interview might be gained, and the uncertainty
and suspense of some hours be thereby precluded. I therefore
waited, and the same person whom I had formerly encountered
made his appearance, in a short time, from under
a copse that skirted the road.
He recognised me with more difficulty than attended my
recognition of him. The circumstances, however, of our
first meeting were easily recalled to his remembrance. I
eagerly inquired when and where he had parted with the
youth who had been, on that occasion, entrusted to his care.
He answered, that, on leaving the city and inhaling the
purer air of the fields and woods, Wallace had been, in a
wonderful degree, invigorated and refreshed. An instantaneous
and total change appeared to have been wrought in
him. He no longer languished with fatigue or fear, but
became full of gaiety and talk.
The suddenness of this transition; the levity with which
he related and commented on his recent dangers and evils,
excited the astonishment of his companion, to whom he not
only communicated the history of his disease, but imparted
many anecdotes of a humorous kind. Some of these my
companion repeated. I heard them with regret and
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dissatisfaction. They betokened a mind vitiated by intercourse
with the thoughtless and depraved of both sexes, and particularly
with infamous and profligate women.
My companion proceeded to mention, that Wallace's
exhiliration lasted but for a short time, and disappeared as
suddenly as it had appeared. He was seized with deadly
sickness, and insisted upon leaving the carriage, whose
movements shocked his stomach and head to an insupportable
degree. His companion was not void of apprehensions
on his own account, but was unwilling to desert him, and
endeavored to encourage him. His efforts were vain.
Though the nearest house was at the distance of some
hundred yards, and though it was probable that the inhabitants
of this house would refuse to accommodate one in his
condition, yet Wallace could not be prevailed on to proceed;
and, in spite of persuasion and remonstrance, left the carriage
and threw himself on the grassy bank beside the road.
This person was not unmindful of the hazard which he
incurred by contact with a sick man. He conceived himself
to have performed all that was consistent with duty to
himself and to his family; and Wallace, persisting in affirming
that, by attempting to ride farther, he should merely
hasten his death, was at length left to his own guidance.
These were unexpected and mournful tidings. I had
fondly imagined, that his safety was put beyond the reach of
untoward accidents. Now, however, there was reason to
suppose him to have perished by a lingering and painful
disease, rendered fatal by the selfishness of mankind, by the
want of seasonable remedies, and exposure to inclement
airs. Some uncertainty, however, rested on his fate. It
was my duty to remove it, and to carry to the Hadwins no
mangled and defective tale. Where, I asked, had Wallace
and his companion parted?
It was about three miles further onward. The spot and
the house within view from the spot, were accurately described.
In this house it was possible that Wallace had
sought an asylum, and some intelligence respecting him
might be gained from its inhabitants. My informant was
journeying to the city, so that we were obliged to separate.
In consequence of this man's description of Wallace's
deportment, and the proofs of a dissolute and thoughtless
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temper which he had given, I began to regard his death as
an event less deplorable. Such a one was unworthy of a
being so devoutly pure, so ardent in fidelity and tenderness
as Susan Hadwin. If he loved, it was probable that in defiance
of his vows, he would seek a different companion.
If he adhered to his first engagements, his motives would be
sordid, and the disclosure of his latent defects might produce
more exquisite misery to his wife, than his premature death
or treacherous desertion.
The preservation of this man, was my sole motive for
entering the infected city, and subjecting my own life to the
hazards, from which my escape may almost be esteemed
miraculous. Was not the end disproportioned to the means?
Was there arrogance in believing my life a price too great
to be given for his?
I was not, indeed, sorry for the past. My purpose was
just, and the means which I selected, were the best my
limited knowledge supplied. My happiness should be drawn
from reflecting on the equity of my intentions. That these
intentions were frustrated by the ignorance of others, or my
own, was the consequence of human frailty. Honest purposes,
though they may not bestow happiness on others,
will, at least, secure it to him who fosters them.
By these reflections my regrets were dissipated, and I
prepared to rejoice alike, whether Wallace should be found
to have escaped or to have perished. The house to which
I had been directed was speedily brought into view. I
inquired for the master or mistress of the mansion, and was
conducted to a lady of a plain and housewifely appearance.
My curiosity was fully gratified. Wallace, whom my
description easily identified, had made his appearance at
her door on the evening of the day on which he left the
city. The dread of the fever was descanted on with copious
and rude eloquence. I supposed her eloquence on this
theme to be designed to apologize to me for her refusing
entrance to the sick man. The peroration, however, was
different. Wallace was admitted, and suitable attention
paid to his wants.
Happily, the guest had nothing to struggle with but extreme
weakness. Repose, nourishing diet, and salubrious
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airs restored him in a short time to health. He lingered
under this roof for three weeks, and then, without any professions
of gratitude, or offers of pecuniary remuneration, or
information of the course which he determined to take, he
left them.
These facts, added to that which I had previously known,
threw no advantageous light upon the character of Wallace.
It was obvious to conclude, that he had gone to Malverton,
and thither there was nothing to hinder me from following
him.
Perhaps, one of my grossest defects is a precipitate temper.
I choose my path suddenly, and pursue it with impetuous
expedition. In the present instance, my resolution
was conceived with unhesitating zeal, and I walked the faster
that I might the sooner execute it. Miss Hadwin deserved
to be happy. Love was in her heart the all-absorbing sentiment.
A disappointment there was a supreme calamity.
Depravity and folly must assume the guise of virtue before
it can claim her affection. This disguise might be maintained
for a time, but its detection must inevitably come, and the
sooner this detection takes place the more beneficial it must
prove.
I resolved to unbosom myself, with equal and unbounded
confidence, to Wallace and his mistress. I would choose
for this end, not the moment when they were separate, but
that in which they were together. My knowledge, and the
sources of my knowledge, relative to Wallace, should be unfolded
to the lady with simplicity and truth. The lover
should be present, to confute, to extenuate, or to verify the
charges.
During the rest of the day these images occupied the
chief place in my thoughts. The road was miry and dark,
and my journey proved to be more tedious and fatiguing
than I expected. At length, just as the evening closed, the
well known habitation appeared in view. Since my departure,
winter had visited the world, and the aspect of nature
was desolate and dreary. All around this house was vacant,
negligent, forlorn. The contrast between these appearances
and those which I had noticed on my first approach to
it, when the ground and the trees were decked with the
luxuriance and vivacity of summer, was mournful, and
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seemed to foretoken ill. My spirits drooped as I noticed
the general inactivity and silence.
I entered, without warning, the door that led into the parlor.
No face was to be seen or voice heard. The chimney
was ornamented, as in summer, with evergreen shrubs.
Though it was now the second month of frost and snow, fire
did not appear to have been lately kindled on this hearth.
This was a circumstance from which nothing good could
be deduced. Had there been those to share its comforts,
who had shared them on former years, this was the place
and hour at which they commonly assembled. A door on
one side led, through a narrow entry, into the kitchen. I
opened this door, and passed towards the kitchen.
No one was there but an old man, squatted in the chimney
corner. His face, though wrinkled, denoted undecayed
health and an unbending spirit. A homespun coat, leathern
breeches wrinkled with age, and blue yarn hose, were well
suited to his lean and shrivelled form. On his right knee
was a wooden bowl, which he had just replenished from a
pipkin of hasty pudding still smoking on the coals; and in
his left hand a spoon, which he had, at that moment, plunged
into a bottle of molasses that stood beside him.
This action was suspended by my entrance. He looked
up and exclaimed, hey day! who's this that comes into
other people's houses without so much as saying “by your
leave?” What's thee business? Who's thee want?
I had never seen this personage before. I supposed it to
be some new domestic, and inquired for Mr. Hadwin.
Ah! replied he with a sigh, William Hadwin. Is it him
thee wants? Poor man! He is gone to rest many days
since.
My heart sunk within me at these tidings. Dead, said I,
do you mean that he is dead?—This exclamation was uttered
in a tone of some vehemence. It attracted the attention of
some one who was standing without, who immediately entered
the kitchen. It was Eliza Hadwin. The moment
she beheld me she shrieked aloud, and, rushing into my
arms, fainted away.
The old man dropped his bowl; and, starting from his
seat, stared alternately at me and at the breathless girl. My
emotion, made up of joy, and sorrow, and surprise, rendered
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me for a moment powerless as she. At length, he said, I
understand this. I know who thee is, and will tell her thee's
come. So saying he hastily left the room.
CHAPTER XXX.
In a short time this gentle girl recovered her senses. She
did not withdraw herself from my sustaining arm, but, leaning
on my bosom, she resigned herself to passionate weeping.
I did not endeavor to check this effusion, believing that its
influence would be salutary.
I had not forgotten the thrilling sensibility and artless
graces of this girl. I had not forgotten the scruples which
had formerly made me check a passion whose tendency was
easily discovered. These new proofs of her affection were,
at once, mournful and delightful. The untimely fate of her
father and my friend pressed with new force upon my heart,
and my tears, in spite of my fortitude, mingled with hers.
The attention of both was presently attracted by a faint
scream, which proceeded from above. Immediately tottering
footsteps were heard in the passage, and a figure rushed
into the room, pale, emaciated, haggard, and wild. She
cast a piercing glance at me, uttered a feeble exclamation,
and sunk upon the floor without signs of life.
It was not difficult to comprehend this scene. I now
conjectured, what subsequent inquiry confirmed, that the
old man had mistaken me for Wallace, and had carried to
the elder sister the news of his return. This fatal disappointment
of hopes that had nearly been extinct, and which
were now so powerfully revived, could not be endured by a
frame verging to dissolution.
This object recalled all the energies of Eliza, and engrossed
all my solicitude. I lifted the fallen girl in my arms;
and, guided by her sister, carried her to her chamber. I
had now leisure to contemplate the changes which a few
months had made in this lovely frame. I turned away from
the spectacle with anguish, but my wandering eyes were
recalled by some potent fascination, and fixed in horror
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upon a form which evinced the last stage of decay. Eliza
knelt on one side, and, leaning her face upon the bed, endeavored
in vain to smother her sobs. I sat on the other
motionless, and holding the passive and withered hand of the
sufferer.
I watched with ineffable solicitude the return of life. It
returned, at length, but merely to betray symptoms that it
would speedily depart forever. For a time my faculties
were palsied, and I was made an impotent spectator of the
ruin that environed me. This pusillanimity quickly gave
way to resolutions and reflections better suited to the exigencies
of the time.
The first impulse was to summon a physician, but it was
evident that the patient had been sinking by slow degrees to
this state, and that the last struggle had begun. Nothing
remained but to watch her while expiring, and perform for
her, when dead, the rites of interment. The survivor was
capable of consolation and of succor. I went to her and
drew her gently into another apartment. The old man,
tremulous and wonderstruck, seemed anxious to perform
some service. I directed him to kindle a fire in Eliza's
chamber. Meanwhile I persuaded my gentle friend to remain
in this chamber, and resign to me the performance of
every office which her sister's condition required. I sat beside
the bed of the dying till the mortal struggle was past.
I perceived that the house had no inhabitant besides the
two females and the old man. I went in search of the latter,
and found him crouched as before, at the kitchen fire,
smoking his pipe. I placed myself on the same bench, and
entered into conversation with him.
I gathered from him that he had, for many years, been
Mr. Hadwin's servant. That lately he had cultivated a
small farm in this neighborhood for his own advantage. Stopping
one day in October, at the tavern, he heard that his old
master had lately been in the city, had caught the fever, and
after his return had died with it. The moment he became
sick, his servants fled from the house, and the neighbors refused
to approach it. The task of attending his sick bed,
was allotted to his daughters, and it was by their hands that
his grave was dug, and his body covered with earth. The
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same terror of infection existed after his death as before,
and these hapless females were deserted by all mankind.
Old Caleb was no sooner informed of these particulars,
than he hurried to the house, and had since continued in
their service. His heart was kind, but it was easily seen that
his skill extended only to execute the directions of another.
Grief for the death of Wallace, and her father, preyed upon
the health of the elder daughter. The younger became
her nurse, and Caleb was always at hand to execute any
orders, the performance of which was on a level with his
understanding. Their neighbors had not withheld their good
offices, but they were still terrified and estranged by the
phantoms of pestilence.
During the last week Susan had been too weak to rise
from her bed, yet such was the energy communicated by
the tidings that Wallace was alive, and had returned, that
she leaped upon her feet and rushed down stairs. How
little did that man deserve so strenuous and immortal an affection.
I would not allow myself to ponder on the sufferings of
these women. I endeavored to think only of the best expedients
for putting an end to these calamities. After a
moment's deliberation, I determined to go to a house at
some miles distance; the dwelling of one, who, though not
exempt from the reigning panic, had shown more generosity
towards these unhappy girls than others. During my former
abode in this district, I had ascertained his character, and
found him to be compassionate and liberal.
Overpowered by fatigue and watching, Susan was no
sooner relieved by my presence, of some portion of her
cares, than she sunk into profound slumber. I directed
Caleb to watch the house till my return, which should be
before midnight, and then set out for the dwelling of Mr.
Ellis.
The weather was temperate and moist, and rendered the
footing of the meadows extremely difficult. The ground
that had lately been frozen and covered with snow, was
now changed into gullies and pools, and this was no time to
be fastidious in the choice of paths. A brook, swelled by
the recent thaw, was likewise to be passed. The rail which
I had formerly placed over it by way of bridge, had
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disappeared, and I was obliged to wade through it. At length I
approached the house to which I was going.
At so late an hour, farmers and farmer's servants are
usually abed, and their threshold is entrusted to their watch-dogs.
Two belonged to Mr. Ellis, whose ferocity and vigilance
were truly formidable to a stranger, but I hoped that in
me they would recognise an old acquaintance, and suffer
me to approach. In this I was not mistaken. Though my
person could not be distinctly seen by star-light, they seemed
to scent me from afar, and met me with a thousand caresses.
Approaching the house, I perceived that its tenants were
retired to their repose. This I expected, and hastened to
awaken Mr. Ellis, by knocking briskly at the door. Presently
he looked out of a window above, and in answer to
his inquiries, in which impatience at being so unseasonably
disturbed, was mingled with anxiety, I told him my name,
and entreated him to come down and allow me a few minutes
conversation. He speedily dressed himself, and opening
the kitchen door, we seated ourselves before the fire.
My appearance was sufficiently adapted to excite his wonder;
he had heard of my elopement from the house of
Mr. Hadwin, he was a stranger to the motives that prompted
my departure, and to the events that had befallen me, and no
interview was more distant from his expectations than the
present. His curiosity was written in his features, but this
was no time to gratify his curiosity. The end that I now
had in view, was to procure accommodation for Eliza Hadwin
in this man's house. For this purpose it was my duty
to describe with simplicity and truth, the inconveniences
which at present surrounded her, and to relate all that had
happened since my arrival.
I perceived that my tale excited his compassion, and I
continued with new zeal to paint to him the helplessness of
this girl. The death of her father and sister left her the
property of this farm. Her sex and age disqualified her for
superintending the harvest field and the threshing floor; and
no expedient was left, but to lease the land to another, and,
taking up her abode in the family of some kinsman or friend,
to subsist, as she might easily do, upon the rent. Meanwhile
her continuance in this house was equally useless and
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dangerous, and I insinuated to my companion the propriety
of immediately removing her to his own.
Some hesitation and reluctance appeared in him, which
I immediately ascribed to an absurd dread of infection. I
endeavored, by appealing to his reason, as well as to his pity,
to conquer this dread. I pointed out the true cause of the
death of the elder daughter, and assured him the youngest
knew no indisposition but that which arose from distress. I
offered to save him from any hazard that might attend his
approaching the house, by accompanying her hither myself.
All that her safety required was that his doors should
not be shut against her when she presented herself before
them.
Still he was fearful and reluctant; and, at length, mentioned
that her uncle resided not more than sixteen miles
farther; that he was her natural protector, and he dared
to say would find no difficulty in admitting her into his
house. For his part, there might be reason in what I said,
but he could not bring himself to think but that there was
still some danger of the fever. It was right to assist people
in distress, to be sure; but to risk his own life he did not
think to be his duty. He was no relation of the family, and
it was the duty of relations to help each other. Her uncle
was the proper person to assist her, and no doubt he would
be as willing as able.
The marks of dubiousness and indecision which accompanied
these words, encouraged me in endeavoring to subdue
his scruples. The increase of his aversion to my scheme
kept pace with my remonstrances, and he finally declared
that he would, on no account, consent to it.
Ellis was by no means hard of heart. His determination
did not prove the coldness of his charity, but merely
the strength of his fears. He was himself an object more
of compassion than of anger; and he acted like the man,
whose fear of death prompts him to push his companion
from the plank which saved him from drowning, but which
is unable to sustain both. Finding him invincible to my
entreaties, I thought upon the expedient which he suggested
of seeking the protection of her uncle. It was true,
that the loss of parents had rendered her uncle her legal
protector. His knowledge of the world; his house, and
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property, and influence would, perhaps, fit him for this
office in a more eminent degree than I was fitted. To seek
a different asylum might, indeed, be unjust to both, and,
after some reflection, I not only dismissed the regret which
Ellis's refusal had given me, but even thanked him for the
intelligence and counsel which he had afforded me. I took
leave of him, and hastened back to Hadwin's.
Eliza, by Caleb's report, was still asleep. There was
no urgent necessity for awakening her; but something was
forthwith to be done with regard to the unhappy girl that
was dead. The proceeding incumbent on us was obvious.
All that remained was to dig a grave, and to deposit the remains
with as much solemnity and decency as the time
would permit. There were two methods of doing this. I
might wait till the next day; till a coffin could be made
and conveyed hither; till the woman, whose trade it was to
make and put on the habiliments assigned by custom to the
dead, could be sought out and hired to attend; till kindred,
friends, and neighbors could be summoned to the obsequies;
till a carriage were provided to remove the body to a burying
ground, belonging to a meeting-house, and five miles
distant; till those whose trade it was to dig graves, had prepared
one, within the sacred inclosure, for her reception;
or, neglecting this toilsome, tedious, and expensive ceremonial,
I might seek the grave of Hadwin, and lay the daughter
by the side of her parent.
Perhaps I was wrong in my preference of the latter
mode. The customs of burial may, in most cases, be in
themselves proper. If the customs be absurd, yet it may
be generally proper to adhere to them; but doubtless, there
are cases in which it is our duty to omit them. I conceived
the present case to be such a one.
The season was bleak and inclement. Much time,
labor, and expense would be required to go through the
customary rites. There was none but myself to perform
these, and I had not the suitable means. The misery of
Eliza would only be prolonged by adhering to these forms;
and her fortune be needlessly diminished, by the expenses
unavoidably to be incurred.
After musing upon these ideas for some time, I rose from
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my seat, and desired Caleb to follow me. We proceeded
to an outer shed where farmers' tools used to be kept. I
supplied him and myself with a spade, and requested him
to lead me to the spot where Mr. Hadwin was laid.
He betrayed some hesitation to comply, and appeared
struck with some degree of alarm, as if my purpose had
been to molest, instead of securing, the repose of the dead.
I removed his doubts by explaining my intentions, but he
was scarcely less shocked, on discovering the truth, than he
had been alarmed by his first suspicions. He stammered
out his objections to my scheme. There was but one mode
of burial he thought that was decent and proper, and he
could not be free to assist me in pursuing any other mode.
Perhaps Caleb's aversion to the scheme might have been
easily overcome, but I reflected that a mind like his was at
once flexible and obstinate. He might yield to arguments
and entreaties, and act by their immediate impulse; but
the impulse passed away in a moment, old and habitual
convictions were resumed, and his deviation from the
beaten track would be merely productive of compunction.
His aid, on the present occasion, though of some use, was
by no means indispensable. I forbore to solicit his concurrence,
or even to vanquish the scruples he entertained
against directing me to the grave of Hadwin. It was a
groundless superstition that made one spot more suitable for
this purpose than another. I desired Caleb, in a mild tone,
to return to the kitchen, and leave me to act as I thought
proper. I then proceeded to the orchard.
One corner of this field was somewhat above the level of
the rest. The tallest tree of the group grew there, and there
I had formerly placed a bench, and made it my retreat at periods
of leisure. It had been recommended by its sequestered
situation, its luxuriant verdure, and profound quiet. On one
side was a potatoe field, on the other a melon patch; and
before me, in rows, some hundreds of apple trees. Here
I was accustomed to seek the benefits of contemplation, and
study the manuscripts of Lodi. A few months had passed
since I had last visited this spot. What revolutions had
since occurred, and how gloomily contrasted was my present
purpose with what had formerly led me hither!
In this spot I had hastily determined to dig the grave of
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Susan. The grave was dug. All that I desired was a
cavity of sufficient dimensions to receive her. This being
made, I returned to the house, lifted the corpse in my arms,
and bore it without delay to the spot. Caleb seated in the
kitchen, and Eliza asleep in her chamber, were wholly unapprized
of my motions. The grave was covered, the spade
reposited under the shed, and my seat by the kitchen fire
resumed in a time apparently too short for so solemn and
momentous a transaction.
I look back upon this incident with emotions not easily
described. It seems as if I acted with too much precipitation;
as if insensibility, and not reason, had occasioned that
clearness of conceptions, and bestowed that firmness of
muscles, which I then experienced. I neither trembled nor
wavered in my purpose. I bore in my arms the being
whom I had known and loved, through the whistling gale
and intense darkness of a winter's night; I heaped earth
upon her limbs, and covered them from human observation,
without fluctuations or tremors, though not without feelings
that were awful and sublime.
Perhaps some part of my steadfastness was owing to my
late experience, and some minds may be more easily inured
to perilous emergences than others. If reason acquires
strength only by the diminution of sensibility, perhaps it is
just for sensibility to be diminished.
CHAPTER XXXI.
The safety of Eliza was the object that now occupied
my cares. To have slept, after her example, had been
most proper, but my uncertainty with regard to her fate, and
my desire to conduct her to some other home, kept my
thoughts in perpetual motion. I waited with impatience till
she should awake and allow me to consult with her on plans
for futurity.
Her sleep terminated not till the next day had arisen.
Having recovered the remembrance of what had lately happened,
she inquired for her sister. She wanted to view
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once more the face, and kiss the lips, of her beloved Susan.
Some relief to her anguish she expected to derive from this
privilege.
When informed of the truth, when convinced that Susan
had disappeared forever, she broke forth into fresh passion.
It seemed as if her loss was not hopeless or complete as
long as she was suffered to behold the face of her friend
and to touch her lips. She accused me of acting without
warrant and without justice; of defrauding her of her
dearest and only consolation; and of treating her sister's
sacred remains with barbarous indifference and rudeness.
I explained in the gentlest terms the reasons of my conduct.
I was not surprised or vexed, that she, at first, treated
them as futile, and as heightening my offence. Such was
the impulse of a grief, which was properly excited by her
loss. To be tranquil and steadfast, in the midst of the usual
causes of impetuosity and agony, is either the prerogative
of wisdom that sublimes itself above all selfish considerations,
or the badge of giddy and unfeeling folly.
The torrent was at length exhausted. Upbraiding was
at an end; and gratitude, and tenderness, and implicit acquiescence
in any scheme which my prudence should suggest,
succeeded. I mentioned her uncle as one to whom it
would be proper, in her present distress, to apply.
She started and betrayed uneasiness at this name. It
was evident that she by no means concurred with me in my
notions of propriety; that she thought with aversion of seeking
her uncle's protection. I requested her to state her objections
to this scheme, or to mention any other which she
thought preferable.
She knew no body. She had not a friend in the world
but myself. She had never been out of her father's house.
She had no relation but her uncle Philip, and he—she could
not live with him. I must not insist upon her going to his
house. It was not the place for her. She should never be
happy there.
I was, at first, inclined to suspect in my friend some capricious
and groundless antipathy. I desired her to explain
what in her uncle's character made him so obnoxious. She
refused to be more explicit, and persisted in thinking that
his house was no suitable abode for her.
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Finding her, in this respect, invincible, I sought for some
other expedient. Might she not easily be accommodated
as a boarder in the city, or some village, or in a remote
quarter of the country? Ellis, her nearest and most opulent
neighbor, had refused to receive her; but there were others
who had not his fears. There were others, within the compass
of a day's journey, who were strangers to the cause of
Hadwin's death; but would it not be culpable to take advantage
of that ignorance? Their compliance ought not to
be the result of deception.
While thus engaged, the incidents of my late journey recurred
to my remembrance, and I asked, is not the honest
woman, who entertained Wallace, just such a person as that
of whom I am in search? Her treatment of Wallace shews
her to be exempt from chimerical fears, proves that she has
room in her house for an occasional inmate.
Encouraged by these views, I told my weeping companion,
that I had recollected a family in which she would be
kindly treated; and that, if she chose, we would not lose a
moment in repairing thither. Horses, belonging to the farm,
grazed in the meadows, and a couple of these would carry
us in a few hours to the place which I had selected for her
residence. On her eagerly assenting to this proposal, I inquired
in whose care, and in what state, our present habitation
should be left.
The father's property now belonged to the daughter.
Eliza's mind was quick, active, and sagacious; but her total
inexperience gave her sometimes the appearance of folly.
She was eager to fly from this house, and to resign herself
and her property, without limitation or condition, to my control.
Our intercourse had been short, but she relied on my
protection and counsel as absolutely as she had been accustomed
to do upon her father's.
She knew not what answer to make to my inquiry. Whatever
I pleased to do was the best. What did I think ought
to be done?
Ah! thought I, sweet, artless, and simple girl! how wouldst
thou have fared, if Heaven had not sent me to thy succor?
There are beings in the world who would make a selfish
use of thy confidence; who would beguile thee at once of
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innocence and property. Such am not I. Thy welfare is
a precious deposit, and no father or brother could watch
over it with more solicitude than I will do.
I was aware that Mr. Hadwin might have fixed the destination
of his property, and the guardianship of his daughters,
by will. On suggesting this to my friend, it instantly reminded
her of an incident that took place after his last return
from the city. He had drawn up his will, and gave it into
Susan's possession, who placed it in a drawer, whence it was
now taken by my friend.
By this will his property was now found to be bequeathed
to his two daughters; and his brother, Philip Hadwin, was
named executor, and guardian to his daughters till they
should be twenty years old. This name was no sooner
heard by my friend, than she exclaimed, in a tone of affright,
executor! My uncle! What is that? What power does
that give him?
I know not exactly the power of executors. He will, doubtless,
have possession of your property till you are twenty
years of age. Your person will likewise be under his care
till that time.
Must he decide where I am to live?
He is vested with all the power of a father.
This assurance excited the deepest consternation. She
fixed her eyes on the ground, and was lost, for a time, in
the deepest reverie. Recovering, at length, she said, with a
sigh, what if my father had made no will?
In that case, a guardian could not be dispensed with, but
the right of naming him would belong to yourself.
And my uncle would have nothing to do with my affairs?
I am no lawyer, said I; but I presume all authority over
your person and property would devolve upon the guardian
of your own choice.
Then I am free. Saying this, with a sudden motion, she
tore in several pieces the will, which, during this dialogue, she
had held in her hand, and threw the fragments into the fire.
No action was more unexpected to me than this. My
astonishment hindered me from attempting to rescue the paper
from the flames. It was consumed in a moment. I
was at a loss in what manner to regard this sacrifice. It
denoted a force of mind little in unison with that simplicity
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and helplessness which this girl had hitherto displayed. It
argued the deepest apprehensions of mistreatment from her
uncle. Whether his conduct had justified this violent antipathy,
I had no means of judging. Mr. Hadwin's choice
of him, as his executor, was certainly one proof of his integrity.
My abstraction was noticed by Eliza, with visible anxiety.
It was plain, that she dreaded the impression which this act
of seeming temerity had made upon me. Do not be angry
with me, said she; perhaps I have been wrong, but I could
not help it. I will have but one guardian and one protector.
The deed was irrevocable. In my present ignorance of
the domestic history of the Hadwins, I was unqualified to
judge how far circumstances might extenuate or justify the
act. On both accounts, therefore, it was improper to expatiate
upon it.
It was concluded to leave the care of the house to honest
Caleb; to fasten closets and drawers, and, carrying away
the money which was found in one of them, and which
amounted to no inconsiderable sum, to repair to the house
formerly mentioned. The air was cold; a heavy snow
began to fall in the night; the wind blew tempestuously;
and we were compelled to confront it.
In leaving her dwelling, in which she had spent her whole
life, the unhappy girl gave way afresh to her sorrow. It
made her feeble and helpless. When placed upon the
horse, she was scarcely able to maintain her seat. Already
chilled by the cold, blinded by the drifting snow, and cut by
the blast, all my remonstrances were needed to inspire her
with resolution.
I am not accustomed to regard the elements, or suffer
them to retard or divert me from any design that I have
formed. I had overlooked the weak and delicate frame of
my companion, and made no account of her being less able
to support cold and fatigue than myself. It was not till we
had made some progress in our way, that I began to view,
in their true light, the obstacles that were to be encountered.
I conceived it, however, too late to retreat, and endeavored
to push on with speed.
My companion was a skilful rider, but her steed was refractory
and unmanageable. She was able, however, to
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curb his spirit till we had proceeded ten or twelve miles
from Malverton. The wind and the cold became too violent
to be longer endured, and I resolved to stop at the first
house which should present itself to my view, for the sake
of refreshment and warmth.
We now entered a wood of some extent, at the termination
of which I remembered that a dwelling stood. To
pass this wood, therefore, with expedition, was all that remained
before we could reach a hospitable asylum. I
endeavored to sustain, by this information, the sinking spirits
of my companion. While busy in conversing with her, a
blast of irresistible force twisted off the highest branch of a
tree before us. It fell in the midst of the road, at the distance
of a few feet from her horse's head. Terrified by
this accident, the horse started from the path, and, rushing
into the wood, in a moment threw himself and his rider on
the ground, by encountering the rugged stock of an oak.
I dismounted and flew to her succor. The snow was
already dyed with the blood which flowed from some wound
in her head, and she lay without sense or motion. My terrors
did not hinder me from anxiously searching for the hurt
which was received, and ascertaining the extent of the injury.
Her forehead was considerably bruised; but, to my
unspeakable joy, the blood flowed from the nostrils, and
was, therefore, to be regarded as no mortal symptom.
I lifted her in my arms, and looked around me for some
means of relief. The house at which I proposed to stop
was upwards of a mile distant. I remembered none that
was nearer. To place the wounded girl on my own
horse, and proceed gently to the house in question, was
the sole expedient; but, at present, she was senseless, and
might, on recovering, be too feeble to sustain her own
weight.
To recall her to life was my first duty; but I was powerless,
or unacquainted with the means. I gazed upon her
features, and endeavored, by pressing her in my arms, to
inspire her with some warmth. I looked towards the road,
and listened for the wished for sound of some carriage that
might be prevailed on to stop and receive her. Nothing
was more improbable than that either pleasure or business
would induce men to encounter so chilling and vehement a
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blast. To be lighted on by some traveller was, therefore,
a hopeless event.
Meanwhile, Eliza's swoon continued, and my alarm increased.
What effect her half-frozen blood would have in
prolonging this condition, or preventing her return to life,
awakened the deepest apprehensions. I left the wood, still
bearing her in my arms, and reentered the road, from the
desire of descrying, as soon as possible, the coming passenger.
I looked this way and that, and again listened.
Nothing but the sweeping blast, rent and falling branches,
and snow that filled and obscured the air, were perceivable.
Each moment retarded the course of my own blood, and
stiffened my sinews, and made the state of my companion
more desperate. How was I to act? To perish myself
or see her perish, was an ignoble fate; courage and activity
were still able to avert it. My horse stood near, docile and
obsequious; to mount him and to proceed on my way,
holding my lifeless burthen in my arms, was all that remained.
At this moment my attention was called by several voices,
issuing from the wood. It was the note of gaiety and glee.
Presently a sleigh, with several persons of both sexes, appeared,
in a road which led through the forest into that in
which I stood. They moved at a quick pace, but their
voices were hushed, and they checked the speed of their
horses on discovering us. No occurrence was more auspicious
than this; for I relied with perfect confidence on the
benevolence of these persons, and as soon as they came
near, claimed their assistance.
My story was listened to with sympathy, and one of the
young men, leaping from the sleigh, assisted me in placing
Eliza in the place which he had left. A female, of sweet aspect
and engaging manners, insisted upon turning back and
hastening to the house, where it seems her father resided,
and which the party had just left. I rode after the sleigh,
which in a few minutes arrived at the house. The dwelling
was spacious and neat, and a venerable man and woman,
alarmed by the quick return of the young people, came
forth to know the cause. They received their guest with
the utmost tenderness, and provided her with all the accommodations
which her condition required. Their daughter
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relinquished the scheme of pleasure in which she had been
engaged, and, compelling her companions to depart without
her, remained to nurse and console the sick.
A little time showed that no lasting injury had been suffered.
Contusions, more troublesome than dangerous, and
easily curable by such applications as rural and traditional
wisdom has discovered, were the only consequences of the
fall. My mind, being relieved from apprehensions on this
score, had leisure to reflect upon the use which might be
made of the present state of things.
When I remarked the structure of this house, and the
features and deportment of its inhabitants, methought I discerned
a powerful resemblance between this family and
Hadwin's. It seemed as if some benignant power had led
us hither as to the most suitable asylum that could be obtained;
and, in order to supply to the forlorn Eliza, the
place of those parents and that sister she had lost, I conceived,
that, if their concurrence could be gained, no abode
was more suitable than this. No time was to be lost in
gaining this concurrence. The curiosity of our host and
hostess, whose name was Curling, speedily afforded me an
opportunity to disclose the history and real situation of my
friend. There were no motives to reserve or prevarication.
There was nothing which I did not faithfully and circumstantially
relate. I concluded with stating my wishes that
they would admit my friend as a boarder into their house.
The old man was warm in his concurrence. His wife
betrayed some scruples; which, however, her husband's
arguments and mine removed. I did not even suppress the
tenor and destruction of the will, and the antipathy which
Eliza had conceived for her uncle, and which I declared
myself unable to explain. It presently appeared that Mr.
Curling had some knowledge of Philip Hadwin, and that
the latter had acquired the repute of being obdurate and
profligate. He employed all means to accomplish his selfish
ends, and would probably endeavor to usurp the property
which his brother had left. To provide against his power
and his malice would be particularly incumbent on us, and
my new friend readily promised his assistance in the measures
which we should take to that end.
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CHAPTER XXXII.
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The state of my feelings may be easily conceived to consist
of mixed, but on the whole, of agreeable sensations.
The death of Hadwin and his elder daughter could not be
thought upon without keen regrets. These it were useless
to indulge, and were outweighed by reflections on the personal
security in which the survivor was now placed. It was
hurtful to expend my unprofitable cares upon the dead,
while there existed one to whom they could be of essential
benefit, and in whose happiness they would find an ample
compensation.
This happiness, however, was still incomplete. It was
still exposed to hazard, and much remained to be done before
adequate provision was made against the worst of evils, poverty.
I now found that Eliza, being only fifteen years old,
stood in need of a guardian, and that the forms of law required
that some one should make himself her father's administrator.
Mr. Curling being tolerably conversant with these subjects,
pointed out the mode to be pursued, and engaged to act on
this occasion as Eliza's friend.
There was another topic on which my happiness, as well
as that of my friend, required us to form some decision. I
formerly mentioned, that during my abode at Malverton, I
had not been insensible to the attractions of this girl. An
affection had stolen upon me, for which, it was easily discovered,
that I should not have been denied a suitable
return. My reasons for stifling these emotions, at that time,
have been mentioned. It may now be asked, what effect
subsequent events had produced on my feelings, and how far
partaking and relieving her distresses, had revived a passion
which may readily be supposed to have been, at no time,
entirely extinguished.
The impediments which then existed, were removed. Our
union would no longer risk the resentment or sorrow of her
excellent parent. She had no longer a sister to divide with
her the property of the farm, and make what was sufficient
for both, when living together, too little for either separately.
Her youth and simplicity required, beyond most others, a
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legal protector, and her happiness was involved in the success
of those hopes which she took no pains to conceal.
As to me, it seemed at first view, as if every incident conspired
to determine my choice. Omitting all regard to the
happiness of others, my own interest could not fail to recommend
a scheme by which the precious benefits of competence
and independence might be honestly obtained. The
excursions of my fancy had sometimes carried me beyond
the bounds prescribed by my situation, but they were, nevertheless,
limited to that field to which I had once some prospect
of acquiring a title. All I wanted for the basis of my
gaudiest and most dazzling structures, was an hundred acres
of plough land and meadow. Here my spirit of improvement,
my zeal to invent and apply new maxims of household
luxury and convenience, new modes and instruments of tillage,
new arts connected with orchard, garden and cornfield,
were supplied with abundant scope. Though the want of
these would not benumb my activity, or take away content,
the possession would confer exquisite and permanent enjoyments.
My thoughts have ever hovered over the images of wife
and children with more delight than over any other images.
My fancy was always active on this theme, and its reveries
sufficiently ecstatic and glowing; but since my intercourse
with this girl, my scattered visions were collected and concentrated.
I had now a form and features before me, a sweet
and melodious voice vibrated in my ear, my soul was filled,
as it were, with her lineaments and gestures, actions and
looks. All ideas, possessing any relation to beauty or sex,
appeared to assume this shape. They kept an immoveable
place in my mind, they diffused around them an ineffable
complacency. Love is merely of value as a prelude to a
more tender, intimate and sacred union. Was I not in love,
and did I not pant after the irrevocable bonds, the boundless
privileges of wedlock?
The question which others might ask, I have asked myself.
Was I not in love? I am really at a loss for an answer.
There seemed to be irresistible weight in the reasons why I
should refuse to marry, and even forbear to foster love in
my friend. I considered my youth, my defective education
and my limited views. I had passed from my cottage into
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the world. I had acquired even in my transient sojourn
among the busy haunts of men, more knowledge than the
lucubrations and employments of all my previous years had
conferred. Hence I might infer the childlike immaturity of
my understanding, and the rapid progress I was still capable
of making. Was this an age to form an irrevocable contract;
to choose the companion of my future life, the associate of
my schemes of intellectual and benevolent activity?
I had reason to contemn my own acquisitions; but were
not those of Eliza still more slender? Could I rely upon the
permanence of her equanimity and her docility to my instructions?
What qualities might not time unfold, and how little
was I qualified to estimate the character of one, whom no
vicissitude or hardship had approached before the death of
her father? Whose ignorance was, indeed, great, when it
could justly be said even to exceed my own.
Should I mix with the world, enrol myself in different
classes of society; be a witness to new scenes; might not
my modes of judging undergo essential variations? Might
I not gain the knowledge of beings whose virtue was the gift
of experience and the growth of knowledge? Who joined
to the modesty and charms of woman, the benefits of education,
the maturity and steadfastness of age, and with whose
character and sentiments my own would be much more
congenial than they could possibly be with the extreme
youth, rustic simplicity and mental imperfections of Eliza
Hadwin?
To say truth, I was now conscious of a revolution in my
mind. I can scarcely assign its true cause. No tokens of
it appeared during my late retreat to Malverton. Subsequent
incidents, perhaps, joined with the influence of meditation,
had generated new views. On my first visit to the
city, I had met with nothing but scenes of folly, depravity
and cunning. No wonder that the images connected with
the city, were disastrous and gloomy; but my second visit
produced somewhat different impressions. Maravegli, Estwick,
Medlicote and you, were beings who inspired veneration
and love. Your residence appeared to beautify and
consecrate this spot, and gave birth to an opinion that if cities
are the chosen seats of misery and vice, they are likewise
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the soil of all the laudable and strenuous productions of
mind.
My curiosity and thirst of knowledge had likewise received
a new direction. Books and inanimate nature were cold
and lifeless instructers. Men, and the works of men, were
the objects of rational study, and our own eyes only could
communicate just conceptions of human performances. The
influence of manners, professions, and social institutions, could
be thoroughly known only by direct inspection.
Competence, fixed property and a settled abode, rural
occupations and conjugal pleasures, were justly to be prized;
but their value could be known, and their benefits fully enjoyed
only by those who have tried all scenes; who have
mixed with all classes and ranks; who have partaken of all
conditions; and who have visited different hemispheres, and
climates, and nations. The next five or eight years of my
life, should be devoted to activity and change; it should be
a period of hardship, danger and privation; it should be
my apprenticeship to fortitude and wisdom, and be employed
to fit me for the tranquil pleasures and steadfast exertions
of the remainder of my life.
In consequence of these reflections, I determined to
suppress that tenderness which the company of Miss Hadwin
produced, to remove any mistakes into which she had
fallen, and to put it out of my power to claim from her more
than the dues of friendship. All ambiguities, in a case like
this, and all delays were hurtful. She was not exempt
from passion, but this passion I thought was young, and easily
extinguished.
In a short time her health was restored, and her grief
melted down into a tender melancholy. I chose a suitable
moment, when not embarrassed by the presence of others, to
reveal my thoughts. My disclosure was ingenuous and
perfect. I laid before her the whole train of my thoughts,
nearly in the order, though in different and more copious
terms than those in which I have just explained them to you.
I concealed nothing. The impression which her artless loveliness
had made upon me at Malverton; my motives for
estranging myself from her society; the nature of my present
feelings with regard to her, and my belief of the state of her
heart; the reasonings into which I had entered; the
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advantages of wedlock and its inconveniences; and, finally,
the resolution I had formed of seeking the city, and perhaps,
of crossing the ocean, were minutely detailed.
She interrupted me not, but changing looks, blushes, flutterings
and sighs, shewed her to be deeply and variously affected
by my discourse. I paused for some observation or
comment. She seemed conscious of my expectation, but
had no power to speak, Overpowered, at length, by her
emotions, she burst into tears.
I was at a loss in what manner to construe these symptoms.
I waited till her vehemence was somewhat subsided,
and then said—what think you of my schemes? Your
approbation is of some moment; do you approve of them or
not?
This question excited some little resentment, and she
answered—you have left me nothing to say. Go and be
happy; no matter what becomes of me. I hope I shall be
able to take care of myself.
The tone in which this was said, had something in it of
upbraiding. Your happiness, said I, is too dear to me to
leave it in danger. In this house you will not need my protection,
but I shall never be so far from you, as to be disabled
from hearing how you fared, by letter, and of being active
for your good. You have some money which you
must husband well. Any rent from your farm cannot be
soon expected; but what you have got, if you remain with
Mr. Curling, will pay your board and all other expenses for
two years; but you must be a good economist. I shall expect,
continued I, with a serious smile, a punctual account
of all your sayings and doings. I must know how every
minute is employed, and every penny is expended, and if I
find you erring, I must tell you so in good round terms.
These words did not dissipate the sullenness which her
looks had betrayed. She still forebore to look at me, and said—
I do not know how I should tell you every thing. You
care so little about me that—I should only be troublesome.
I am old enough to think and act for myself, and shall advise
with nobody but myself.
That is true, said I. I shall rejoice to see you independent
and free. Consult your own understanding, and act according
to its dictates. Nothing more is wanting to make
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you useful and happy. I am anxious to return to the city,
but, if you will allow me, will go first to Malverton, see
that things are in due order, and that old Caleb is well.
From thence, if you please, I will call at your uncle's, and
tell him what has happened. He may, otherwise, entertain
pretensions and form views, erroneous in themselves
and injurious to you. He may think himself entitled to
manage your estate. He may either suppose a will to have
been made, or may actually have heard from your father,
or from others, of that which you burnt, and in which he
was named executor. His boisterous and sordid temper
may prompt him to seize your house and goods, unless
seasonably apprized of the truth; and, when he knows the
truth, he may start into rage, which I shall be more fitted
to encounter than you. I am told that anger transforms
him into a ferocious madman. Shall I call upon him?
She shuddered at the picture which I had drawn of her
uncle's character; but this emotion quickly gave place to
self-upbraiding, for the manner in which she had repelled
my proffers of service. She melted once more into tears,
and exclaimed:
I am not worthy of the pains you take for me. I am
unfeeling and ungrateful. Why should I think ill of you
for despising me, when I despise myself?
You do yourself injustice, my friend. I think I see your
most secret thoughts; and these, instead of exciting anger
or contempt, only awaken compassion and tenderness.
You love; and must, therefore, conceive my conduct to be
perverse and cruel. I counted on your harboring such
thoughts. Time only and reflection will enable you to see
my motives in their true light. Hereafter you will recollect
my words, and find them sufficient to justify my conduct.
You will acknowledge the propriety of my engaging in the
cares of the world, before I sit down in retirement and ease.
Ah! how much you mistake me! I admire and approve
of your schemes. What angers and distresses me is, that
you think me unworthy to partake of your cares and labors;
that you regard my company as an obstacle and incumbrance;
that assistance and counsel must all proceed from
you; and that no scene is fit for me, but what you regard
as slothful and inglorious.
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Have I not the same claims to be wise, and active, and
courageous as you? If I am ignorant and weak, do I not
owe it to the same cause that has made you so; and will
not the same means which promote your improvement be
likewise useful to me? You desire to obtain knowledge,
by travelling and conversing with many persons, and studying
many sciences; but you desire it for yourself alone.
Me, you think poor, weak, and contemptible; fit for nothing
but to spin and churn. Provided I exist, am screened from
the weather, have enough to eat and drink, you are satisfied.
As to strengthening my mind and enlarging my knowledge,
these things are valuable to you, but on me they are
thrown away. I deserve not the gift.
This strain, simple and just as it was, was wholly unexpected.
I was surprised and disconcerted. In my previous
reasonings I had certainly considered her sex as utterly unfitting
her for those scenes and pursuits, to which I had destined
myself. Not a doubt of the validity of my conclusion
had insinuated itself; but now my belief was shaken, though
it was not subverted. I could not deny, that human ignoance
was curable by the same means in one sex as in the
other; that fortitude and skill was of no less value to one
than to the other.
Questionless, my friend was rendered, by her age and inexperience,
if not by sex, more helpless and dependent than
I; but had I not been prone to overrate the difficulties
which I should encounter? Had I not deemed unjustly of
her constancy and force of mind? Marriage would render
her property joint, and would not compel me to take up my
abode in the woods, to abide forever in one spot, to shackle
my curiosity, or limit my excursions.
But marriage was a contract awful and irrevocable. Was
this the woman with whom my reason enjoined me to blend
my fate, without the power of dissolution? Would no
time unfold qualities in her which I did not at present suspect,
and which would evince an incurable difference in our
minds? Would not time lead me to the feet of one who
more nearly approached that standard of ideal excellence
which poets and romancers had exhibited to my view?
These considerations were powerful and delicate. I
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knew not in what terms to state them to my companion, so
as to preclude the imputation of arrogance or indecorum.
It became me, however, to be explicit, and to excite her
resentment rather than mislead her judgment. She collected
my meaning from a few words, and, interrupting me,
said:
How very low is the poor Eliza in your opinion! We are,
indeed, both too young to be married. May I not see you,
and talk with you, without being your wife? May I not
share your knowledge, relieve your cares, and enjoy your
confidence, as a sister might do? May I not accompany
you in your journeys and studies, as one friend accompanies
another? My property may be yours; you may employ
it for your benefit and mine; not because you are my
husband, but my friend. You are going to the city. Let
me go along with you. Let me live where you live. The
house that is large enough to hold you, will hold me. The
fare that is good enough for you will be luxury to me. Oh!
let it be so, will you? You cannot think how studious, how
thoughtful, how inquisitive I will be. How tenderly I will
nurse you when sick: it is possible you may be sick, you
know, and no one in the world will be half so watchful
and affectionate as I shall be. Will you let me?
In saying this, her earnestness gave new pathos to her
voice. Insensibly she put her face close to mine, and,
transported beyond the usual bounds of reserve, by the
charms of that picture which her fancy contemplated, she
put her lips to my cheek, and repeated, in a melting accent,
will you let me?
You, my friends, who have not seen Eliza Hadwin, cannot
conceive what effect this entreaty was adapted to produce
in me. She has surely the sweetest voice, the most
speaking features, and most delicate symmetry, that ever
woman possessed. Her guileless simplicity and tenderness
made her more enchanting. To be the object of devotion
to a heart so fervent and pure, was, surely, no common
privilege. Thus did she tender me herself; and was not
the gift to be received with eagerness and gratitude?
No. I was not so much a stranger to mankind as to acquiesce
in this scheme. As my sister or my wife, the world
would suffer us to reside under the same roof; to apply, to
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common use, the same property; and daily to enjoy the
company of each other; but she was not my sister, and
marriage would be an act of the grossest indiscretion. I
explained to her, in few words, the objections to which her
project was liable.
Well, then, said she, let me live in the next house, in
the neighborhood, or, at least, in the same city. Let me
be where I may see you once a day, or once a week, or
once a month. Shut me not wholly from your society, and
the means of becoming, in time, less ignorant and foolish
than I now am.
After a pause, I replied, I love you too well not to com-
ply with this request. Perhaps the city will be as suitable
a residence as any other for you, as it will, for some time,
be most convenient to me. I shall be better able to watch
over your welfare, and supply you with the means of im-
provement, when you are within a small distance. At pre-
sent, you must consent to remain here, while I visit your
uncle, and afterwards go to the city. I shall look out for
you a suitable lodging, and inform you when it is found. If
you then continue in the same mind, I will come, and, hav-
ing gained the approbation of Mr. Curling, will conduct
you to town. Here ended our dialogue.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Though I had consented to this scheme, I was conscious
that some hazards attended it. I was afraid of calumny,
which might trouble the peace or destroy the reputation of
my friend. I was afraid of my own weakness, which might
be seduced into an indiscreet marriage, by the charms or
sufferings of this bewitching creature. I felt that there
was no price too dear to save her from slander. A fair fame
is of the highest importance to a young female, and the loss
of it but poorly supplied by the testimony of her own conscience.
I had reason for tenfold solicitude on this account,
since I was her only protector and friend. Hence, I cherished
some hopes, that time might change her views, and
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suggest less dangerous schemes. Meanwhile, I was to lose
no time in visiting Malverton and Philip Hadwin.
About ten days had elasped since we had deserted Malverton.
These were days of successive storms, and travelling
had been rendered inconvenient. The weather was
now calm and clear, and, early in the morning that ensued
the dialogue which I have just related, I set out on horseback.
Honest Caleb was found, eating his breakfast nearly in the
spot where he had been first discovered. He answered
my inquiries by saying, that, two days after our departure,
several men had come to the house, one of whom was
Philip Hadwin. They had interrogated him as to the condition
of the farm, and the purpose of his remaining on it.
William Hadwin they knew to have been sometime dead,
but where were the girls, his daughters?
Caleb answered that Susy, the eldest, was likewise dead.
These tidings excited astonishment. When died she,
and how, and where was she buried?
It happened two days before, and she was buried, he believed,
but could not tell where.
Not tell where? By whom then was she buried?
Really he could not tell. Some strange man came there
just as she was dying. He went to the room, and when
she was dead, took her away, but what he did with the
body, was more than he could say, but he had a notion
that he buried it. The man stayed till the morning, and then
went off with Lizzy, leaving him to keep house by himself.
He had not seen either of them, nor indeed, a single
soul since.
This was all the information that Caleb could afford the
visitants. It was so lame and incredible, that they began to
charge the man with falsehood, and to threaten him with
legal animadversion. Just then, Mr. Ellis entered the house,
and being made acquainted with the subject of discourse,
told all that he himself knew. He related the midnight
visit which I had paid him, explained my former situation
in the family, and my disappearance in September. He
stated the advice he had given me to carry Eliza to her
uncle's and my promise to comply with his counsel. The
uncle declared he had seen nothing of his niece, and Caleb
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added, that when she set out, she took the road that led
to town.
These hints afforded grounds for much conjecture and
suspicion. Ellis now mentioned some intelligence that he
had gathered respecting me in a late journey to—. It
seems I was the son of an honest farmer in that quarter, who
who married a tidy girl of a milk-maid, that lived with him.
My father had detected me in making some atrocious advances
to my mother in law, and had turned me out of
doors. I did not go off, however, without rifling his drawer
of some hundreds of dollars, which he had laid up against
a rainy day. I was noted for such pranks, and was hated
by all the neighbors for my pride and laziness. It was easy,
by comparison of circumstances, for Ellis to ascertain that
Hadwin's servant Mervyn, was the same against whom such
hearty charges were laid.
Previously to this journey, he had heard of me from Hadwin,
who was loud in praise of my diligence, sobriety and
modesty. For his part, he had always been cautious of
giving countenance to vegrants, that came from nobody
knew where, and worked their way with a plausible tongue.
He was not surprised to hear it whispered that Betsey Hadwin
had fallen in love with the youth, and now, no doubt,
he had persuaded her to run away with him. The heiress
of a fine farm was a prize not to be met with every day.
Philip broke into rage at this news; swore that if it turned
out so, his niece should starve upon the town, and that he
would take good care to baulk the lad. His brother he well
knew had left a will, to which he was executor, and that this
will, would in good time, be forth coming. After much
talk and ransacking the house, and swearing at his truant
niece, he and his company departed, charging Caleb to
keep the house and its contents for his use. This was all
that Caleb's memory had retained of that day's proceedings.
Curling had lately commented on the character of Philip
Hadwin. This man was totally unlike his brother, was a
noted brawler and bully, a tyrant to his children, a plague
to his neighbors, and kept a rendezvous for drunkards and
idlers, at the sign of the Bull's Head, at —. He
was not destitute of parts, and was no less dreaded for cunning
than malignity. He was covetous, and never missed
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an opportunity of overreaching his neighbor. There was no
doubt that his niece's property would be embezzled, should
it ever come into his hands, and any power which he might
obtain over her person, would be exercised to her destruction.
His children were tainted with the dissoluteness of
their father, and marriage had not repaired the reputation
of his daughters, or cured them of depravity; this was the
man whom I now proposed to visit.
I scarcely need to say that the calumny of Betty Lawrence
gave me no uneasiness. My father had no doubt
been deceived, as well as my father's neighbors, by the artifices
of this woman. I passed among them for a thief and
a profligate, but their error had hitherto been harmless to
me. The time might come which should confute the tale,
without my efforts. Betty, sooner or later, would drop her
mask, and afford the antidote to her own poisons, unless
some new incident should occur to make me hasten the
catastrophe.
I arrived at Hadwin's house. I was received with some
attention as a guest. I looked among the pimpled visages
that filled the piazza, for that of the landlord, but found him
in an inner apartment with two or three more, seated round
a table. On intimating my wish to speak with him alone,
the others withdrew.
Hadwin's visage had some traces of resemblance to his
brother; but the meek, placid air, pale cheeks and slender
form of the latter, were powerfully contrasted with the
bloated arrogance, imperious brow and robust limbs of the
former. This man's rage was awakened by a straw; it
impelled him in an instant to oaths and buffetings, and made
his life an eternal brawl. The sooner my interview with
such a personage should be at an end, the better. I therefore
explained the purpose of my coming as fully and in as
few words as possible.
Your name, Sir, is Philip Hadwin. Your brother William,
of Malverton, died lately and left two daughters. The
youngest only is now alive, and I come, commissioned from
her, to inform you, that as no will of her father's is extant,
she is preparing to administer to his estate. As her father's
brother, she thought you entitled to this information.
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The change which took place in the countenance of this
man, during this address, was remarkable, but not easily
described. His cheeks contracted a deeper crimson, his
eyes sparkled, and his face assumed an expression in which
curiosity was mingled with rage. He bent forwards and
said, in a hoarse and contemptuous tone, pray, is your name
Mervyn?
I answered, without hesitation, and as if the question were
wholly unimportant, yes; my name is Mervyn.
God damn it! You then are the damned rascal—(but
permit me to repeat his speech without the oaths, with which
it was plentifully interlarded. Not three words were uttered
without being garnished with a—God damn it! damnation!
I'll be damned to hell if—and the like energetic expletives.)
You then are the rascal that robbed Billy's house; that ran
away with the fool his daughter; persuaded her to burn her
father's will, and have the hellish impudence to come into
this house! But I thank you for it. I was going to look
for you—you've saved me trouble. I'll settle all accounts
with you here. Fair and softly, my good lad! If I don't
bring you to the gallows—If I let you escape without such
a dressing! Damned impudence! Fellow! I've been
at Malverton. I've heard of your tricks; so! finding the
will not quite to your mind, knowing that the executor would
baulk your schemes, you threw the will into the fire; you
robbed the house of all the cash, and made off with the girl!—
The old fellow saw it all, and will swear to the truth.
These words created some surprise. I meant not to
conceal from this man the tenor and destruction of the will,
nor even the measures which his niece had taken or intended
to take. What I supposed to be unknown to him, appeared
to have been communicated by the talkative Caleb, whose
mind was more inquisitive and less sluggish than first appearances
had led me to imagine. Instead of moping by
the kitchen fire, when Eliza and I were conversing in an
upper room, it now appeared that he had reconnoitred our
proceedings through some key hole or crevice, and had related
what he had seen to Hadwin.
Hadwin proceeded to exhaust his rage in oaths and menaces.
He frequently clenched his fist, and thrust it in my
face, drew it back as if to render his blow more deadly;
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ran over the same series of exclamations on my impudence
and villany, and talked of the gallows and the whipping-post;
enforced each word by the epithets—damnable and
hellish—closed each sentence with—and be curst to you!
There was but one mode for me to pursue; all forcible
opposition to a man of his strength was absurd. It was my
province to make his anger confine itself to words, and patiently
to wait till the paroxysm should end or subside of
itself. To effect this purpose, I kept my seat, and carefully
excluded from my countenance every indication of
timidity and panic on the one hand, and of scorn and defiance
on the other. My look and attitude were those of a man
who expected harsh words, but who entertained no suspicion
that blows would be inflicted.
I was indebted for my safety to an inflexible adherence to
this medium. To have strayed, for a moment, to either
side, would have brought upon me his blows. That he did
not instantly resort to violence, inspired me with courage,
since it depended on myself whether food should be supplied
to his passion. Rage must either progress or decline, and
since it was in total want of provocation, it could not fail of
gradually subsiding.
My demeanor was calculated to damp the flame, not only
by its direct influence, but by diverting his attention from the
wrongs which he had received, to the novelty of my behavior.
The disparity in size and strength between us, was
too evident to make him believe that I confided in my sinews
for my defence; and since I betrayed neither contempt nor
fear, he could not but conclude that I trusted to my own integrity
or to his moderation. I seized the first pause in his
rhetoric to enforce this sentiment.
You are angry, Mr. Hadwin, and are loud in your threats,
but they do not frighten me. They excite no apprehension
or alarm, because I know myself able to convince you that
I have not injured you. This is an inn, and I am your
guest. I am sure I shall find better entertainment than
blows. Come, continued I, smiling, it is possible that I
am not so mischievous a wretch as your fancy paints me.
I have no claims upon your niece but that of friendship, and
she is now in the house of an honest man, Mr. Curling,
where she proposes to continue as long as is convenient.
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It is true that your brother left a will, which his daughter
burnt in my presence, because she dreaded the authority
which that will gave you, not only over her property, but person.
It is true that on leaving the house, she took away the
money which was now her own, and which was necessary
to subsistence. It is true that I bore her company, and have
left her in an honest man's keeping. I am answerable for
nothing more. As to you, I meant not to injure you; I advised
not the burning of the will. I was a stranger till after
that event, to your character. I knew neither good nor ill
of you. I came to tell you all this, because, as Eliza's
uncle, you had a right to the information.
So! you come to tell me that she burnt the will, and is
going to administer—to what, I beseech you? To her father's
property? Aye, I warrant you; but take this along
with you, that property is mine; land, house, stock, every
thing. All is safe and snug under cover of a mortgage, to
which Billy was kind enough to add a bond. One was sued,
and the other entered up, a week ago. So that all is safe
under my thumb, and the girl may whistle or starve for me.
I shall give myself no concern about the strumpet. You
thought to get a prize; but, damn me, you've met with your
match in me. Phil. Haddin's not so easily choused, I promise
you. I intended to give you this news, and a drubbing
into the bargain; but you may go, and make haste. She
burnt the will, did she; because I was named in it—and
sent you to tell me so? Good souls! It was kind of you,
and I am bound to be thankful. Take her back news of
the mortgage; and, as for you, leave my house. You may
go scot free this time; but I pledge my word for a sound
beating when you next enter these doors. I'll pay it you
with interest. Leave my house, I say!
A mortgage, said I, in a low voice, and affecting not to
hear his commands, that will be sad news for my friend.
Why, sir, you are a fortunate man. Malverton is an excellent
spot; well watered and manured; newly and completely
fenced; not a larger barn in the county; oxen
and horses, and cows in the best order; I never sat
eyes on a finer orchard. By my faith, sir, you are a
fortunate man. But, pray, what have you for dinner? I
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am hungry as a wolf. Order me a beef-steak, and some
potation or other. The bottle there—it is cider, I take it;
pray, push it to this side. Saying this, I stretched out my
hand towards the bottle which stood before him.
I confided in the power of a fearless and sedate manner.
Methought that as anger was the food of anger, it must unavoidably
subside in a contest with equability. This opinion
was intuitive, rather than the product of experience, and
perhaps, I gave no proof of my sagacity in hazarding my
safety on its truth. Hadwin's character made him dreaded
and obeyed by all. He had been accustomed to ready
and tremulous submission from men far more brawny and
robust than I was, and to find his most vehement menaces
and gestures, totally ineffectual on a being so slender and diminutive,
at once wound up his rage and excited his astonishment.
One motion counteracted and suspended the
other. He lifted his hand, but delayed to strike. One
blow, applied with his usual dexterity, was sufficient to
destroy me. Though seemingly careless, I was watchful of
his motions, and prepared to elude the stroke by shrinking
or stooping. Meanwhile, I stretched my hand far enough
to seize the bottle, and pouring its contents into a tumbler,
put it to my lips.
Come, sir, I drink your health, and wish you speedy
possession of Malverton. I have some interest with Eliza,
and will prevail on her to forbear all opposition and complaint.
Why should she complain? While I live, she shall
not be a beggar. No doubt, your claim is legal, and therefore
ought to be admitted. What the law gave, the law has
taken away. Blessed be the dispensers of law—excellent
cider! open another bottle, will you, and I beseech hasten
dinner, if you would not see me devour the table.
It was just, perhaps, to conjure up the demon avarice
to fight with the demon anger. Reason alone, would, in
such a contest, be powerless, but, in truth, I spoke without
artifice or disguise. If his claim were legal, opposition
would be absurd and pernicious. I meant not to rely upon
his own assertions, and would not acknowledge the validity
of his claim, till I had inspected the deed. Having instituted
suits, this was now in a public office, and there the
inspection should be made. Meanwhile, no reason could be
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urged why I should part from him in anger, while his kindred
to Eliza, and his title to her property, made it useful
to secure his favor. It was possible to obtain a remission of
his claims, even when the law enforced them; it would be
imprudent at least to diminish the chances of remission by
fostering his wrath and provoking his enmity.
What, he exclaimed, in a transport of fury, a'n't I master
of my own house? Out, I say!
These were harsh terms, but they were not accompanied
by gestures and tones so menacing as those which had before
been used. It was plain that the tide, which so lately
threatened my destruction, had begun to recede. This
encouraged me to persist.
Be not alarmed, my good friend, said I, placidly and
smiling. A man of your bone need not fear a pigmy like
me. I shall scarcely be able to dethrone you in your own
castle, with an army of hostlers, tapsters, and cooks at
your beck. You shall still be master here, provided you
use your influence to procure me a dinner.
His acquiescence in a pacific system, was extremely reluctant
and gradual. He laid aside one sullen tone and
wrathful look after the other; and, at length, consented not
only to supply me with a dinner, but to partake of it with
me. Nothing was more a topic of surprise to himself, than
his forbearance. He knew not how it was. He had never
been treated so before. He was not proof against entreaty
and submission; but I had neither supplicated nor submitted.
The stuff that I was made of was at once damnably tough
and devilishly pliant. When he thought of my impudence,
in staying in his house after he had bade me leave it, he was
tempted to resume his passion. When he reflected on my
courage, in making light of his anger, notwithstanding his
known impetuosity and my personal inferiority, he could not
withhold his esteem. But my patience under his rebukes,
my unalterable equanimity, and my ready consent to the
validity of his claims, soothed and propitiated him.
An exemption from blows and abuse was all that I
could gain from this man. I told him the truth, with regard
to my own history, so far as it was connected with the
Hadwins. I exhibited, in affecting colors, the helpless condition
of Eliza; but could extort from him nothing but his
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consent, that, if she chose, she might come and live with
him. He would give her victuals and clothes for so much
house-work as she was able to do. If she chose to live
elsewhere, he promised not to molest her, or intermeddle in
her concerns. The house and land were his by law, and
he would have them.
It was not my province to revile or expostulate with him.
I stated what measures would be adopted by a man who
regarded the interest of others more than his own; who was
anxious for the welfare of an innocent girl, connected with
him so closely by the ties of kindred, and who was destitute
of what is called natural friends. If he did not cancel, for
her sake, his bond and mortgage, he would, at least, afford
her a frugal maintenance. He would extend to her, in all
emergencies his counsel and protection.
All that, he said, was sheer nonsense. He could not sufficiently
wonder at my folly, in proposing to him to make a
free gift of a hundred rich acres, to a girl too who scarcely
knew her right hand from her left; whom the first cunning
young rogue, like myself, would chouse out of the whole,
and take herself into the bargain. But my folly was even
surpassed by my impudence, since, as the friend of this
girl, I was merely petitioning on my own account. I had
come to him, whom I never saw before, on whom I had
no claim, and who, as I well knew, had reason to think me
a sharper, and modestly said—“Here's a girl who has no
fortune. I am greatly in want of one. Pray, give her
such an estate that you have in your possession. If you
do, I'll marry her, and take it into my own hands.” I might
be thankful that he did not answer such a petition with
a horse-whipping. But if he did not give her his estate,
he might extend to her, forsooth, his counsel and protection.
That I've offered to do, continued he. She may
come and live in my house, if she will. She may do some
of the family work. I'll discharge the chamber-maid to
make room for her. Lizzy, if I remember right, has a
pretty face. She can't have a better market for it than as
chamber-maid to an inn. If she minds her p's and q's she
may make up a handsome sum at the year's end.
I thought it time to break off the conference; and, my
dinner being finished, took my leave; leaving behind me
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the character of a queer sort of chap. I speeded to the
prothonotary's office, which was kept in the village, and
quickly ascertained the truth of Hadwin's pretensions.
There existed a mortgage, with bond and warrant of attorney,
to so great an amount as would swallow up every thing
at Malverton. Furnished with these tidings, I prepared,
with a drooping heart, to return to Mr. Curling's.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
This incident necessarily produced a change in my views
with regard to my friend. Her fortune consisted of a few
hundreds of dollars, which, frugally administered, might procure
decent accommodation in the country. When this
was consumed, she must find subsistence in tending the big
wheel or the milk pail, unless fortune should enable me to
place her in a more favorable situation. This state was,
in some respects, but little different from that in which she
had spent the former part of her life; but, in her father's
house, these employments were dignified by being, in some
degree, voluntary, and relieved by frequent intervals of recreation
and leisure. Now they were likely to prove irksome
and servile, in consequence of being performed for
hire, and imposed by necessity. Equality, parental solicitudes,
and sisterly endearments would be wanting to lighten
the yoke.
These inconveniences, however, were imaginary. This
was the school in which fortitude and independence were
to be learned. Habit, and the purity of rural manners,
would, likewise, create anew those ties which death had
dissolved. The affections of parent and sister would be
supplied by the fonder and more rational attachments of
friendship. These toils were not detrimental to beauty or
health. What was to be dreaded from them, was, their
tendency to quench the spirit of liberal curiosity; to habituate
the person to bodily, rather than intellectual, exertions;
to supersede, and create indifference or aversion to the
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only instruments of rational improvement, the pen and the
book.
This evil, however, was at some distance from Eliza.
Her present abode was quiet and serene. Here she might
enjoy domestic pleasures and opportunities of mental improvement
for the coming twelvemonth at least. This period
would, perhaps, be sufficient for the formation of studious
habits. What schemes should be adopted, for this end,
would be determined by the destiny to which I myself should
be reserved.
My path was already chalked out, and my fancy now
pursued it with uncommon pleasure. To reside in your
family; to study your profession; to pursue some subordinate
or casual mode of industry, by which I might purchase
leisure for medical pursuits, for social recreations, and for
the study of mankind, on your busy and thronged stage,
was the scope of my wishes. This destiny would not hinder
punctual correspondence and occasional visits to Eliza.
Her pen might be called into action, and her mind be
awakened by books, and every hour be made to add to her
stores of knowledge and enlarge the bounds of her capacity.
I was spiritless and gloomy when I left —, but reflections
on my future lot, and just views of the situation of
my friend, insensibly restored my cheerfulness. I arrived
at Mr. Curling's in the evening, and hastened to impart to
Eliza the issue of my commission. It gave her uneasiness,
merely as it frustrated the design, on which she had fondly
mused, of residing in the city. She was somewhat consoled
by my promises of being her constant correspondent
and occasional visitor.
Next morning I set out on my journey hither, on foot.
The way was not long; the weather, though cold, was
wholesome and serene. My spirits were high, and I saw
nothing in the world before me but sunshine and prosperity.
I was conscious that my happiness depended not on the
revolutions of nature or the caprice of man. All without
was, indeed, vicissitude and uncertainty; but within my bosom
was a centre not to be shaken or removed. My purposes
were honest and steadfast. Every sense was the inlet
of pleasure, because it was the avenue to knowledge; and
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my soul brooded over the world of ideas, and glowed
with exultation at the grandeur and beauty of its own creations.
This felicity was too rapturous to be of long duration. I
gradually descended from these heights; and the remembrance
of past incidents, connected with the images of your
family, to which I was returning, led my thoughts into a different
channel. Welbeck and the unhappy girl whom he
had betrayed; Mrs. Villars and Wallace were recollected
anew. The views which I had formed, for determining the
fate and affording assistance to Clemenza, were recalled.
My former resolutions, with regard to her, had been suspended
by the uncertainty in which the fate of the Hadwins
was, at that time, wrapped. Had it not become necessary
wholly to lay aside these resolutions?
That, indeed, was an irksome conclusion. No wonder
that I struggled to repel it; that I fostered the doubt whether
money was the only instrument of benefit; whether caution,
and fortitude, and knowledge were not the genuine preservatives
from evil. Had I not the means in my hands of dispelling
her fatal ignorance of Welbeck and of those with
whom she resided? Was I not authorized by my previous,
though slender intercourse, to seek her presence?
Suppose I should enter Mrs. Villar's house, desire to be
introduced to the lady, accost her with affectionate simplicity,
and tell her the truth? Why be anxious to smooth the
way? why deal in apologies, circuities and inuendoes? All
these are feeble and perverse refinements, unworthy of an
honest purpose and an erect spirit. To believe her inaccessible
to my visit, was absurd. To wait for the permission
of those whose interest it might be to shut out visitants,
was cowardice. This was an infringement of her liberty,
which equity and law equally condemned. By what right
could she be restrained from intercourse with others?
Doors and passages may be between her and me. With a
purpose such as mine, no one had a right to close the one
or obstruct the other. Away with cowardly reluctances and
clownish scruples, and let me hasten this moment to her
dwelling.
Mrs. Villars is the portress of the mansion. She will
probably present herself before me, and demand the reason
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of my visit. What shall I say to her? The truth. To
faulter, or equivocate, or dissemble to this woman, would
be wicked. Perhaps her character has been misunderstood
and maligned. Can I render her a greater service
than to apprize her of the aspersions that have rested on it,
and afford her the opportunity of vindication? Perhaps
she is indeed selfish and profligate; the betrayer of youth
and the agent of lasciviousness. Does she not deserve to
know the extent of her errors and the ignominy of her trade?
Does she not merit the compassion of the good and the rebukes
of the wise? To shrink from the task, would prove
me cowardly and unfirm. Thus far, at least, let my courage
extend.
Alas! Clemenza is unacquainted with my language.
My thoughts cannot make themselves apparent but by
words, and to my words she will be able to affix no meaning.
Yet is not that a hasty decision? The version from
the dramas of Zeno which I found in her toilet, was probably
hers, and proves her to have a speculative knowledge
of our tongue. Near half a year has since elasped, during
which she has dwelt with talkers of English, and consequently
could not fail to have acquired it. This conclusion
is somewhat dubious, but experiment will give it certainty.
Hitherto I had strolled along the path at a lingering pace.
Time enough, methought, to reach your threshold between
sunrise and moonlight, if my way had been three times
longer than it was. You were the pleasing phantom that
hovered before me, and beckoned me forward. What a
total revolution had occurred in the course of a few seconds,
for thus long did my reasonings with regard to Clemenza
and the Villars require to pass through my understanding,
and escape, in half muttered soliloquy, from my lips. My
muscles trembled with eagerness, and I bounded forward with
impetuosity. I saw nothing but a visto of catalpas, leafless,
loaded with icicles, and terminating in four chimneys and a
painted roof. My fancy outstripped my footsteps, and was
busy in picturing faces and rehearsing dialogues. Presently
I reached this new object of my pursuit, darted through the
avenue, noticed that some windows of the house were unclosed,
drew thence a hasty inference that the house was
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not without inhabitants, and knocked, quickly and loudly,
for admission.
Some one within crept to the door, opened it with seeming
caution, and just far enough to allow the face to be seen.
It was the timid, pale and unwashed face of a girl who was
readily supposed to be a servant, taken from a cottage, and
turned into a bringer of wood and water, and a scourer of
tubs and trenches. She waited in timorous silence the delivery
of my message. Was Mrs. Villars at home?
No; she has gone to town.
Were any of her daughters within?
She could not tell; she believed—she thought—which
did I want? Miss Hetty or Miss Sally?
Let me see Miss Hetty. Saying this, I pushed gently
against the door. The girl, half reluctant, yielded way;
I entered the passage, and putting my hand on the lock of a
door that seemed to lead into a parlor—is Miss Hetty in
this room?
No; there was nobody there.
Go call her then. Tell her there is one who wishes
to see her on important business. I will wait for her
coming in this room. So saying, I opened the door, and
entered the apartment, while the girl withdrew to perform
my message.
The parlor was spacious and expensively furnished, but
an air of negligence and disorder was every where visible.
The carpet was wrinkled and unswept; a clock on the table,
in a glass frame, so streaked and spotted with dust as scarcely
to be transparent, and the index motionless, and pointing at
four instead of nine; embers scattered on the marble hearth,
and tongs lying on the fender with the handle in the ashes;
a harpsicord, uncovered, one end loaded with scores, tumbled
together in a heap, and the other with volumes of
novels and plays, some on their edges, some on their backs,
gaping open by the scorching of their covers; rent; blurred;
stained; blotted; dog-eared; tables awry; chairs crowding
each other; in short, no object but indicated the neglect or
ignorance of domestic neatness and economy.
My leisure was employed in surveying these objects, and
in listening for the approach of Miss Hetty. Some minutes
clasped, and no one came. A reason for delay was
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easily imagined, and I summoned patience to wait. I opened
a book; touched the instrument; surveyed the vases
on the mantel-tree; the figures on the hangings, and the
print of Apollo and the Sybil, taken from Salvator, and
hung over the chimney. I eyed my own shape and garb in the mirror, and asked how my rustic appearance would
be regarded by that supercilious and voluptuous being, to
whom I was about to present myself.
Presently the latch of the door was softly moved, it opened,
and the simpleton, before described, appeared. She
spoke, but her voice was so full of hesitation, and so near
a whisper, that much attention was needed to make out her
words; Miss Hetty was not at home—she was gone to
town with her mistress.
This was a tale not to be credited. How was I to act?
She persisted in maintaining the truth of it.—Well, then,
said I, at length, tell Miss Sally that I wish to speak with
her. She will answer my purpose just as well.
Miss Sally was not at home neither. She had gone to
town too. They would not be back, she did not know
when; not till night, she supposed. It was so indeed, none
of them wasn't at home; none but she and Nanny in the
kitchen—indeed there wasn't.
Go tell Nanny to come here—I will leave my message
with her. She withdrew, but Nanny did not receive the
summons, or thought proper not to obey it. All was vasant
and still.
My state was singular and critical. It was absurd to
prolong it; but to leave the house with my errand unexecuted,
would argue imbecility and folly. To ascertain
Clemenza's presence in this house, and to gain an interview,
were yet in my power. Had I not boasted of my intrepidity
in braving denials and commands, when they endeavored to
obstruct my passage to this woman? But here were no obstacles
nor prohibition. Suppose the girl had said truth,
that the matron and her daughters were absent, and that
Nanny and herself were the only guardians of the mansion.
So much the better. My design will not be opposed. I
have only to mount the stair, and go from one room to another,
till I find what I seek.
There was hazard, as well as plausibility, in this scheme.
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I thought it best once more to endeavor to extort information
from the girl, and persuade her to be my guide to
whomsoever the house contained. I put my hand to the
bell and rung a brisk peal. No one came. I passed into
the entry, to the foot of a staircase, and to a back window.
Nobody was within hearing or sight.
Once more I reflected on the rectitude of my intentions,
on the possibility that the girl's assertions might be true,
on the benefits of expedition, and of gaining access to the
object of my visit without interruption or delay. To these
considerations was added a sort of charm, not easily explained,
and by no means justifiable, produced by the very
temerity and hazardness accompanying this attempt. I
thought, with scornful emotions, on the bars and hindrances,
which pride, and caprice, and delusive maxims of decorum,
raise in the way of human intercourse. I spurned at these
semblances and substitutes of honesty, and delighted to shake
such fetters into air, and trample such impediments to dust.
I wanted to see a human being, in order to promote her
happiness. It was doubtful whether she was within twenty
paces of the spot where I stood. The doubt was to be
solved. How? By examining the space. I forthwith proceeded
to examine it. I reached the second story. I approached
a door that was closed. I knocked; after a
pause, a soft voice said, who is there?
The accents were as musical as those of Clemenza, but
were in other respects, different. I had no topic to discuss
with this person. I answered not, yet hesitated to withdraw.
Presently the same voice was again heard; what is it you
want? Why don't you answer? Come in!—I complied
with the command, and entered the room.
It was deliberation and foresight that led me hither, and
not chance or caprice. Hence, instead of being disconcerted
or vanquished by the objects that I saw, I was tranquil
and firm. My curiosity, however, made me a vigilant observer.
Two females, arrayed with voluptuous negligence,
in a manner adapted to the utmost seclusion, and seated in
a careless attitude, on a sofa, were now discovered.
Both darted glances at the door. One, who appeared
to be the youngest, no sooner saw me, than she shrieked,
and starting from her seat, betrayed in the looks which she
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successively cast upon me, on herself and on the chambers
whose apparatus was in no less confusion than that of the
apartment below, her consciousness of the unseasonableness
of this meeting.
The other shrieked likewise, but on her it seemed to be
the token of surprise, rather than that of terror. There
was, probably, somewhat in my aspect and garb that suggested
an apology for this intrusion, as arising from simplicity
and mistake. She thought proper, however, to assume the
air of one offended, and looking sternly—How now, fellow,
said she, what is this? Why come you hither?
This questioner was of mature age, but had not passed
the period of attractiveness and grace. All the beauty that
nature had bestowed was still retained, but the portion had
never been great. What she possessed was so modelled
and embellished by such a carriage and dress, as to give it
most power over the senses of the gazer. In proportion,
however, as it was intended and adapted to captivate those,
who know none but physical pleasures, it was qualified to
breed distaste and aversion in me.
I am sensible how much error may have lurked in this
descision. I had brought with me the belief of their being
unchaste; and seized, perhaps with too much avidity, any
appearance that coincided with my prepossessions. Yet the
younger by no means inspired the same disgust; though I
had no reason to suppose her more unblemished than the
elder. Her modesty seemed unaffected, and was by no
means satisfied, like that of the elder, with defeating future
curiosity. The consciousness of what had already been
exposed filled her with confusion, and she would have flown
away, if her companion had not detained her by some
degree of force. What ails the girl? There's nothing to
be frightened at. Fellow! she repeated, what brings you
here?
I advanced and stood before them. I looked steadfastly,
but, I believe, with neither effrontery nor anger, on the one
who addressed me. I spoke in a tone serious and emphatical.
I come for the sake of speaking to a woman, who
formerly resided in this house, and probably resides here
still. Her name is Clemenza Lodi. If she be here, I request
you to conduct me to her instantly.
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Methought I preceived some inquietude, a less imperious
and more inquisitive air, in this woman, on hearing the name
of Clemenza. It was momentary, and gave way to peremptory
looks. What is your business with her? And why
did you adopt this mode of inquiry? A very extraordinary
intrusion! Be good enough to leave the chamber. Any
questions proper to be answered, will be answered below.
I meant not to intrude or offend. It was not an idle or
impertinent motive that led me hither. I waited below for
some time after soliciting an audience of you, through the
servant. She assured me you were absent, and laid me
under the necessity of searching for Clemenza Lodi myself,
and without a guide. I am anxious to withdraw, and request
merely to be directed to the room which she occupies.
I direct you, replied she in a more resolute tone, to quit
the room and the house.
Impossible, madam, I replied, still looking at her earnestly,
leave the house without seeing her! You might as well
enjoin me to pull the Andes on my head! To walk barefoot
to Pekin! Impossible!
Some solicitude was now mingled with her anger. This
is strange insolence! unaccountable behaviour!—be gone
from my room! will you compel me to call the gentlemen?
Be not alarmed, said I, with augmented mildness. There
was indeed compassion and sorrow at my heart, and these
must have somewhat influenced my looks. Be not alarmed.
I came to confer a benefit, not to perpetrate an injury. I
came not to censure or expostulate with you, but merely to
counsel and aid a being that needs both; all I want is to see
her. In this chamber I sought not you, but her. Only lead
me to her, or tell me where she is. I will then rid you of
my presence.
Will you compel me to call those who will punish this
insolence as it deserves?
Dearest madam! I compel you to nothing. I merely
supplicate. I would ask you to lead me to these gentlemen,
if I did not know that there are none but females in the
house. It is you who must receive and comply with my
petition. Allow me a moment's interview with Clemenza
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Lodi. Compliance will harm you not, but will benefit her.
What is your objection?
This is the strangest proceeding! the most singular conduct!
Is this a place fit to parley with you? I warn you
of the consequence of staying a moment longer. Depend
upon it, you will sorely repent it.
You are obdurate, said I, and turned towards the younger,
who listened to this discourse in tremors and panic. I
took her hand with an air of humility and reverence. Here,
said I, there seems to be purity, innocence and condescension.
I took this house to be the temple of voluptuousness.
Females, I expected to find in it, but such only as traded in
licentious pleasures; specious, perhaps not destitute of talents,
beauty and address, but dissolute and wanton; sensual and
avaricious; yet, in this countenance and carriage there are
tokens of virtue. I am born to be deceived, and the semblance
of modesty is readily assumed. Under this veil,
perhaps, lurk a tainted heart and depraved appetites. Is
it so?
She made me no answer, but somewhat in her looks
seemed to evince that my favorable prepossessions were just.
I noticed likewise that the alarm of the elder was greatly
increased by this address to her companion. The thought
suddenly occurred that this girl might be in circumstances
not unlike those of Clemenza Lodi; that she was not apprized
of the character of her associates, and might by this
meeting be rescued from similar evils.
This suspicion filled me with tumultuous feelings. Clemenza
was for a time forgotten. I paid no attention to the
looks or demeanor of the elder, but was wholly occupied in
gazing on the younger. My anxiety to know the truth, gave
pathos and energy to my tones, while I spoke:
Who, where, what are you? Do you reside in this house?
Are you a sister or daughter in this family, or merely a visitant?
Do you know the character, profession and views of
your companions? Do you deem them virtuous, or know
them to be profligate? Speak! tell me, I beseech you!
The maiden confusion which had just appeared in the
countenance of this person, now somewhat abated. She
lifted her eyes, and glanced by turns at me and at her who
sat by her side. An air of serious astonishment overspread
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her features, and she seemed anxious for me to proceed.
The elder, meanwhile, betrayed the utmost alarm, again
upbraided my audacity, commanded me to withdraw, and
admonished me of the danger I incurred by lingering.
I noticed not her interference, but again entreated to know
of the younger her true state. She had no time to answer
me, supposing her not to want the inclination, for every
pause was filled by the clamorous importunities and menaces
of the other. I began to perceive that my attempts were
useless to this end, but the chief, and most estimable purpose,
was attainable. It was in my power to state the
knowledge I possessed, through your means, of Mrs. Villars
and her daughters. This information might be superfluous,
since she to whom it was given, might be one of this
licentious family. The contrary, however, was not improbable,
and my tidings, therefore, might be of the utmost
moment to her safety.
A resolute, and even impetuous manner, reduced my incessant
interrupter to silence. What I had to say, I compressed
in a few words, and adhered to perspicuity and
candor with the utmost care. I still held the hand that I
had taken, and fixed my eyes upon her countenance, with
a steadfastness that hindered her from lifting her eyes.
I know you not; whether you be dissolute or chaste, I
cannot tell. In either case, however, what I am going to
say will be useful. Let me faithfully repeat what I have
heard. It is mere rumor, and I vouch not for its truth.
Rumor as it is, I submit it to your judgment, and hope that
it may guide you into paths of innocence and honor.
Mrs. Villars and her three daughters are English women,
who supported for a time an unblemished reputation, but
who, at length, were suspected of carrying on the trade
of prostitution. This secret could not be concealed forever.
The profligates who frequented their house, betrayed
them. One of them who who died under their
roof, after they had withdrawn from it into the country, disclosed
to his kinsman, who attended his death bed, their
genuine character.
The dying man likewise related incidents in which I am
deeply concerned. I have been connected with one by
name Welbeck. In his house I met an unfortunate girl,
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who was afterwards removed to Mrs. Villar's. Her name
was Clemenza Lodi. Residence in this house, under the
control of a woman like Mrs. Villars and her daughters,
must be injurious to her innocence, and from this control I
now come to rescue her.
I turned to the elder, and continued; by all that is sacred,
I adjure you to tell me whether Clemenza Lodi be
under this roof! If she be not, whither has she gone? To
know this I came hither, and any difficulty or reluctance in
answering, will be useless; till an answer be obtained, I
will not go hence.
During this speech, anger had been kindling in the bosom
of this woman. It now burst upon me in a torrent of opprobrious
epithets. I was a villain, a calumniator, a thief.
I had lurked about the house, till those whose sex and
strength enabled them to cope with me, had gone. I had
entered these doors by fraud. I was a wretch, guilty of the
last excesses of insolence and insult.
To repel these reproaches, or endure them, was equally
useless. The satisfaction that I sought was only to be
gained by searching the house. I left the room without
speaking. Did I act illegally in passing from one story and
one room to another? Did I really deserve the imputations
of rashness and insolence? My behavior, I well know, was
ambiguous and hazardous, and perhaps wanting in discretion,
but my motives were unquestionably pure. I aimed
at nothing but the rescue of a human creature from distress
and dishonor.
I pretend not to the wisdom of experience and age; to
the praise of forethought or subtlety. I choose the obvious
path, and pursue it with headlong expedition. Good intentions,
unaided by knowledge, will, perhaps, produce more
injury than benefit, and therefore, knowledge must be
gained, but the acquisition is not momentary; is not bestowed
unasked and untoiled for. Meanwhile, we must not
be inactive because we are ignorant. Our good purposes
must hurry to performance, whether our knowledge be
greater or less.
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CHAPTER XXXV.
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To explore the house in this manner was so contrary to
ordinary rules, that the design was probably wholly unsuspected
by the women whom I had just left. My silence,
at parting, might have been ascribed by them to the intimidating
influence of invectives and threats. Hence I proceeded
in my search without interruption.
Presently I reached a front chamber in the third story.
The door was ajar. I entered it on tiptoe. Sitting on a
low chair by the fire, I beheld a female figure, dressed in
a negligent, but not indecent manner. Her face in the
posture in which she sat was only half seen. Its hues were
sickly and pale, and in mournful unison with a feeble and
emaciated form. Her eyes were fixed upon a babe, that
lay stretched upon a pillow at her feet. The child, like its
mother, for such she was readily imagined to be, was meagre
and cadaverous. Either it was dead, or could not be
very distant from death.
The features of Clemenza were easily recognised, though
no contrast could be greater, in habit and shape, and complexion,
than that which her present bore to her former
appearance. All her roses had faded, and her brilliancies
vanished. Still, however, there was somewhat fitted to
awaken the tenderest emotions. There were tokens of inconsolable
distress.
Her attention was wholly absorbed by the child. She
lifted not her eyes, till I came close to her, and stood before
her. When she discovered me, a faint start was perceived.
She looked at me for a moment, then putting one spread
hand before her eyes, she stretched out the other towards
the door, and waving it in silence, as if to admonish me to
depart.
This motion, however emphatical, I could not obey. I
wished to obtain her attention, but knew not in what words
to claim it. I was silent. In a moment she removed her
hand from her eyes, and looked at me with new eagerness.
Her features bespoke emotions, which, perhaps, flowed from
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my likeness to her brother, joined with the memory of my
connexion with Welbeck.
My situation was full of embarrassment. I was by no
means certain that my language would be understood. I
knew not in what light the policy and dissimulation of Welbeck
might have taught her to regard me. What proposal,
conducive to her comfort and her safety, could I make to
her?
Once more she covered her eyes, and exclaimed in a
feeble voice, go away! begone!
As if satisfied with this effort, she resumed her attention
to her child. She stooped and lifted it in her arms, gazing,
meanwhile, on its almost lifeless features with intense anxiety.
She crushed it to her bosom, and again looking at
me, repeated, go away! go away! begone!
There was somewhat in the lines of her face, in her tones
and gestures, that pierced to my heart. Added to this, was
my knowledge of her condition; her friendlessness; her
poverty; the pangs of unrequited love; and her expiring
infant. I felt my utterance choked, and my tears struggling
for passage. I turned to the window, and endeavored
to regain my tranquillity.
What was it, said I, that brought me hither? The perfidy
of Welbeck must surely have long since been discovered.
What can I tell her of the Villars which she does not
already know, or of which the knowledge will be useful?
If their treatment has been just, why should I detract from
their merit? If it has been otherwise, their own conduct
will have disclosed their genuine character. Though voluptuous
themselves, it does not follow that they have labored
to debase this creature. Though wanton, they may not be
inhuman.
I can propose no change in her condition for the better.
Should she be willing to leave this house, whither is it in my
power to conduct her? O that I were rich enough to provide
food for the hungry, shelter for the houseless, and
raiment for the naked.
I was roused from these fruitless reflections by the lady,
whom some sudden thought induced to place the child in
its bed, and rising to come towards me. The utter dejection
which her features lately betrayed, was now changed
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for an air of anxious curiosity. Where, said she, in her
broken English, where is Signior Welbeck?
Alas! returned I, I know not. That question might, I
thought, with more propriety be put to you than me.
I know where he be; I fear where he be.
So saying, the deepest sighs burst from her heart. She
turned from me, and going to the child, took it again into
her lap. Its pale and sunken cheek was quickly wet with
the mother's tears, which, as she silently hung over it, dropped
fast from her eyes.
This demeanor could not but awaken curiosity, while it
gave a new turn to my thoughts. I began to suspect that
in the tokens which I saw, there was not only distress for
her child, but concern for the fate of Welbeck. Know you,
said I, where Mr. Welbeck is? Is he alive? Is he near?
Is he in calamity?
I do not know if he be alive. He be sick. He be in
prison. They will not let me go to him. And—here her
attention and mine was attracted by the infant, whose frame,
till now motionless, began to be tremulous. Its features
sunk into a more ghastly expression. Its breathings were
difficult, and every effort to respire produced a convulsion
harder than the last.
The mother easily interpreted these tokens. The same
mortal struggle seemed to take place in her features as in
those of her child. At length her agony found way in a
piercing shriek. The struggle in the infant was past. Hope
looked in vain for a new motion in its heart or its eyelids.
The lips were closed, and its breath was gone, forever!
The grief which overwhelmed the unhappy parent, was
of that outrageous and desperate kind which is wholly incompatible
with thinking. A few incoherent motions and
screams, that rent the soul, were followed by a deep swoon.
She sunk upon the floor, pale and lifeless as her babe.
I need not describe the pangs which such a scene was
adapted to produce in me. These were rendered more
acute by the helpless and ambiguous situation in which I
was placed. I was eager to bestow consolation and succor,
but was destitute of all means. I was plunged into uncertainties
and doubts. I gazed alternately at the infant and
its mother. I sighed. I wept. I even sobbed. I
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stooped down and took the lifeless hand of the sufferer. I
bathed it with my tears, and exclaimed, ill-fated woman!
unhappy mother! what shall I do for thy relief? How
shall I blunt the edge of this calamity, and rescue thee from
new evils?
At this moment the door of the apartment was opened,
and the youngest of the women whom I had seen below,
entered. Her looks betrayed the deepest consternation and
anxiety. Her eyes in a moment were fixed by the decayed
form and the sad features of Clemenza. She shuddered
at this spectacle, but was silent. She stood in the midst of
the floor, fluctuating and bewildered. I dropped the hand
that I was holding, and approached her.
You have come, said I, in good season. I know you not,
but will believe you to be good. You have a heart, it may
be, not free from corruption, but it is still capable of pity for
the miseries of others. You have a hand that refuses not
its aid to the unhappy. See; there is an infant dead.
There is a mother whom grief has, for a time, deprived of
life. She has been oppressed and betrayed; been robbed of
property and reputation—but not of innocence. She is
worthy of relief. Have you arms to receive her? Have
you sympathy, protection, and a home to bestow upon a
forlorn, betrayed, and unhappy stranger? I know not what
this house is; I suspect it to be no better than a brothel. I
know not what treatment this woman has received. If,
when her situation and wants are ascertained, will you supply
her wants? Will you rescue her from evils that may
attend her continuance here?
She was disconcerted and bewildered by this address.
At length she said—All that has happened, all that I have
heard and seen is so unexpected, so strange, that I am
amazed and distracted. Your behavior I cannot comprehend,
nor your motive for making this address to me. I
cannot aaswer you, except in one respect. If this woman
has suffered injury, I have had no part in it. I knew not of
her existence, nor her situation till this moment; and whatever
protection or assistance she may justly claim, I am both
able and willing to bestow. I do not live here, but in the
city. I am only an occasional visitant in this house.
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What then, I exclaimed, with sparkling eyes and a rapturous
accent, you are not profligate; are a stranger to the
manners of this house, and a detester of these manners?
Be not a deceiver, I entreat you. I depend only on your
looks and professions, and these may be dissembled.
These questions, which indeed argued a childish simplicity,
excited her surprise. She looked at me, uncertain
whether I was in earnest or in jest. At length she said,
your language is so singular, that I am at a loss how to answer
it. I shall take no pains to find out its meaning, but
leave you to form conjectures at leisure. Who is this woman,
and how can I serve her? After a pause, she continued—
I cannot afford her any immediate assistance, and
shall not stay a moment longer in this house. There, (putting
a card in my hand) is my name and place of abode.
If you shall have any proposals to make, respecting this woman,
I shall be ready to receive them in my own house.
So saying, she withdrew.
I looked wistfully after her, but could not but assent to
her assertion, that her presence here would be more injurious
to her than beneficial to Clemenza. She had scarcely
gone, when the elder woman entered. There was rage,
sullenness, and disappointment in her aspect. These, however,
were suspended by the situation in which she discovered
the mother and child. It was plain that all the sentiments
of woman were not extinguished in her heart. She
summoned the servants and seemed preparing to take such
measures as the occasion prescribed. I now saw the folly
of supposing that these measures would be neglected, and
that my presence could not essentially contribute to the
benefit of the sufferer. Still, however, I lingered in the
room, till the infant was covered with a cloth, and the still
senseless parent was conveyed into an adjoining chamber.
The woman then, as if she had not seen me before, fixed
scowling eyes upon me, and exclaimed, thief! villain! why
do you stay here?
I mean to go, said I, but not till I express my gratitude
and pleasure, at the sight of your attention to this sufferer.
You deem me insolent and perverse, but I am not such;
and hope that the day will come when I shall convince you
of my good intentions.
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Begone! interrupted she, in a more angry tone. Begone
this moment, or I will treat you as a thief. She now drew
forth her hand from under her gown, and shewed a pistol.
You shall see, she continued, that I will not be insulted
with impunity. If you do not vanish, I will shoot you as
a robber.
This woman was far from wanting a force and intrepidity
worthy of a different sex. Her gestures and tones were
full of energy. They denoted a haughty and indignant
spirit. It was plain that she conceived herself deeply
injured by my conduct; and was it absolutely certain that
her anger was without reason? I had loaded her house with
atrocious imputations, and these imputations might be false.
I had conceived them upon such evidence as chance had
provided, but this evidence, intricate and dubious as human
actions and motives are, might be void of truth.
Perhaps, said I, in a sedate tone, I have injured you; I
have mistaken your character. You shall not find me less
ready to repair, than to perpetrate, this injury. My error
was without malice, and—
I had not time to finish the sentence, when this rash and
enraged woman thrust the pistol close to my head and fired
it. I was wholly unaware that her fury would lead her to
this excess. It was a sort of mechanical impulse that made
me raise my hand, and attempt to turn aside the weapon.
I did this deliberately and tranquilly, and without conceiving
that any thing more was intended by her movement than
to intimidate me. To this precaution, however, I was indebted
for life. The bullet was diverted from my forehead
to my left ear, and made a slight wound upon the furface,
from which the blood gushed in a stream.
The loudness of this explosion, and the shock which the
ball produced in my brain, sunk me into a momentary stupor.
I reeled backward, and should have fallen, had not I
supported myself against the wall. The sight of my blood
instantly restored her reason. Her rage disappeared, and
was succeeded by terror and remorse. She clasped her
hands, and exclaimed—Oh! what! what have I done? My
frantic passion has destroyed me.
I needed no long time to show me the full extent of the
injury which I had suffered and the conduct which it became
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me to adopt. For a moment I was bewildered and alarmed,
but presently perceived that this was an incident more
productive of good than of evil. It would teach me caution
in contending with the passions of another, and shewed me
that there is a limit which the impetuosities of anger will
sometimes overstep. Instead of reviling my companion, I
addressed myself to her thus:
Be not frighted. You have done me no injury, and I
hope will derive instruction from this event. Your rashness
had like to have sacrificed the life of one who is your friend,
and to have exposed yourself to infamy and death, or, at
least, to the pangs of eternal remorse. Learn, from hence,
to curb your passions, and especially to keep at a distance
from every murderous weapon, on occasions when rage is
likely to take place of reason.
I repeat that my motives in entering this house were connected
with your happiness as well as that of Clemenza
Lodi. If I have erred, in supposing you the member of a
vile and pernicious trade, that error was worthy of being
rectified, but violence and invective tend only to confirm it.
I am incapable of any purpose that is not beneficent; but,
in the means that I use and in the evidence on which I proceed,
I am liable to a thousand mistakes. Point out to me
the road by which I can do you good, and I will cheerfully
pursue it.
Finding that her fears had been groundless, as to the consequences
of her rashness, she renewed, though with less
vehemence than before, her imprecations on my intermeddling
and audacious folly. I listened till the storm was
nearly exhausted, and then, declaring my intention to revisit
the house, if the interest of Clemenza should require it, I
resumed my way to the city.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Why, said I, as I hasted forward, is my fortune so abundant
in unforeseen occurrences? Is every man, who
leaves his cottage and the impressions of his infancy behind
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him ushered into such a world of revolutions and perils as
have trammelled my steps? or, is my scene indebted for
variety and change to my propensity to look into other
people's concerns, and to make their sorrows and their joys
mine?
To indulge an adventurous spirit, I left the precincts of
the barn door, enlisted in the service of a stranger, and encountered
a thousand dangers to my virtue under the disastrous
influence of Welbeck. Afterwards my life was set
at hazard in the cause of Wallace, and now am I loaded
with the province of protecting the helpless Eliza Hadwin
and the unfortunate Clemenza. My wishes are fervent, and
my powers shall not be inactive in their defence, but how
slender are these powers!
In the offers of the unknown lady there is, indeed, some
consolation for Clemenza. It must be my business to lay
before my friend Stevens the particulars of what has befallen
me, and to entreat his directions how this disconsolate girl
may be most effectually succored. It may be wise to take
her from her present abode, and place her under some
chaste and humane guardianship, where she may gradually
lose remembrance of her dead infant and her specious betrayer.
The barrier that severs her from Welbeck must be
high as heaven and insuperable as necessity.
But, soft! Talked she not of Welbeck? Said she not
that he was in prison and was sick? Poor wretch! I
thought thy course was at an end; that the penalty of guilt
no longer weighed down thy heart. That thy misdeeds
and thy remorses were buried in a common and obscure
grave; but it seems thou art still alive.
Is it rational to cherish the hope of thy restoration to innocence
and peace? Thou art no obdurate criminal; hadst
thou less virtue, thy compunctions would be less keen.
Wert thou deaf to the voice of duty, thy wanderings into
guilt and folly would be less fertile of anguish. The time
will perhaps come, when the measure of thy transgressions
and calamities will overflow, and the folly of thy choice
will be too conspicuous to escape thy discernment. Surely,
even for such transgressors as thou, there is a salutary
power in the precepts of truth and the lessons of
experience.
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But, thou art imprisoned and art sick. This, perhaps,
is the crisis of thy destiny. Indigence and dishonor were
the evils, to shun which thy integrity and peace of mind
have been lightly forfeited. Thou hast found that the price
was given in vain; that the hollow and deceitful enjoyments
of opulence and dignity were not worth the purchase; and
that, frivolous and unsubstantial as they are, the only path
that leads to them is that of honesty and diligence. Thou
art in prison and art sick; and there is none to cheer thy
hour with offices of kindness, or uphold thy fainting courage
by the suggestions of good counsel. For such as thou the
world has no compassion. Mankind will pursue thee to the
grave with execrations. Their cruelty will be justified or
palliated, since they know thee not. They are unacquainted
with the goadings of thy conscience and the bitter retributions
which thou art daily suffering. They are full of their
own wrongs, and think only of those tokens of exultation
and complacency which thou wast studious of assuming
in thy intercourse with them. It is I only that thoroughly
know thee, and can rightly estimate thy claims to compassion.
I have somewhat partaken of thy kindness, and thou
meritest some gratitude at my hands. Shall I not visit and
endeavor to console thee in thy distress? Let me, at least,
ascertain thy condition, and be the instrument in repairing
the wrongs which thou hast inflicted. Let me gain, from
the contemplation of thy misery, new motives to sincerity
and rectitude.
While occupied by these reflections, I entered the city.
The thoughts which engrossed my mind related to Welbeck.
It is not my custom to defer till tomorrow what can be done
to day. The destiny of man frequently hangs upon the lapse
of a minute. I will stop, said I, at the prison; and, since
the moment of my arrival may not be indifferent, I will go
thither with all possible haste. I did not content myself
with walking, but, regardless of the comments of passengers,
hurried along the way at full speed.
Having inquired for Welbeck, I was conducted through a
dark room, crowded with beds, to a staircase. Never before
had I been in a prison. Never had I smelt so
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noisome an odour, or surveyed faces so begrimed with filth
and misery. The walls and floors were alike squalid and
detestable. It seemed that in this house existence would
be bereaved of all its attractions; and yet those faces,
which could be seen through the obscurity that encompassed
them, were either void of care or distorted with
mirth.
This, said I, as I followed my conductor, is the residence
of Welbeck. What contrasts are these to the repose and
splendor, pictured walls, glossy hangings, gilded sofas, mirrors
that occupied from ceiling to floor, carpets of Tauris,
and the spotless and transcendent brilliancy of coverlets and
napkins, in thy former dwelling? Here brawling and the
shuffling of rude feet are eternal. The air is loaded with
the exhalations of disease and the fumes of debauchery.
Thou art cooped up in airless space, and, perhaps, compelled
to share thy narrow cell with some stupid ruffian. Formerly,
the breezes were courted by thy lofty windows.
Aromatic shrubs were scattered on thy hearth. Menials,
splendid in apparel, showed their faces with diffidence in thy
apartment, trod lightly on thy marble floor, and suffered not
the sanctity of silence to be troubled by a whisper. Thy
lamp shot its rays through the transparency of alabaster,
and thy fragrant lymph flowed from vases of porcelain.
Such were formerly the decorations of thy hall, the embellishments
of thy existence; but now—alas!—
We reached a chamber in the second story. My conductor
knocked at the door. No one answered. Repeated
knocks were unheard or unnoticed by the person within.
At length, lifting a latch, we entered together.
The prisoner lay upon the bed, with his face turned from
the door. I advanced softly, making a sign to the keeper
to withdraw. Welbeck was not asleep, but merely buried
in reverie. I was unwilling to disturb his musing, and stood
with my eyes fixed upon his form. He appeared unconscious
that any one had entered.
At length, uttering a deep sigh, he changed his posture,
and perceived me in my motionless and gazing attitude.
Recollect in what circumstances we had last parted. Welbeck
had, no doubt, carried away with him, from that
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interview, a firm belief, that I should speedily die. His prognostic,
however, was fated to be contradicted.
His first emotions were those of surprise. These gave place
to mortification and rage. After eyeing me for some time,
he averted his glances, and that effort which is made to dissipate
some obstacle to breathing, showed me that his sensations
were of the most excruciating kind. He laid his head
upon the pillow, and sunk into his former musing. He disdained,
or was unable, to utter a syllable of welcome or
contempt.
In the opportunity that had been afforded me to view his
countenance, I had observed tokens of a kind very different
from those which used to be visible. The gloomy and
malignant were more conspicuous. Health had forsaken his
cheeks, and taken along with it those flexible parts, which
formerly enabled him to cover his secret torments and insidious
purposes, beneath a veil of benevolence and cheerfulness.
Alas! said I, loud enough for him to hear me,
here is a monument of ruin. Despair and mischievous
passions are too deeply rooted in this heart for me to tear
them away.
These expressions did not escape his notice. He turned
once more and cast sullen looks upon me. There was
somewhat in his eyes that made me shudder. They denoted
that his reverie was not that of grief, but of madness. I
continued, in a less steadfast voice than before:
Unhappy Clemenza! I have performed thy message.
I have visited him that is sick and in prison. Thou hadst
cause for anguish and terror, even greater cause than thou
imaginedst. Would to God that thou wouldst be contented
with the report which I shall make; that thy misguided tenderness
would consent to leave him to his destiny, would
suffer him to die alone; but that is a forbearance which no
eloquence that I possess will induce thee to practise. Thou
must come, and witness for thyself.
In speaking thus, I was far from foreseeing the effects
which would be produced on the mind of Welbeck. I was
far from intending to instil into him a belief that Clemenza
was near at hand, and was preparing to enter his apartment;
yet no other images but these would, perhaps, have roused
him from his lethargy, and awakened that attention which I
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wished to awaken. He started up, and gazed fearfully at
the door.
What! he cried. What! Is she here? Ye powers,
that have scattered woes in my path, spare me the sight of
her! But from this agony I will rescue myself. The moment
she appears I will pluck out these eyes and dash them
at her feet.
So saying, he gazed with augmented eagerness upon the
door. His hands were lifted to his head, as if ready to execute
his frantic purpose. I seized his arm and besought
him to lay aside his terror, for that Clemenza was far distant.
She had no intention, and besides was unable, to visit
him.
Then I am respited. I breathe again. No; keep her
from a prison. Drag her to the wheel or to the scaffold;
mangle her with stripes; torture her with famine; strangle
her child before her face, and cast it to the hungry dogs
that are howling at the gate; but—keep her from a prison.
Never let her enter these doors.—There he stopped; his
eyes being fixed on the floor, and his thoughts once more
buried in reverie. I resumed:
She is occupied with other griefs than those connected
with the fate of Welbeck. She is not unmindful of you;
she knows you to be sick and in prison; and I came to do
for you whatever office your condition might require, and I
came at her suggestion. She, alas! has full employment
for her tears in watering the grave of her child.
He started. What! dead? Say you that the child is
dead?
It is dead. I witnessed its death. I saw it expire in the
arms of its mother; that mother whom I formerly met under
your roof blooming and gay, but whom calamity has tarnished
and withered. I saw her in the raiment of poverty,
under an accursed roof; desolate; alone; unsolaced by the
countenance or sympathy of human beings; approached only
by those who mock at her distress, set snares for her innocence,
and push her to infamy. I saw her leaning over
the face of her dying babe.
Welbeck put his hands to his head and exclaimed; curses
on thy lips, infernal messenger! Chant elsewhere thy
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rueful ditty! Vanish! if thou wouldst not feel in thy heart
fangs red with blood less guilty than thine.
Till this moment the uproar in Welbeck's mind appeared
to hinder him from distinctly recognising his visitant. Now
it seemed as if the incidents of our last interview suddenly
sprung up in his remembrance.
What! This is the villain that rifled my cabinet, the
maker of my poverty and of all the evils which it has since
engendered! That has led me to a prison! Execrable
fool! you are the author of the scene that you describe, and
of horrors without number and name. To whatever crimes
I have been urged since that interview, and the fit of madness
that made you destroy my property, they spring from
your act; they flowed from necessity, which, had you held
your hand at that fateful moment, would never have existed.
How dare you thrust yourself upon my privacy? Why
am I not alone? Fly! and let my miseries want, at least,
the aggravation of beholding their author. My eyes loathe
the sight of thee! My heart would suffocate thee with its
own bitterness! Begone!
I know not, I answered, why innocence should tremble
at the ravings of a lunatic; why it should be overwhelmed
by unmerited reproaches! Why it should not deplore the
errors of its foe, labor to correct those errors, and—
Thank thy fate, youth, that my hands are tied up by my
scorn; thank thy fate that no weapon is within reach. Much
has passed since I saw thee, and I am a new man. I am
no longer inconstant and cowardly. I have no motives but
contempt to hinder me from expiating the wrongs which
thou hast done me in thy blood. I disdain to take thy life.
Go; and let thy fidelity, at least, to the confidence which I
have placed in thee, be inviolate. Thou hast done me
harm enough, but canst do, if thou wilt, still more. Thou
canst betray the secrets that are lodged in thy bosom, and
rob me of the comfort of reflecting that my guilt is known
but to one among the living.
This suggestion made me pause, and look back upon the
past. I had confided this man's tale to you. The secrecy
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on which he so fondly leaned, was at an end. Had I acted
culpably or not?
But why should I ruminate, with anguish and doubt, upon
the past? The future was within my power, and the
road of my duty was too plain to be mistaken. I would
disclose to Welbeck the truth, and cheerfully encounter
every consequence. I would summon my friend to my aid,
and take his counsel in the critical emergency in which I
was placed. I ought not to rely upon myself alone in my
efforts to benefit this being, when another was so near whose
discernment, and benevolence, and knowledge of mankind,
and power of affording relief were far superior to mine.
Influenced by these thoughts, I left the apartment without
speaking; and, procuring pen and paper, despatched to you
the billet which brought about our meeting.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Mervyn's auditors allowed no pause in their attention to
this story. Having ended, a deep silence took place. The
clock which stood upon the mantel, had sounded twice the
customary larum, but had not been heard by us. It was
now struck a third time. It was one. Our guest appeared
somewhat startled at this signal, and looked, with a mournful
sort of earnestness, at the clock. There was an air of
inquietude about him, which I had never observed in an
equal degree before.
I was not without much curiosity respecting other incidents
than those which had just been related by him; but
after so much fatigue as he had undergone, I thought it improper
to prolong the conversation.
Come, said I, my friend, let us to bed. This is a drowsy
time, and after so much exercise of mind and body, you
cannot but need some repose. Much has happened in your
absence, which is proper to be known to you, but our discourse
will be best deferred till tomorrow. I will come into
your chamber by day-dawn, and unfold to you particulars.
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Nay, said he, withdraw not on my account. If I go to
my chamber, it will not be to sleep, but to meditate, especially
after your assurance that something of moment has
occurred in my absence. My thoughts, independently of
any cause of sorrow or fear, have received an impulse which
solitude and darkness will not stop. It is impossible to
know too much for our safety and integrity, or to know it too
soon. What has happened?
I did not hesitate to comply with his request, for it was
not difficult to conceive that, however tired the limbs might
be, the adventures of this day would not be easily expelled
from the memory at night. I told him the substance of the
conversation with Mrs. Althorpe. He smiled at those parts
of the narrative which related to himself; but when his
father's depravity and poverty were mentioned, he melted
into tears.
Poor wretch! I that knew thee in thy better days, might
have easily divined this consequence. I foresaw thy poverty
and degradation in the same hour that I left thy roof. My
soul drooped at the prospect, but I said, it cannot be prevented,
and this reflection was an antidote to grief, but now
that thy ruin is complete, it seems as if some of it were imputable
to me, who forsook thee when the succor and counsel
of a son were most needed. Thou art ignorant and
vicious, but thou art my father still. I see that the sufferings
of a better man than thou art would less afflict me than
thine. Perhaps it is still in my power to restore thy liberty
and good name, and yet—that is a fond wish. Thou
art past the age when the ignorance and groveling habits of
a human being are susceptible of cure—There he stopped,
and after a gloomy pause, continued:
I am not surprised or afflicted at the misconceptions of
my neighbors, with relation to my own character. Men
must judge from what they see; they must build their conclusions
on their knowledge. I never saw in the rebukes
of my neighbors, any thing but laudable abhorrence of vice.
They were too eager to blame, to collect materials of censure
rather than of praise. It was not me whom they hated
and despised. It was the phantom that passed under my
name, which existed only in their imagination, and which
was worthy of all their scorn and all their enmity.
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What I appeared to be in their eyes, was as much the
object of my own disapprobation as of theirs. Their reproaches
only evinced the rectitude of their decisions, as
well as of my own. I drew from them new motives to
complacency. They fortified my perseverance in the path
which I had chosen as best; they raised me higher in my
own esteem; they heightened the claims of the reproachers
themselves to my respect and my gratitude.
They thought me slothful, incurious, destitute of knowledge,
and of all thirst of knowledge, insolent and profligate.
They say that in the treatment of my father, I have
been ungrateful and inhuman. I have stolen his property,
and deserted him in his calamity. Therefore they hate
and revile me. It is well; I love them for these proofs of
their discernment and integrity. Their indignation at wrong
is the truest test of their virtue.
It is true that they mistake me, but that arises from the
circumstances of our mutual situation. They examined
what was exposed to their view; they grasped at what was
placed within their reach. To decide contrary to appearances;
to judge from what they know not, would prove
them to be brutish and not rational, would make their decision
of no worth, and render them, in their turn, objects
of neglect and contempt.
It is true that I hated school; that I sought occasions of
absence, and finally, on being struck by the master, determined
to enter his presence no more. I loved to leap, to
run, to swim, to climb trees, and to clamber up rocks, to
shroud myself in thickets, and stroll among woods, to obey
the impulse of the moment, and to prate or be silent, just
as my humor prompted me. All this I loved more than to
go to and fro in the same path, and at stated hours, to look
off and on a book, to read just as much, and of such a
kind, to stand up and be seated, just as another thought
proper to direct. I hated to be classed, cribbed, rebuked
and feruled at the pleasure of one, who, as it seemed to
me, knew no guide in his rewards but caprice, and no
prompter in his punishments but passion.
It is true that I took up the spade and the hoe as rarely,
and for as short a time, as possible. I preferred to ramble
in the forest and loiter on the hill; perpetually to change
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the scene; to scrutinize the endless variety of objects; to
compare one leaf and pebble with another; to pursue those
trains of thought which their resemblances and differences
suggested; to inquire what it was that gave them this place,
structure, and form, were more agreeable employments
than ploughing and threshing.
My father could well afford to hire labor. What my age
and my constitution enabled me to do could be done by a
sturdy boy, in half the time, with half the toil, and with
none of the reluctance. The boy was a bond servant, and
the cost of his clothing and food was next to nothing. True
it is, that my service would have saved him even this expense,
but my motives for declining the effort were not
hastily weighed or superficially examined. These were my
motives.
My frame was delicate and feeble. Exposure to wet
blasts and vertical suns was sure to make me sick. My
father was insensible to this consequence; and no degree of
diligence would please him, but that which would destroy
my health. My health was dearer to my mother than to
me. She was more anxious to exempt me from possible
injuries than reason justified; but anxious she was, and I
could not save her from anxiety, but by almost wholly abstaining
from labor. I thought her peace of mind was of
some value, and that, if the inclination of either of my parents
must be gratified at the expense of the other, the preference
was due to the woman who bore me; who nursed
me in disease; who watched over my safety with incessant
tenderness; whose life and whose peace were involved in
mine. I should have deemed myself brutish and obdurately
wicked to have loaded her with fears and cares
merely to smooth the brow of a froward old man, whose
avarice called on me to sacrifice my ease and my health,
and who shifted to other shoulders the province of sustaining
me when sick, and of mourning for me when dead.
I likewise believed, that it became me to reflect upon
the influence of my decision on my own happiness; and
to weigh the profits flowing to my father from my labor,
against the benefits of mental exercise, the pleasures of the
woods and streams, healthful sensations, and the luxury of
musing. The pecuniary profit was petty and contemptible.
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It obviated no necessity. It purchased no rational enjoyment.
It merely provoked, by furnishing the means of indulgence,
an appetite from which my father was not exempt.
It cherished the seeds of depravity in him, and
lessened the little stock of happiness belonging to my
mother.
I did not detain you long, my friends, in portraying my
parents, and recounting domestic incidents, when I first
told you my story. What had no connexion with the history
of Welbeck and with the part that I have acted upon
this stage, I thought it proper to omit. My omission was
likewise prompted by other reasons. My mind is enervated
and feeble like my body. I cannot look upon the
sufferings of those I love without exquisite pain. I cannot
steel my heart by the force of reason, and by submission to
necessity; and, therefore, too frequently employ the cowardly
expedient of endeavoring to forget what I cannot remember
without agony.
I told you that my father was sober and industrious by
habit, but habit is not uniform. There were intervals when
his plodding and tame spirit gave place to the malice and
fury of a demon. Liquors were not sought by him, but he
could not withstand entreaty, and a potion that produced no
effect upon others changed him into a maniac.
I told you that I had a sister, whom the arts of a villain
destroyed. Alas! the work of her destruction was left unfinished
by him. The blows and contumelies of a misjudging
and implacable parent, who scrupled not to thrust
her, with her new-born infant, out of doors; the curses and
taunts of unnatural brothers left her no alternative but death—
But I must not think of this; I must not think of the
wrongs which my mother endured in the person of her
only and darling daughter.
My brothers were the copyists of the father, whom they
resembled in temper and person. My mother doated on
her own image in her daughter and in me. This daughter
was ravished from her by self-violence, and her other children
by disease. I only remained to appropriate her affections
and fulfil her hopes. This alone had furnished a
sufficient reason why I should be careful of my health and
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my life, but my father's character supplied me with a motive
infinitely more cogent.
It is almost incredible, but, nevertheless, true, that the
only being whose presence, and remonstrances had any
influence on my father, at moments when his reason was
extinct, was myself. As to my personal strength, it was
nothing; yet my mother's person was rescued from brutal
violence; he was checked, in the midst of his ferocious
career, by a single look or exclamation from me. The
fear of my rebukes had even some influence in enabling him
to resist temptation. If I entered the tavern, at the moment
when he was lifting the glass to his lips, I never weighed the
injunctions of decorum, but, snatching the vessel from his
hand, I threw it on the ground. I was not deterred by the
presence of others; and their censures on my want of filial
respect and duty, were listened to with unconcern. I chose
not to justify myself by expatiating on domestic miseries,
and by calling down that pity on my mother, which I knew
would only have increased her distress.
The world regarded my deportment as insolent and perverse
to a degree of insanity. To deny my father an indulgence
which they thought harmless, and which, indeed,
was harmless in its influence on other men; to interfere thus
publicly with his social enjoyments, and expose him to mortification
and shame, was loudly condemned; but my duty
to my mother debarred me from eluding this censure on the
only terms on which it could have been eluded. Now it has
ceased to be necessary to conceal what passed in domestic
retirements, and I should willingly confess the truth before
any audience.
At first my father imagined, that threats and blows would
intimidate his monitor. In this he was mistaken, and the
detection of this mistake impressed him with an involuntary
reverence for me, which set bounds to those excesses which
disdained any other control. Hence, I derived new motives
for cherishing a life which was useful, in so many ways,
to my mother.
My condition is now changed. I am no longer on that
field to which the law, as well as reason, must acknowledge
that I had some right, while there was any in my father. I
must hazard my life, if need be, in the pursuit of the means
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of honest subsistence. I never spared myself while in the
service of Mr. Hadwin; and, at a more inclement season,
should probably have incurred some hazard by my diligence.
These were the motives of my idleness—for, my abstaining
from the common toils of the farm passed by that name
among my neighbors; though, in truth, my time was far
from being wholly unoccupied by manual employments, but
these required less exertion of body or mind, or were more
connected with intellectual efforts. They were pursued in
the seclusion of my chamber or the recesses of a wood.
I did not labor to conceal them, but neither was I anxious to
attract notice. It was sufficient that the censure of my
neighbors was unmerited, to make me regard it with indifference.
I sought not the society of persons of my own age, not
from sullen or unsociable habits, but merely because those
around me were totally unlike myself. Their tastes and
occupations were incompatible with mine. In my few books,
in my pen, in the vegetable and animal existences around
me, I found companions who adapted their visits and intercourse
to my convenience and caprice, and with whom I
was never tired of communing.
I was not unaware of the opinion which my neighbors had
formed of my being improperly connected with Betty Lawrence.
I am not sorry that I fell into company with that
girl. Her intercourse has instructed me in what some would
think impossible to be attained by one who had never haunted
the impure recesses of licentiousness in a city. The
knowledge, which a residence in this town for ten years gave
her audacious and inquisitive spirit, she imparted to me.
Her character, profligate and artful, libidinous and impudent,
and made up of the impressions which a city life had produced
on her coarse but active mind, was open to my study,
and I studied it.
I scarcely know how to repel the charge of illicit conduct,
and to depict the exact species of intercourse subsisting between
us. I always treated her with freedom, and sometimes
with gaiety. I had no motives to reserve. I was so
formed that a creature like her had no power over my
senses. That species of temptation adapted to entice me
from the true path, was widely different from the artifices of
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Betty. There was no point at which it was possible for her
to get possession of my fancy. I watched her while she
practised all her tricks and blandishments, just as I regarded
a similar deportment in the animal salax ignavumque who
inhabits the stye. I made efforts to pursue my observations
unembarrassed; but my efforts were made, not to restrain
desire, but to suppress disgust. The difficulty lay, not in
withholding my caresses, but in forbearing to repulse her
with rage.
Decorum, indeed, was not outraged, and all limits were
not overstept at once. Dubious advances were employed;
but, when found unavailing, were displaced by more shameless
and direct proceedings. She was too little versed in
human nature to see that her last expedient was always
worse than the preceding; and that, in proportion as she
lost sight of decency, she multiplied the obstacles to her
success.
Betty had many enticements in person and air. She was
ruddy, smooth, and plump. To these she added—I must
not say what, for it is strange to what lengths a woman destitute
of modesty will sometimes go. But all her artifices
availing her not at all in the contest with my insensibilities,
she resorted to extremes, which it would serve no good purpose
to describe in this audience. They produced not the
consequences she wished, but they produced another which
was by no means displeasing to her. An incident one night
occurred, from which a sagacious observer deduced the existence
of an intrigue. It was useless to attempt to rectify his
mistake, by explaining appearances, in a manner consistent
with my innocence. This mode of explication implied a
continence in me which he denied to be possible. The standard
of possibilities, especially in vice and virtue, is fashioned by
most men after their own character. A temptation which this
judge of human nature knew that he was unable to resist, he
sagely concluded to be irresistible by any other man, and
quickly established the belief among my neighbors, that the
woman who married the father had been prostituted to the
son. Though I never admitted the truth of this aspersion,
I believed it useless to deny, because no one would credit
my denial, and because I had no power to disprove it.
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CHAPTER XXXVIII.
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What other inquiries were to be resolved by our young
friend, we were now, at this late hour, obliged to postpone
till the morrow. I shall pass over the reflections which a
story like this would naturally suggest, and hasten to our
next interview.
After breakfast next morning, the subject of last night's
conversation was renewed. I told him that something
had occurred in his absence, in relation to Mrs. Wentworth
and her nephew, that had perplexed us not a little.
My information is obtained, continued I, from Wortley; and
it is nothing less, than that young Clavering, Mrs. Wentworth's
nephew, is, at this time, actually alive.
Surprise, but none of the embarrassment of guilt, appeared
in his countenance at these tidings. He looked at me
as if desirous that I should proceed.
It seems, added I, that a letter was lately received by
this lady from the father of Clavering, who is now in Europe.
This letter reports that this son was lately met with in
Charleston and relates the means which old Mr. Clavering
had used to prevail upon his son to return home; means, of
the success of which he entertained well grounded hopes.
What think you?
I can only reject it, said he, after some pause, as untrue.
The father's correspondent may have been deceived. The
father may have been deceived, or the father may conceive
it necessary to deceive the aunt, or some other supposition as
to the source of the error, may be true; but an error it surely
is. Clavering is not alive. I know the chamber where he
died, and the withered pine under which he lies buried.
If she be deceived, said I, it will be impossible to rectify
her error.
I hope not. An honest front and a straight story will be
sufficient.
How do you mean to act?
Visit her without doubt, and tell her the truth. My
tale will be too circumstantial and consistent to permit her
to disbelieve.
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She will not hearken to you. She is too strongly prepossessed
against you to admit you even to a hearing.
She cannot help it. Unless she lock her door against
me, or stuff her ears with wool, she must hear me. Her
prepossessions are reasonable, but are easily removed by
telling the truth. Why does she suspect me of artifice?
Because I seemed to be allied to Welbeck, and because I
disguised the truth. That she thinks ill of me is not her
fault, but my misfortune; and, happily for me, a misfortune
easily removed.
Then you will try to see her.
I will see her, and the sooner the better. I will see her
to day; this morning; as soon as I have seen Welbeck,
whom I shall immediately visit in his prison.
There are other embarrassments and dangers of which you
not aware. Welbeck is pursued by many persons whom
he has defrauded of large sums. By these persons you
are deemed an accomplice in his guilt, and a warrant is
already in the hands of officers for arresting you wherever
you are found.
In what way, said Mervyn, sedately, do they imagine me
a partaker of his crime?
I know not. You lived with him. You fled with him.
You aided and connived at his escape.
Are these crimes?
I believe not, but they subject you to suspicion.
To arrest and to punishment?
To detention for a while, perhaps. But these alone cannot
expose you to punishment.
I thought so. Then I have nothing to fear.
You have imprisonment and obloquy, at least, to dread.
True; but they cannot be avoided but by my exile and
skulking out of sight—evils infinitely more formidable. I
shall, therefore, not avoid them. The sooner my conduct
is subjected to scrutiny, the better. Will you go with me to
Welbeck?
I will go with you.
Inquiring for Welbeck of the keeper of the prison, we
were informed that he was in his own apartment very sick.
The physician, attending the prison, had been called, but
the prisoner had preserved an obstinate and scornful silence;
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and had neither explained his condition, nor consented to
accept any aid.
We now went alone into his apartment. His sensibility
seemed fast ebbing, yet an emotion of joy was visible in his
eyes at the appearance of Mervyn. He seemed likewise
to recognise in me his late visitant, and made no objection
to my entrance.
How are you this morning? said Arthur, seating himself
on the bed-side, and taking his hand. The sick man
was scarcely able to articulate his reply—I shall soon be
well. I have longed to see you. I want to leave with you
a few words. He now cast his languid eyes on me.
You are his friend, he continued. You know all. You
may stay.—
There now succeeded a long pause, during which he
closed his eyes, and resigned himself as if to an oblivion
of all thought. His pulse under my hand was scarcely perceptible.
From this in some minutes he recovered, and
fixing his eyes on Mervyn, resumed, in a broken and feeble
accent:
Clemenza! You have seen her. Weeks ago, I left her
in an accursed house; yet she has not been mistreated.
Neglected and abandoned indeed, but not mistreated. Save
her Mervyn. Comfort her. Awaken charity for her sake.
I cannot tell you what has happened. The tale would be
too long—too mournful. Yet, in justice to the living, I
must tell you something. My woes and my crimes will be
buried with me. Some of them, but not all.
Ere this, I should have been many leagues upon the
ocean, had not a newspaper fallen into my hands while on
the eve of embarkation. By that I learned that a treasure
was buried with the remains of the ill-fated Watson. I was
destitute. I was unjust enough to wish to make this treasure
my own. Prone to think I was forgotten, or numbered
with the victims of pestilence, I ventured to return under a
careless disguise. I penetrated to the vaults of that deserted
dwelling by night. I dug up the bones of my friend, and
found the girdle and its valuable contents, according to the
accurate description that I had read.
I hastened back with my prize to Baltimore, but my evil
destiny overtook me at last. I was recognised by
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emissaries of Jameison, arrested and brought hither, and here shall
I consummate my fate and defeat the rage of my creditors
by death. But first—
Here Welbeck stretched out his left hand to Mervyn, and,
after some reluctance, shewed a roll of lead.
Receive this, said he. In the use of it, be guided by
your honesty and by the same advertisement that furnished
me the clue by which to recover it. That being secured,
the world and I will part forever. Withdraw, for your presence
can help me nothing.
We were unwilling to comply with his injunction, and
continued some longer time in his chamber, but our kind intent
availed nothing. He quickly relapsed into insensibility,
from which he recovered not again, but next day expired.
Such, in the flower of his age, was the fate of Thomas
Welbeck.
Whatever interest I might feel in accompanying the progress
of my young friend, a sudden and unforeseen emergency
compelled me again to leave the city. A kinsman,
to whom I was bound by many obligations, was suffering a
lingering disease, and imagining, with some reason, his dissolution
to be not far distant, he besought my company and
my assistance, to sooth, at least, the agonies of his last hour.
I was anxious to clear up the mysteries which Arthur's conduct
had produced, and to shield him, if possible, from the
evils which I feared awaited him. It was impossible, however,
to decline the invitation of my kinsman, as his residence
was not a day's journey from the city. I was obliged
to content myself with occasional information, imparted
by Mervyn's letters, or those of my wife.
Meanwhile, on leaving the prison, I hasted to inform Mervyn
of the true nature of the scene which had just passed.
By this extraordinary occurrence, the property of the Maurices
was now in honest hands. Welbeck, stimulated by
selfish motives, had done that which any other person would
have found encompassed with formidable dangers and difficulties.
How this attempt was suggested or executed, he
had not informed us, nor was it desirable to know. It was
sufficient that the means of restoring their own to a destitute
and meritorious family, were now in our possession.
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Having returned home, I unfolded to Mervyn all the particulars
respecting Williams and the Maurices, which I had
lately learned from Wortley. He listened with deep attention,
and my story being finished, he said; in this small
compass, then, is the patrimony and subsistence of a numerous
family. To restore it to them is the obvious proceeding—
but how? Where do they abide?
Williams and Watson's wife live in Baltimore, and the
Maurices live near that town. The advertisements alluded
to by Wortley, and which are to be found in any newspaper,
will inform us; but first, are we sure that any or all of
these bills are contained in this covering?
The lead was now unrolled, and the bills which Williams
had described, were found enclosed. Nothing appeared to
be deficient. Of this, however, we were scarcely qualified
to judge. Those that were the property of Williams might
not be entire, and what would be the consequence of presenting
them to him, if any had been embezzled by Welbeck?
This difficulty was obviated by Mervyn, who observed
that the advertisement, describing these bills, would afford
us ample information on this head. Having found out
where the Maurices and Mrs. Watson live, nothing remains
but to visit them, and put an end, as far as lies in my power,
to their inquietudes.
What! Would you go to Baltimore?
Certainly. Can any other expedient be proper? How
shall I otherwise insure the safe conveyance of these papers?
You may send them by post.
But why not go myself?
I can hardly tell, unless your appearance on such an errand,
may be suspected likely to involve you in embarrassments.
What embarrassments? If they receive their own, ought
they not to be satisfied?
The inquiry will naturally be made as to the manner of
gaining possession of these papers. They were lately in
the hands of Watson, but Watson has disappeared. Suspicions
are awake respecting the cause of his disappearance.
These suspicions are connected with Welbeck, and Welbeck's
connexion with you is not unknown.
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These are evils, but I see not how an ingenuous and open
conduct is adapted to increase these evils. If they come, I
must endure them.
I believe your decision is right. No one is so skilful an
advocate in a cause, as he whose cause it is. I rely upon
your skill and address, and shall leave you to pursue your
own way. I must leave you for a time, but shall expect to
be punctually informed of all that passes. With this agreement
we parted, and I hastened to perform my intended
journey.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
I am glad, my friend, thy nimble pen has got so far upon
its journey. What remains of my story may be despatched
in a trice. I have just now some vacant hours, which
might possibly be more usefully employed, but not in an
easier manner or more pleasant. So, let me carry on thy
thread.
First, let me mention the resolutions I had formed at the
time I parted with my friend. I had several objects in
view. One was a conference with Mrs. Wentworth; another
was an interview with her whom I met with at
Villars's. My heart melted when I thought upon the desolate
condition of Clemenza, and determined me to direct my
first efforts for her relief. For this end I was to visit the
female who had given me a direction to her house. The
name of this person is Achsa Fielding, and she lived, according
to her own direction, at No. 40, Walnut-street.
I went thither without delay. She was not at home.
Having gained information from the servant, as to when she
might be found, I proceeded to Mrs. Wentworth's. In
going thither my mind was deeply occupied in meditation;
and, with my usual carelessness of forms, I entered the
house and made my way to the parlor, where an interview
had formerly taken place between us.
Having arrived, I began, though somewhat unseasonably,
to reflect upon the topics with which I should introduce my
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conversation, and particularly the manner in which I should
introduce myself. I had opened doors without warning,
and traversed passages without being noticed. This had
arisen from my thoughtlessness. There was no one within
hearing or sight. What was next to be done? Should I
not return softly to the outer door, and summon the servant
by knocking?
Preparing to do this, I heard a footstep in the entry
which suspended my design. I stood in the middle of the
floor, attentive to these movements, when presently the door
opened, and there entered the apartment Mrs. Wentworth
herself! She came, as it seemed, without expectation of
finding any one there. When, therefore, the figure of a
man caught her vagrant attention, she started and cast a
hasty look towards me.
Pray! (in a peremptory tone) how came you here, sir?
and what is your business?
Neither arrogance, on the one hand; nor humility, upon
the other, had any part in modelling my deportment. I
came not to deprecate anger, or exult over distress. I answered,
therefore, distinctly, firmly, and erectly.
I came to see you, madam, and converse with you; but,
being busy with other thoughts, I forgot to knock at the
door. No evil was intended by my negligence, though propriety
has certainly not been observed. Will you pardon
this intrusion, and condescend to grant me your attention?
To what? What have you to say to me? I know you
only as the accomplice of a villain in an attempt to deceive
me. There is nothing to justify your coming hither, and I
desire you to leave the house with as little ceremony as you
entered it.
My eyes were lowered at this rebuke, yet I did not obey
the command. Your treatment of me, madam, is such as
I appear to you to deserve. Appearances are unfavorable
to me, but those appearances are false. I have concurred
in no plot against your reputation or your fortune. I have
told you nothing but the truth. I came hither to promote
no selfish or sinister purpose. I have no favor to entreat,
and no petition to offer, but that you will suffer me to clear
up those mistakes which you have harbored respecting me.
I am poor. I am destitute of fame and of kindred. I
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have nothing to console me in obscurity and indigence,
but the approbation of my own heart and the good opinion
of those who know me as I am. The good may be led
to despise and condemn me. Their aversion and scorn
shall not make me unhappy; but it is my interest and my
duty to rectify their error if I can. I regard your character
with esteem. You have been mistaken in condemning
me as a liar and impostor, and I came to remove this mistake.
I came, if not to procure your esteem, at least, to
take away hatred and suspicion.
But this is not all my purpose. You are in an error in
relation not only to my character, but to the situation of
your nephew Clavering. I formerly told you, that I saw him
die; that I assisted at his burial; but my tale was incoherent
and imperfect, and you have since received intelligence
to which you think proper to trust, and which assures you
that he is still living. All I now ask is your attention, while
I relate the particulars of my knowledge.
Proof of my veracity or innocence may be of no value
in your eyes, but the fate of your nephew ought to be
known to you. Certainty, on this head, may be of much
importance to your happiness, and to the regulation of
your future conduct. To hear me patiently can do you no
injury, and may benefit you much. Will you permit me
to go on?
During this address, little abatement of resentment and
scorn was visible in my companion.
I will hear you, she replied. Your invention may amuse
if it does not edify. But, I pray you, let your story be
short.
I was obliged to be content with this ungraceful concession,
and proceeded to begin my narration. I described
the situation of my father's dwelling. I mentioned the
year, month, day, and hour, of her nephew's appearance
among us. I expatiated minutely on his form, features,
dress, sound of his voice, and repeated his words. His
favorite gestures and attitudes were faithfully described.
I had gone but a little way in my story, when the effects
were visible in her demeanor which I expected from it.
Her knowledge of the youth, and of the time and manner
of his disappearance, made it impossible for me, with so
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minute a narrative, to impose upon her credulity. Every
word, every incident related, attested my truth, by their
agreement with what she herself previously knew.
Her suspicions and angry watchfulness was quickly exchanged
for downcast looks, and stealing tears, and sighs
difficultly repressed. Meanwhile, I did not pause, but described
the treatment he received from my mother's tenderness,
his occupations, the freaks of his insanity, and, finally,
the circumstances of his death and funeral.
Thence I hastened to the circumstances which brought
me to the city; which placed me in the service of Welbeck,
and obliged me to perform so ambiguous a part in her presence.
I left no difficulty to be solved, and no question
unanticipated.
I have now finished my story, I continued, and accomplished
my design in coming hither. Whether I have vindicated
my integrity from your suspicions, I know not. I
have done what in me lay to remove your error; and, in
that, have done my duty. What more remains? Any inquiries
you are pleased to make, I am ready to answer. If
there be none to make, I will comply with your former
commands, and leave the house with as little ceremony as I
entered it.
Your story, she replied, has been unexpected. I believe
it fully, and am sorry for the hard thoughts which past appearances
have made me entertain concerning you.
Here she sunk into mournful silence. The information,
she at length resumed, which I have received from another
quarter respecting that unfortunate youth, astonishes and
perplexes me. It is inconsistent with your story, but it must
be founded on some mistake, which I am, at present, unable
to unravel. Welbeck, whose connexion has been so unfortunate
to you—
Unfortunate! Dear Madam! How unfortunate? It has
done away a part of my ignorance of the world in which
I live. It has led me to the situation in which I am now
placed. It has introduced me to the knowledge of many
good people. It has made me the witness, and the subject
of many acts of beneficence and generosity. My knowledge
of Welbeck has been useful to me. It has enabled
me to be useful to others. I look back upon that allotment
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of my destiny which first led me to his door, with gratitude
and pleasure.
Would to Heaven, continued I, somewhat changing my
tone, intercourse with Welbeck had been as harmless to all
others as it has been to me; that no injury to fortune and
fame, and innocence and life, had been incurred by others
greater than has fallen upon my head. There is one being,
whose connexion with him has not been utterly dissimilar in
its origin and circumstances to mine, though the catastrophe
has, indeed, been widely and mournfully different.
And yet, within this moment, a thought has occurred
from which I derive some consolation and some hope. You,
dear madam, are rich. These spacious apartments, this
plentiful accommodation are yours. You have enough for
your own gratification and convenience, and somewhat to
spare. Will you take to your protecting arms, to your hospitable
roof, an unhappy girl whom the arts of Welbeck
have robbed of fortune, reputation, and honor, who is now
languishing in poverty, weeping over the lifeless remains of
her babe, surrounded by the agents of vice, and trembling
on the verge of infamy?
What can this mean? replied the lady. Of whom do
you speak?
You shall know her. You shall be apprized of her
claims to your compassion. Her story, as far as is known
to me, I will faithfully repeat to you. She is a stranger;
an Italian; her name is Clemenza Lodi.—
Clemenza Lodi! Good Heaven! exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth;
why, surely—it cannot be. And yet—is it possible
that you are that person?
I do not comprehend you, madam.
A friend has related a transaction of a strange sort. It
is scarcely an hour since she told it me. The name of
Clemenza Lodi was mentioned in it, and a young man of
most singular deportment was described. But tell me how
you were engaged on Thursday morning?
I was coming to this city from a distance. I stopped ten
minutes at the house of—
Mrs. Villars?
The same. Perhaps you know her and her character.
Perhaps you can confirm or rectify my present opinions
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concerning her. It is there that the unfortunate Clemenza
abides. It is thence that I wish her to be speedily
removed.
I have heard of you; of your conduct upon that occasion.
Of me? answered I eagerly. Do you know that woman?
So saying, I produced the card which I had received from
her, and in which her name was written.
I know her well. She is my countrywoman and my
friend.
Your friend? Then she is good; she is innocent; she is
generous. Will she be a sister, a protectress to Clemenza?
Will you exhort her to a deed of charity? Will you be,
yourself, an example of beneficence? Direct me to Miss
Fielding, I beseech you. I have called on her already, but
in vain, and there is no time to be lost.
Why are you so precipitate? What would you do?
Take her away from that house instantly—bring her
hither—place her under your protection—give her Mrs.
Wentworth for a counsellor—a friend—a mother. Shall I
do this? Shall I hie thither today, this very hour—now?
Give me your consent, and she shall be with you before
noon.
By no means, replied she, with earnestness. You are
too hasty. An affair of so much importance cannot be despatched
in a moment. There are many difficulties and
doubts to be first removed.
Let them be reserved for the future. Withhold not your
helping hand till the struggle has disappeared forever.
Think on the gulf that is already gaping to swallow her.
This is no time to hesitate and faulter. I will tell you her
story, but not now; we will postpone it till tomorrow; and
first secure her from impending evils. She shall tell it you
herself. In an hour I will bring her hither, and she herself
shall recount to you her sorrows. Will you let me?
Your behaviour is extraordinary. I can scarcely tell
whether this simplicity be real or affected. One would
think that your common sense would show you the impropriety
of your request. To admit under my roof a woman,
notoriously dishonored, and from an infamous house—
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My dearest madam! How can you reflect upon the situation
without irresistible pity? I see that you are thoroughly
aware of her past calamity and her present danger. Do
not these urge you to make haste to her relief? Can
any lot be more deplorable than hers? Can any state be
more perilous? Poverty is not the only evil that oppresses,
or that threatens her. The scorn of the world, and her own
compunction, the death of the fruit of her error and the witness
of her shame, are not the worst. She is exposed to
the temptations of the profligate; while she remains with
Mrs. Villars, her infamy accumulates; her further debasement
is facilitated; her return to reputation and to virtue is
obstructed by new bars.
How know I that her debasement is not already complete
and irremediable? She is a mother, but not a wife. How
came she thus? Is her being Welbeck's prostitute no proof
of her guilt?
Alas! I know not. I believe her not very culpable; I
know her to be unfortunate; to have been robbed and betrayed.
You are a stranger to her history. I am myself
imperfectly acquainted with it.
But let me tell you the little that I know. Perhaps my
narrative may cause you to think of her as I do.
She did not object to this proposal, and I immediately
recounted all that I had gained from my own observations,
or from Welbeck himself, respecting this forlorn girl. Havving
finished my narrative, I proceeded thus:—
Can you hesitate to employ that power which was given
you for good ends, to rescue this sufferer? Take her to
your home; to your bosom; to your confidence. Keep
aloof those temptations which beset her in her present situation.
Restore her to that purity which her desolate condition,
her ignorance; her misplaced gratitude and the artifices
of a skilful dissembler, have destroyed, if it be destroyed;
for how know we under what circumstances her
ruin was accomplished? With what pretences or appearances,
or promises she was won to compliance?
True. I confess my ignorance; but ought not that
ignorance to be removed before she makes a part of my
family?
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O no! It may be afterwards removed. It cannot be removed
before. By bringing her hither you shield her, at
least, from future and possible evils. Here you can watch
her conduct and sift her sentiments conveniently and at leisure.
Should she prove worthy of your charity, how justly
may you congratulate yourself on your seasonable efforts in
her cause? If she prove unworthy, you may then demean
yourself according to her demerits.
I must reflect upon it.—Tomorrow—
Let me prevail on you to admit her at once, and without
delay. This very moment may be the critical one. To
day we may exert ourselves with success, but tomorrow,
all our efforts may be fruitless. Why fluctuate, why linger,
when so much good may be done, and no evil can possibly
be incurred? It requires but a word from you; you need
not move a finger. Your house is large. You have chambers
vacant and convenient. Consent only that your door
shall not be barred against her; that you will treat her with
civility; to carry your kindness into effect; to persuade her
to attend me hither and to place herself in your care, shall
be my province.
These, and many similar entreaties and reasonings were
ineffectual. Her general disposition was kind, but she was
unaccustomed to strenuous or sudden exertions. To admit
the persuasions of such an advocate to so uncommon a
scheme as that of sharing her house with a creature, thus
previously unknown to her, thus loaded with suspicion and
with obloquy, was not possible.
I at last forebore importunity, and requested her to tell
me when I might expect to meet with Mrs. Fielding at her
lodgings? Inquiry was made to what end I sought an interview?
I made no secret of my purpose.
Are you mad, young man? she exclaimed. Mrs. Fielding
has already been egregiously imprudent. On the faith
of an ancient slight acquaintance with Mrs. Villars in Europe,
she suffered herself to be decoyed into a visit. Instead
of taking warning by numerous tokens of the real character
of that woman, in her behavior, and in that of her visitants,
she consented to remain there one night. The next morning
took place that astonishing interview with you which
she has since described to me. She is now warned against
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the like indiscretion. And pray, what benevolent scheme
would you propose to her?
Has she property? Is she rich?
She is. Unhappily, perhaps, for her, she is absolute mistress
of her fortune, and has neither guardian nor parent to
control her in the use of it.
Has she virtue? Does she know the value of affluence
and a fair fame? And will not she devote a few dollars to
rescue a fellow creature from indigence, and infamy, and
vice? Surely she will. She will hazard nothing by the
boon. I will be her almoner. I will provide the wretched
stranger with food, and raiment, and dwelling, I will pay for
all, if Miss Fielding, from her superfluity will supply the
means. Clemenza shall owe life and honor to your friend,
till I am able to supply the needful sum from my own stock.
While thus speaking, my companion gazed at me with
steadfastness—I know not what to make of you. Your language
and ideas are those of a lunatic. Are you acquainted
with Mrs. Fielding?
Yes. I have seen her two days ago, and she has invited
me to see her again.
And on the strength of this acquaintance, you expect to
be her almoner? To be the medium of her charity?
I desire to save her trouble; to make charity as light and
easy as possible. 'Twill be better if she perform those
offices herself. 'Twill redound more to the credit of her
reason and her virtue. But I solicit her benignity only in
the cause of Clemenza. For her only do I wish at present
to call forth her generosity and pity.
And do you imagine she will entrust her money to one of
your age and sex, whom she knows so imperfectly, to administer
to the wants of one whom she found in such a
house as Mrs. Villars's? She never will. She mentioned
her imprudent engagement to meet you, but she is now
warned against the folly of such confidence.
You have told me plausible stories of yourself and of this
Clemenza. I cannot say that I disbelieve them, but I
know the ways of the world too well to bestow implicit faith
so easily. You are an extraordinary young man. You
may possibly be honest. Such a one as you, with your
education and address, may possibly have passed all your
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life in a hovel; but it is scarcely credible, let me tell you.
I believe most of the facts respecting my nephew, because
my knowledge of him before his flight, would enable me to
detect your falsehood; but there must be other proofs besides
an innocent brow and a voluble tongue, to make me
give full credit to your pretensions.
I have no claim upon Welbeck which can embarrass you.
On that score, you are free from any molestation from me
or my friends. I have suspected you of being an accomplice
in some vile plot, and am now inclined to acquit you,
but that is all that you must expect from me, till your character
be established by other means than your own assertions.
I am engaged at present, and must therefore request
you to put an end to your visit.
This strain was much unlike the strain which preceded
it. I imagined, by the mildness of her tone and manners,
that her unfavorable prepossessions were removed, but they
seemed to have suddenly regained their pristine force. I
was somewhat disconcerted by this unexpected change. I
stood for a minute silent and irresolute.
Just then a knock was heard at the door, and presently
entered that very female whom I had met with at Villars's.
I caught her figure as I glanced through the window. Mrs.
Wentworth darted at me many significant glances, which
commanded me to withdraw; but with this object in view,
it was impossible.
As soon as she entered, her eyes were fixed upon me.
Certain recollections naturally occurred at that moment, and
made her cheeks glow. Some confusion reigned for a moment,
but was quickly dissipated. She did not notice me,
but exchanged salutations with her friend.
All this while I stood near the window, in a situation not
a little painful. Certain tremors which I had not been accustomed
to feel, and which seemed to possess a mystical
relation to the visitant, disabled me at once from taking my
leave, or from performing any useful purpose by staying.
At length, struggling for composure, I approached her, and
shewing her the card she had given me, said:—
Agreeably to this direction, I called, an hour ago, at your
lodgings. I found you not. I hope you will permit me to
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call once more. When shall I expect to meet you at
home?
Her eyes were cast on the floor. A kind of indirect
attention was fixed on Mrs. Wentworth, serving to intimidate
and check her. At length she said, in an irresolute
voice, I shall be at home this evening.
And this evening, replied I, I will call to see you. So
saying, I left the house.
This interval was tedious; but was to be endured with
equanimity. I was impatient to be gone to Baltimore, and
hoped to be able to set out by the dawn of next day.
Meanwhile, I was necessarily to perform something with
respect to Clemenza.
After dinner I accompanied Mrs. Stevens to visit Miss
Carlton. I was eager to see a woman who could bear adversity
in the manner which my friend had described.
She met us at the door of her apartment. Her seriousness
was not abated by her smiles of affability and welcome.—
“My friend!” whispered I, “How truly lovely is this
Miss Carlton! Are the heart and the intelligence within
worthy of these features?”
“Yes, they are. Your account of her employments;
of her resignation to the ill fate of the brother whom she
loves, proves that they are.”
My eyes were riveted to her countenance and person.
I felt uncontrolable eagerness to speak to her, and to gain
her good opinion.
You must know this young man, my dear Miss Carlton,
said my friend, looking at me; he is my husband's friend,
and professes a great desire to be yours. You must not
treat him as a mere stranger, for he knows your character
and situation already, as well as that of your brother.
She looked at me with benignity.—I accept his friendship
willingly and gratefully, and shall endeavor to convince
him that his good opinion is not misplaced.
There now ensued a conversation somewhat general, in
which this young woman shewed a mind vigorous from exercise
and unembarrassed by care. She affected no concealment
of her own condition, of her wants, or her comforts.
She laid no stress upon misfortunes, but contrived
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to deduce some beneficial consequence to herself, and some
motive for gratitude to Heaven, from every wayward incident
that had befallen her.
This demeanor emboldened me, at length, to inquire into
the cause of her brother's imprisonment, and the nature of
his debt.
She answered frankly and without hesitation. It is a
debt of his father's, for which he made himself responsible
during his father's life. The act was generous but imprudent,
as the event has shewn; though, at the time, the unhappy
effects could not be foreseen.
My father, continued she, was arrested by his creditor,
at a time when the calmness and comforts of his own dwelling
were necessary to his health. The creditor was obdurate,
and would release him upon no condition but that
of receiving a bond from my brother, by which he engaged
to pay the debt at several successive times and in small portions.
All these instalments were discharged with great
difficulty indeed, but with sufficient punctuality, except the
last, to which my brother's earnings were not adequate.
How much is the debt?
Four hundred dollars.
And is the state of the creditor such as to make the loss
of four hundred dollars of more importance to him than the
loss of liberty to your brother?
She answered, smiling, that is a very abstract view of
things. On such a question, you and I might, perhaps,
easily decide in favor of my brother; but would there not
be some danger of deciding partially? His conduct is a
proof of his decision, and there is no power to change it.
Will not argument change it? Methinks in so plain a case
I should be able to convince him. You say he is rich and
childless. His annual income is ten times more than this
sum. Your brother cannot pay the debt while in prison;
whereas, if at liberty, he might slowly and finally discharge
it. If his humanity would not yield, his avarice might be
brought to acquiesce.
But there is another passion which you would find it
somewhat harder to subdue, and that is his vengeance. He
thinks himself wronged, and imprisons my brother, not to
enforce payment, but to inflict misery. If you could
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persuade him, that there is no hardship in imprisonment, you
would speedily gain the victory; but that could not be attempted
consistently with truth. In proportion to my brother's
suffering is his gratification.
You draw an odious and almost incredible portrait.
And yet such a one would serve for the likeness of almost
every second man we meet.
And is such your opinion of mankind? Your experience
must surely have been of a rueful tenor to justify such hard
thoughts of the rest of your species.
By no means. It has been what those whose situation
disables them from looking further than the surface of things,
would regard as unfortunate; but if my goods and evils
were equitably balanced, the former would be the weightiest.
I have found kindness and goodness in great numbers,
but have likewise met prejudice and rancor in many.
My opinion of Farquhar is not lightly taken up. I saw
him yesterday, and the nature of his motives in the treatment
of my brother was plain enough.
Here this topic was succeeded by others, and the conversation
ceased not till the hour had arrived on which I had
preconcerted to visit Mrs. Fielding. I left my two friends
for this purpose.
I was admitted to Mrs. Fielding's presence without scruple
or difficulty. There were two females in her company,
and one of the other sex, well dressed, elderly, and sedate
persons. Their discourse turned upon political topics, with
which, as you know, I have but slight acquaintance. They
talked of fleets and armies, of Robespierre and Pitt, of
whom I had only a newspaper knowledge.
In a short time the women rose, and, huddling on their
cloaks, disappeared, in company with the gentleman. Being
thus left alone with Mrs. Fielding, some embarrassment
was mutually betrayed. With much hesitation, which, however,
gradually disappeared, my companion, at length, began
the conversation.
You met me lately, in a situation, sir, on which I look
back with trembling and shame, but not with any self-condemnation.
I was led into it without any fault, unless a
too hasty confidence may be styled a fault. I had known
Mrs. Villars in England, where she lived with an untainted
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reputation, at least; and the sight of my countrywoman, in
a foreign land, awakened emotions, in the indulgence of
which I did not imagine there was either any guilt or any
danger. She invited me to see her at her house with so
much urgency and warmth, and solicited me to take a place
immediately in a chaise in which she had come to the city,
that I too incautiously complied.
You are a stranger to me, and I am unacquainted with
your character. What little I have seen of your deportment,
and what little I have lately heard concerning you
from Mrs. Wentworth, do not produce unfavorable impressions;
but the apology I have made was due to my own
reputation, and should have been offered to you whatever
your character had been. There she stopped.
I came not hither, said I, to receive an apology. Your
demeanor, on our first interview, shielded you sufficiently
from any suspicions or surmises that I could form. What
you have now mentioned was likewise mentioned by your
friend, and was fully believed upon her authority. My
purpose, in coming, related not to you but to another. I
desired merely to interest your generosity and justice on
behalf of one, whose destitute and dangerous condition may
lay claim to your compassion and your succor.
I comprehend you, said she, with an air of some perplexity.
I know the claims of that person.
And will you comply with them?
In what manner can I serve her?
By giving her the means of living.
Does she not possess them already?
She is destitute. Her dependence was wholly placed
upon one that is dead, by whom her person was dishonored
and her fortune embezzled.
But she still lives. She is not turned into the street.
She is not destitute of home.
But what a home?
Such as she may choose to remain in.
She cannot choose it. She must not choose it. She remains
through ignorance, or through the incapacity of
leaving it.
But how shall she be persuaded to a change?
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I will persuade her. I will fully explain her situation.
I will supply her with a new home.
You will persuade her to go with you, and to live at a
home of your providing, and on your bounty?
Certainly.
Would that change be worthy of a cautious person?
Would it benefit her reputation? Would it prove her love
of independence?
My purposes are good. I know not why she should suspect
them. But I am only anxious to be the instrument.
Let her be indebted to one of her own sex, of unquestionable
reputation. Admit her into this house. Invite her
to your arms. Cherish and console her as your sister.
Before I am convinced that she deserves it? And even
then, what regard shall I, young, unmarried, independent,
affluent, pay to my own reputation in harboring a woman in
these circumstances?
But you need not act yourself. Make me your agent
and almoner. Only supply her with the means of subsistence
through me.
Would you have me act a clandestine part? Hold meetings
with one of your sex, and give him money for a purpose
which I must hide from the world? Is it worth while to
be a dissembler and imposter? And will not such conduct
incur more dangerous surmises and suspicions, than would
arise from acting openly and directly? You will forgive
me for reminding you likewise, that it is particularly incumbent
upon those in my situation, to be circumspect in their
intercourse with men and with strangers. This is the second
time that I have seen you. My knowledge of you is
extremely dubious and imperfect, and such as would make
the conduct you prescribe to me, in a high degree, rash and
culpable. You must not, therefore, expect me to pursue it.
These words were delivered with an air of firmness and
dignity. I was not insensible to the truth of her representations.
I confess, said I, what you have said makes me
doubt the propriety of my proposal; yet I would fain be of
service to her. Cannot you point out some practicable
method?
She was silent and thoughtful, and seemed indisposed to
answer my question.
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I had set my heart upon success in this negociation, continued
I, and could not imagine any obstacle to its success;
but I find my ignorance of the world's ways much greater
than I had previously expected. You defraud yourself of
all the happiness redounding from the act of making others
happy. You sacrifice substance to show, and are more
anxious to prevent unjust aspersions from lighting on yourself,
than to rescue a fellow creature from guilt and infamy.
You are rich, and abound in all the conveniences and
luxuries of life. A small portion of your superfluity would
obviate the wants of a being not less worthy than yourself.
It is not avarice or aversion to labor that makes you withhold
your hand. It is dread of the sneers and surmises of
malevolence and ignorance.
I will not urge you further at present. Your determination
to be wise should not be hasty. Think upon the subject
calmly and sedately, and form your resolution in the
course of three days. At the end of that period I will
visit you again. So saying, and without waiting for comment
or answer, I withdrew.
CHAPTER XL.
I mounted the stage coach at day-break the next day,
in company with a sallow Frenchman from Saint Domingo,
his fiddle-case, an ape, and two female blacks. The
Frenchman, after passing the suburbs, took out his violin and
amused himself with humming to his own tweedle tweedle.
The monkey now and then mounched an apple, which was
given to him from a basket by the blacks, who gazed with
stupid wonder, and an exclamatory La! La! upon the
passing scenery; or chattered to each other in a sort of
open-mouthed, half articulate, monotonous, and sing-song
jargon.
The man looked seldom either on this side or that; and
spoke only to rebuke the frolicks of the monkey, with a
Tenez! Dominique! Prenez garde! Diable noir!
As to me my thought was busy in a thousand ways. I
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sometimes gazed at the faces of my four companions, and
endeavored to discern the differences and samenesses between
them. I took an exact account of the features,
proportions, looks, and gestures of the monkey, the Congolese,
and the Creole Gaul. I compared them together,
and examined them apart. I looked at them in a thousand
different points of view, and pursued, untired and
unsatiated, those trains of reflections which began at each
change of tone, feature, and attitude.
I marked the country as it successively arose before me,
and found endless employment in examining the shape and
substance of the fence, the barn and the cottage, the aspect
of earth and of heaven. How great are the pleasures of
health and of mental activity.
My chief occupation, however, related to the scenes into
which I was about to enter. My imaginations were, of
course, crude and inadequate; and I found an uncommon
gratification in comparing realities, as they successively occurred,
with the pictures which my wayward fancy had depicted.
I will not describe my dreams. My proper task is to
relate the truth. Neither shall I dwell upon the images suggested
by the condition of the country through which I
passed. I will confine myself to mentioning the transactions
connected with the purpose of my journey.
I reached Baltimore at night. I was not so fatigued, but
that I could ramble through the town. I intended, at present,
merely the gratification of a stranger's curiosity. My visit
to Mrs. Watson and her brother I designed should take
place on the morrow. The evening of my arrival I deemed
an unseasonable time.
While roving about, however, it occurred to me, that it
might not be impolitic to find the way to their habitation even
now. My purposes of general curiosity would equally be
served whichever way my steps were bent; and, to trace
the path to their dwelling, would save me the trouble of
inquiries and interrogations tomorrow.
When I looked forward to an interview with the wife of
Watson, and to the subject which would be necessarily discussed
at that interview, I felt a trembling and misgiving at
my heart. Surely, thought I, it will become me to exercise
immeasurable circumspection and address; and yet how
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little are these adapted to the impetuosity and candor of my
nature.
How am I to introduce myself? What am I to tell her?
That I was a sort of witness to the murder of her husband?
That I received from the hand of his assassin the letter which
I afterwards transmitted to her? and, from the same hands,
the bills contained in his girdle?
How will she start and look aghast? What suspicions
will she harbor? What inquiries shall be made of me?
How shall they be disarmed and eluded, or answered? Deep
consideration will be necessary before I trust myself to such
an interview. The coming night shall be devoted to reflection
upon this subject.
From these thoughts I proceeded to inquiries for the
street mentioned in the advertisement, where Mrs. Watson
was said to reside. The street, and, at length, the habitation,
was found. Having reached a station opposite, I paused
and surveyed the mansion. It was a wooden edifice of
two stories; humble, but neat. You ascended to the door
by several stone steps. Of the two lower windows, the
shutters of one were closed, but those of the other were
open. Though late in the evening, there was no appearance
of light or fire within.
Beside the house was a painted fence, through which
was a gate leading to the back of the building. Guided by
the impulse of the moment, I crossed the street to the gate,
and, lifting the latch, entered the paved alley, on one side
of which was a paled fence, and on the other the house,
looking through two windows into the alley.
The first window was dark like those in front; but at the
second a light was discernible. I approached it, and, looking
through, beheld a plain but neat apartment, in which
parlour, kitchen, and nursery seemed to be united. A fire
burnt cheerfully in the chimney, over which was a teakettle.
On the hearth sat a smiling and playful cherub of a boy,
tossing something to a black girl who sat opposite, and whose
innocent and regular features wanted only a different hue
to make them beautiful. Near it, in a rocking chair, with
a sleeping babe in her lap, sat a female figure in plain but
neat and becoming attire. Her posture permitted half her
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face to be seen, and saved me from any danger of being
observed.
This countenance was full of sweetness and benignity,
but the sadness that veiled its lustre was profound. Her
eyes were now fixed upon the fire and were moist with the
tears of remembrance, while she sung, in low and scarcely
audible strains, an artless lullaby.
This spectacle exercised a strange power over my feelings.
While occupied in meditating on the features of the
mother, I was unaware of my conspicuous situation. The
black girl having occasion to change her situation, in order
to reach the ball which was thrown at her, unluckily caught
a glance of my figure through the glass. In a tone of half
surprise and half terror, she cried out—O! see dare! a
man!
I was tempted to draw suddenly back, but a second
thought shewed me the impropriety of departing thus abruptly,
and leaving behind me some alarm. I felt a sort of
necessity for apologizing for my intrusion into these precincts,
and hastened to a door that led into the same apartment.
I knocked. A voice somewhat confused bade me enter.
It was not till I opened the door and entered the room, that
I fully saw in what embarrassments I had incautiously involved
myself.
I could scarcely obtain sufficient courage to speak, and
gave a confused assent to the question—“Have you business
with me, sir?” She offered me a chair, and I sat
down. She put the child, not yet awakened, into the arms
of the black, who kissed it and rocked it in her arms with
great satisfaction, and, resuming her seat, looked at me with
inquisitiveness mingled with complacency.
After a moment's pause, I said—I was directed to this
house as the abode of Mr. Ephraim Williams. Can he be
seen, madam?
He is not in town at present. If you will leave a message
with me, I will punctually deliver it.
The thought suddenly occurred, whether, any more was
needful than merely to leave the bills suitably enclosed, as
they already were, in a packet. Thus all painful explanations
might be avoided, and I might have reason to
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congratulate myself on his seasonable absence. Actuated by these
thoughts, I drew forth the packet, and put it into her hand,
saying, I will leave this in your possession, and must earnestly
request you to keep it safe until you can deliver it into
his own hands.
Scarcely had I said this before new suggestions occurred.
Was it right to act in this clandestine and mysterious manner?
Should I leave these persons in uncertainty respecting
the fate of a husband and a brother? What perplexities,
misunderstandings, and suspenses might not grow out of
this uncertainty; and ought they not to be precluded at any
hazard to my own safety or good name?
These sentiments made me involuntarily stretch forth my
hand to retake the packet. This gesture, and other singnificances
in my manners, joined to a trembling consciousness
in herself, filled my companion with all the tokens of confusion
and fear. She alternately looked at me and at the
paper. Her trepidation increased, and she grew pale.
These emotions were counteracted by a strong effort.
At length she said, falteringly, I will take good care of
them, and will give them to my brother.
She rose and placed them in a drawer, after which she
resumed her seat.
On this occasion all my wariness forsook me. I cannot explain
why my perplexity and the trouble of my thoughts were
greater upon this than upon similar occasions. However it
be, I was incapable of speaking, and fixed my eyes upon
the floor. A sort of electrical sympathy pervaded my companion,
and terror and anguish were strongly manifested in
the glances which she sometimes stole at me. We seemed
fully to understand each other without the aid of words.
This imbecility could not last long. I gradually recovered
my composure, and collected my scattered thoughts.
I looked at her with seriousness, and steadfastly spoke—
Are you the wife of Amos Watson?
She started.—I am, indeed. Why do you ask? Do
you know any thing of —? There her voice failed.
I replied with quickness, yes. I am fully acquainted
with his destiny.
Good God! she exclaimed in a paroxysm of surprise,
and bending eagerly forward, my husband is then alive.
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This packet is from him. Where is he? When have you
seen him?
'Tis a long time since.
But where, where is he now? Is he well? Will he return
to me?
Never.
Merciful Heaven! looking upwards and clasping her
hands, I thank thee at least for his life! But why has he
forsaken me? Why will he not return?
For a good reason, said I, with augmented solemnity, he
will never return to thee. Long ago was he laid in the cold
grave.
She shrieked; and, at the next moment, sunk in a swoon
upon the floor. I was alarmed. The two children shrieked,
and ran about the room terrified and unknowing what they
did. I was overwhelmed with somewhat like terror, yet I
involuntarily raised the mother in my arms, and cast about
for the means of recalling her from this fit.
Time to effect this had not elapsed, when several persons,
apparently Mrs. Watson's neighbors, and raised by the outcries
of the girls, hastily entered the room. They looked
at me with mingled surprise and suspicion; but my attitude,
being not that of an injurer but helper; my countenance,
which shewed the pleasure their entrance, at this critical
moment, afforded me; and my words, in which I besought
their assistance, and explained, in some degree, and briefly,
the cause of those appearances, removed their ill thoughts.
Presently, the unhappy woman, being carried by the new
comers into a bed-room adjoining, recovered her sensibility.
I only waited for this. I had done my part. More information
would be useless to her, and not to be given by me,
at least, in the present audience, without embarrassment and
peril. I suddenly determined to withdraw, and this, the attention
of the company being otherwise engaged, I did without
notice. I returned to my inn, and shut myself up in
my chamber. Such was the change which, undesigned,
unforeseen, half an hour had wrought in my situation. My
cautious projects had perished in their conception. That
which I had deemed so arduous, to require such circumspect
approaches, such well concerted speeches, was done.
I had started up before this woman as if from the pores of
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the ground. I had vanished with the same celerity, but had
left her in possession of proofs sufficient that I was neither
spectre nor demon. I will visit her, said I, again. I will
see her brother, und know the full effect of my disclosure.
I will tell them all that I myself know. Ignorance would be
no less injurious to them than to myself; but, first, I will see
the Maurices.
CHAPTER XLI.
Next morning I arose betimes, and equipped myself without
delay. I had eight or ten miles to walk, so far from the
town being the residence of these people; and I forthwith
repaired to their dwelling. The persons whom I desired
to see were known to me only by name, and by their place
of abode. It was a mother and her three daughters to whom
I now carried the means not only of competence but riches;
means, which they, no doubt, had long ago despaired of regaining,
and which, among all possible messengers, one of
my age and guise would be the least suspected of being able
to restore.
I arrived, through intricate ways, at eleven o'clock, at the
house of Mrs. Maurice. It was a neat dwelling, in a very
fanciful and rustic style, in the bosom of a valley, which,
when decorated by the verdure and blossoms of the coming
season, must possess many charms. At present it was naked
and dreary.
As I approached it, through a long avenue, I observed
two female figures, walking arm-in-arm and slowly to and
fro, in the path in which I now was. These, said I, are
daughters of the family. Graceful, well-dressed, fashionable
girls they seem at this distance. May they be deserving
of the good tidings which I bring.—Seeing them turn
towards the house, I mended my pace, that I might over-take
them and request their introduction of me to their
mother.
As I more nearly approached, they again turned; and
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perceiving me, they stood as if in expectation of my message.
I went up to them.
A single glance, cast at each, made me suspect that they
were not sisters; but, somewhat to my disappointment, there
was nothing highly prepossessing in the countenance of
either. They were what is every day met with, though less
embellished by brilliant drapery and turban, in markets and
streets. An air, somewhat haughty, somewhat supercilious,
lessened still more their attractions. These defects, however,
were nothing to me.
I inquired, of her that seemed to be the elder of the two,
for Mrs. Maurice.
She is indisposed, was the cold reply.
That is unfortunate. Is it not possible to see her?
No—with still more gravity.
I was somewhat at a loss how to proceed. A pause ensued.
At length, the same lady resumed—What's your
business? You can leave your message with me.
With no body but her. If she be not very indisposed—
She is very indisposed, interrupted she peevishly. If
you cannot leave your message, you may take it back again,
for she must not be disturbed.
This was a singular reception. I was disconcerted and
silent. I knew not what to say. Perhaps, I at last observed,
some other time—
No, with increasing heat, no other time. She is more
likely to be worse than better. Come, Betsey, said she,
taking hold of her companion's arm; and, hieing into the
house, shut the door after her, and disappeared. I stood,
at the bottom of the steps, confounded at such strange and
unexpected treatment. I could not withdraw till my purpose
was accomplished. After a moment's pause, I stepped
to the door, and pulled the bell. A negro came, of a very
unpropitious aspect, and opening the door, looked at me in
silence. To my question, was Mrs. Maurice to be seen?
he made some answer, in a jargon which I could not understand;
but his words were immediately followed by an
unseen person within the house—Mrs. Maurice can't be
seen by any body. Come in, Cato, and shut the door.
This injunction was obeyed by Cato without ceremony.
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Here was a dilemma! I came with ten thousand pounds
in my hands, to bestow freely on these people, and such was
the treatment I received. I must adopt said I, a new mode.
I lifted the latch, without a second warning, and, Cato
having disappeared, went into a room, the door of which
chanced to be open, on my right hand. I found within the
two females whom I had accosted in the portico. I now
addressed myself to the younger—This intrusion, when I
have explained the reason of it, will, I hope, be forgiven.
I come, madam—
Yes, interrupted the other, with a countenance suffused by
indignation, I know very well whom you come from, and
what it is that prompts this insolence, but your employer
shall see that we have not sunk so low as he imagines.
Cato! Bob! I say.
My employer, madam! I see you labor under some
great mistake. I have no employer. I come from a great
distance. I come to bring intelligence of the utmost importance
to your family. I come to benefit and not to injure
you.
By this time, Bob and Cato, two sturdy blacks, entered
the room. Turn this person, said the imperious lady, regardless
of my explanations, out of the house. Don't you
hear me? she continued, observing that they looked one
upon the other and hesitated.
Surely, madam, said I, you are precipitate. You are
treating like an enemy one who will prove himself your
mother's best friend.
Will you leave the house? she exclaimed, quite beside
herself with anger. Villains! why don't you do as I bid
you?
The blacks looked upon each other, as if waiting for an
example. Their habitual deference for every thing white,
no doubt, held their hands from what they regarded as a
profanation. At last Bob said, in a whining, beseeching
tone—Why, misse, massa buckra wanna go for doo, dan he
winna go fo' wee.
The lady now burst into tears of rage. She held out
her hand, menacingly. Will you leave the house?
Not willingly, said I, in a mild tone. I came too far to
return with the business that brought me unperformed. I
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am persuaded, madam, you mistake my character and my
views. I have a message to deliver your mother which
deeply concerns her and your happiness, if you are her
daughter. I merely wished to see her, and leave with her
a piece of important news; news in which her fortune is
deeply interested.
These words had a wonderful effect upon the young lady.
Her anger was checked. Good God! she exclaimed, are
you Watson?
No; I am only Watson's representative, and come to do
all that Watson could do if he were present.
She was now importunate to know my business.
My business lies with Mrs. Maurice. Advertisements,
which I have seen, direct me to her, and to this house, and
to her only shall I deliver my message.
Perhaps, said she, with a face of apology, I have mistaken
you. Mrs. Maurice is my mother. She is really indisposed,
but I can stand in her place on this occasion.
You cannot represent her in this instance. If I cannot
have access to her now, I must go; and shall return when
you are willing to grant it.
Nay, replied she, she is not, perhaps, so very sick but
that—I will go, and see if she will admit you.—So saying,
she left me for three minutes; and returning said, her
mother wished to see me.
I followed up stairs, at her request; and, entering an illfurnished
chamber, found, seated in an arm chair, a lady
seemingly in years, pale and visibly infirm. The lines of
her countenance were far from laying claim to my reverence.
It was too much like the daughter's.
She looked at me, at my entrance, with great eagerness,
and said, in a sharp tone, pray, friend, what is it you want
with me? Make haste; tell your story, and begone.
My story is a short one, and easily told. Amos Watson
was your agent in Jamaica. He sold an estate belonging
to you, and received the money.
He did, said she, attempting ineffectually to rise from her
seat, and her eyes beaming with a significance that shocked
me—He did, the villain, and purloined the money, to the
ruin of me and my daughters. But if there be justice on
earth it will overtake him. I trust, I shall have the
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pleasure one day—I hope to hear he's hanged. Well, but go
on, friend. He did sell it, I tell you.
He sold it for ten thousand pounds, I resumed, and invested
this sum in bills of exchange. Watson is dead.
These bills came into my hands. I was lately informed, by
the public papers, who were the real owners, and have
come from Philadelphia with no other view than to restore
them to you. There they are, continued I, placing them
in her lap, entire and untouched.
She seized the papers, and looked at me and at her
daughter, by turns, with an air of one suddenly bewildered.
She seemed speechless, and growing suddenly more ghastly
pale, leaned her head back upon the chair. The daughter
screamed, and hastened to support the languid parent, who
difficulty articulated—O! I am sick; sick to death. Put
me on the bed.
I was astonished and affrighted at this scene. Some of
the domestics, of both colors, entered, and gazed at me
with surprise. Involuntarily I withdrew, and returned to
the room below, into which I had first entered, and which
I now found deserted.
I was for some time at a loss to guess at the cause of
these appearances. At length it occurred to me, that joy
was the source of the sickness that had seized Mrs. Maurice.
The abrupt recovery of what had probably been
deemed irretrievable, would naturally produce this effect
upon a mind of a certain texture.
I was deliberating, whether to stay or go, when the
daughter entered the room, and, after expressing some
surprise at seeing me, whom she supposed to have retired,
told me that her mother wished to see me again before
my departure. In this request there was no kindness.
All was cold, supercilious, and sullen. I obeyed the summons
without speaking.
I found Mrs. Maurice seated in her arm chair, much in
her former guise. Without desiring me to be seated, or
relaxing aught in her asperity of looks and tones—Pray,
friend, how did you come by these papers?
I assure you, madam, they were honestly come by, answered
I, sedately and with half a smile; but, if the whole
is there that was missing, the mode and time in which they
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came to me is matter of concern only to myself. Is there
any deficiency?
I am not sure. I don't know much of these matters.
There may be less. I dare say there is. I shall know that
soon. I expect a friend of mine every minute who will
look them over. I don't doubt you can give a good account
of yourself.
I doubt not but I can—to those who have a right to demand
it. In this case, curiosity must be very urgent indeed,
before I shall consent to gratify it.
You must know this is a suspicious case. Watson, to
be sure, embezzled the money; to be sure, you are his
accomplice.
Certainly, said I, my conduct, on this occasion, proves
that. What I have brought to you, of my own accord;
what I have restored to you, fully and unconditionally, it is
plain Watson embezzled, and that I was aiding in the fraud.
To restore what was never stolen always betrays the thief.
To give what might be kept without suspicion, is, without
doubt, arrant knavery.—To be serious, madam, in coming
thus far, for this purpose, I have done enough; and must
now bid you farewell.
Nay, don't go yet. I have something more to say to you.
My friend, I'm sure, will be here presently. There he is;
noticing a peal upon the bell. Polly, go down, and see if that's
Mr. Somers. If it is, bring him up. The daughter went.
I walked to the window absorbed in my own reflections.
I was disappointed and dejected. The scene before me
was the unpleasing reverse of all that my fancy, while
coming hither, had foreboded. I expected to find virtuous
indigence and sorrow lifted, by my means, to affluence and
exultation. I expected to witness the tears of gratitude and
the caresses of affection. What had I found? Nothing
but sordidness, stupidity, and illiberal suspicion.
The daughter stayed much longer than the mother's patience
could endure. She knocked against the floor with
her heel. A servant came up.—Where's Polly, you slut?
It was not you, hussey, that I wanted. It was her.
She is talking in the parlor with a gentleman.
Mr. Somers, I suppose; hey! fool! Run with my compliments
to him, wench. Tell him, please walk up.
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It is not Mr. Somers, ma'am.
No! Who then, saucebox? What gentleman can have
any thing to do with Polly?
I don't know ma'am.
Who said you did, impertinence? Run, and tell her I
want her this instant.
The summons was not delivered, or Polly did not think
proper to obey it. Full ten minutes of thoughtful silence
on my part, and of muttered vexation and impatience on
that of the old lady, elapsed before Polly's entrance. As
soon as she appeared, the mother began to complain bitterly
of her inattention and neglect; but Polly, taking no
notice of her, addressed herself to me, and told me, that a
gentleman below wished to see me. I hastened down, and
found a stranger, of a plain appearance, in the parlor. His
aspect was liberal and ingenuous; and I quickly collected
from his discourse, that this was the brother in law of Watson,
and the companion of his last voyage.
CHAPTER XLII.
My eyes sparkled with pleasure at this unexpected interview,
and I willingly confessed my desire to communicate
all the knowledge of his brother's destiny which I possessed.
He told me, that, returning late to Baltimore, on the last
evening, he found his sister in much agitation and distress,
which, after a time, she explained to him. She likewise
put the packets I had left, into his hands.
I leave you to imagine, continued he, my surprise and
curiosity at this discovery. I was, of course, impatient to
see the bearer of such extraordinary tidings. This morning,
inquiring for one of your appearance at the taverns, I was,
at length, informed of your arrival yesterday in the stage;
of your going out alone in the evening; of your subsequent
return; and of your early departure this morning.
Accidentally I lighted on your footsteps; and, by suitable
inquiries on the road, have finally traced you hither.
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You told my sister her husband was dead. You left
with her papers that were probably in his possession at the
time of his death. I understand from Miss Maurice that
the bills belonging to her mother, have just been delivered
to her. I presume you have no objection to clear up this
mystery.
To you I am anxious to unfold every thing. At this
moment, or at any time, but the sooner, the more agreeable
to me, I will do it.
This, said he, looking around him, is no place; there is
an inn, not a hundred yards from this gate, where I have
left my horse; will you go thither? I readily consented, and
calling for a private apartment, I laid before this man,
every incident of my life connected with Welbeck and
Watson; my full, circumstantial, and explicit story, appeared
to remove every doubt which he might have entertained
of my integrity.
In Williams, I found a plain good man, of a temper confiding
and affectionate. My narration being finished, he
expressed, by unaffected tokens, his wonder and his grief on
account of Watson's destiny. To my inquiries, which were
made with frankness and fervor, respecting his own and his
sister's condition, he said, that the situation of both was deplorable
till the recovery of this property. They had been
saved from utter ruin, from beggary and a jail, only by the
generosity and lenity of his creditors, who did not suffer the
suspicious circumstances attending Watson's disappearance
to outweigh former proofs of his probity. They had never
relinquished the hopes of receiving some tidings of their
kinsman.
I related what had just passed in the house of Mrs.
Maurice, and requested to know from him the history and
character of this family.
They have treated you, he answered, exactly as any one
who knew them would have predicted. The mother is
narrow, ignorant, bigotted, and avaricious. The eldest
daughter, whom you saw, resembles the old lady in many
things. Age, indeed, may render the similitude complete.
At present, pride and ill-humor are her chief characteristics.
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The youngest daughter has nothing in mind or person in
common with her family. Where they are irascible, she
is patient; where they are imperious, she is humble; where
they are covetous, she is liberal; where they are ignorant
and indolent, she is studious and skilful. It is rare, indeed,
to find a young lady more amiable than Miss Fanny Maurice,
or who has had more crosses and afflictions to sustain.
The eldest daughter always extorted the supply of her
wants, from her parents, by threats and importunities; but
the younger could never be prevailed upon to employ the
same means, and, hence, she suffered inconveniences which,
to any other girl, born to an equal rank, would have been,
to the last degree, humiliating and vexatious. To her they
only afforded new opportunities for the display of her most
shining virtues—fortitude and charity. No instance of
their sordidness or tyranny ever stole a murmur from her.
For what they had given, existence and a virtuous education,
she said they were entitled to gratitude. What they
withheld was their own, in the use of which they were not
accountable to her. She was not ashamed to owe her subsistence
to her own industry, and was only held, by the
pride of her family—in this instance their pride was equal
to their avarice—from seeking out some lucrative kind of
employment. Since the shock which their fortune sustained,
by Watson's disappearance, she has been permitted to
pursue this plan, and she now teaches music in Baltimore
for a living. No one, however, in the highest rank, can
be more generally respected and caressed than she is.
But will not the recovery of this money make a favorable
change in her condition?
I can hardly tell; but I am inclined to think it will not.
It will not change her mother's character. Her pride may
be awakened anew, and she may oblige Miss Fanny to relinquish
her new profession, and that will be a change to be
deplored.
What good has been done, then, by restoring this
money?
If pleasure be good, you must have conferred a great
deal on the Maurices; upon the mother and two of the
daughters, at least. The only pleasure, indeed, which their
natures can receive. It is less than if you had raised them
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from absolute indigence, which has not been the case, since
they had wherewithal to live upon besides their Jamaica property.
But how, continued Williams, suddenly recollecting
himself, have you claimed the reward promised to him who
should restore these bills?
What reward?
No less than a thousand dollars. It was publicly promised
under the hands of Mrs. Maurice and of Hemmings,
her husband's executor.
Really, said I, that circumstance escaped my attention,
and I wonder that it did; but is it too late to repair the
evil?
Then you have no scruple to accept the reward?
Certainly not. Could you suspect me of so strange a
punctilio as that?
Yes; but I know not why. The story you have just finished
taught me to expect some unreasonable refinement
upon that head.—To be hired, to be bribed to do our duty
is supposed by some to be degrading.
This is no such bribe to me. I should have acted just
as I have done, had no recompense been promised. In
truth, this has been my conduct, for I never once thought
of the reward; but now that you remind me of it, I
would gladly see it bestowed. To fulfil their engagements,
in this respect, is no more than justice in the Maurices. To
one, in my condition, the money will he highly useful. If
these people were poor, or generous and worthy, or if I myself
were already rich, I might less repine at their withholding
it; but, things being as they are with them and with
me, it would, I think be gross injustice in them to withhold,
and in me to refuse.
That injustice, said Williams, will, on their part, I fear,
be committed. 'Tis pity you first applied to Mrs. Maurice.
Nothing can be expected from her avarice, unless it be
wrested from her by a lawsuit.
That is a force which I shall never apply.
Had you gone first to Hemmings, you might, I think,
have looked for payment. He is not a mean man. A
thousand dollars he must know is not much to give for forty
thousand. Perhaps, indeed, it may not yet be too late.
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I am well known to him, and if you please, will attend you
to him in the evening, and state your claim.
I thankfully accepted this offer, and went with him accordingly.
I found that Hemmings had been with Mrs.
Maurice in the course of the day; had received from her
intelligence of this transaction, and had entertained the expectation
of a visit from me for this very purpose.
While Williams explained to him the nature of my claim,
he scanned me with great intentness. His austere and inflexible
brow, afforded me little room to hope for success,
and this hopelessness was confirmed by his silence and perplexity,
when Williams had made an end.
To be sure, said he, after some pause, the contract was
explicit. To be sure, the conditions on Mr. Mervyn's side
have been performed. Certain it is, the bills are entire and
complete, but Mrs. Maurice will not consent to do her part,
and Mrs. Maurice, to whom the papers were presented, is
the person, by whom, according to the terms of the contract,
the reward must be paid.
But Mrs. Maurice, you know, sir, may be legally compelled
to pay, said Williams.
Perhaps she may; but I tell you plainly, that she never
will do the thing without compulsion. Legal process, however,
in this case, will have other inconveniences besides
delay. Some curiosity will naturally be excited, as to the
history of these papers. Watson disappeared a twelvemonth
ago. Who can avoid asking, where have these papers been
deposited all this while, and how came this person in possession
of them?
That kind of curiosity, said I, is natural and laudable, and
gladly would I gratify it. Disclosure or concealment in that
case, however, would no wise affect my present claim.
Whether a bond, legally executed, shall be paid, does not
depend upon determining whether the payer is fondest of
boiled mutton or roast beef. Truth, in the first case, has no
connexion with truth in the second. So far from eluding
this curiosity; so far from studying concealment, I am anxious
to publish the truth.
You are right, to be sure, said Hemmings. Curiosity is
a natural, but only an incidental consequence in this case. I
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have no reason for desiring that it should be an unpleasant
consequence to you.
Well, sir, said Williams, you think that Arthur Mervyn
has no remedy in this case but the law.
Mrs. Maurice, to be sure, will never pay but on compulsion.
Mervyn should have known his own interest better.
While his left hand was stretched out to give, his right should
have been held forth to receive. As it is, he must be contented
with the aid of law. Any attorney will prosecute on
condition of receiving half the sum when recovered.
We now rose to take our leave, when, Hemmings desiring
us to pause a moment, said, to be sure, in the utmost
strictness of the terms of our promise, the reward was to be
paid by the person who received the papers; but it must be
owned that your claim, at any rate, is equitable. I have
money of the deceased Mr. Maurice in my hands. These
very bills are now in my possession. I will therefore pay
you your due, and take the consequences of an act of justice
on myself. I was prepared for you. Sign that receipt,
and there is a check for the amount.
CHAPTER XLIII.
This unexpected and agreeable decision was accompanied
by an invitation to supper, at which we were treated
by our host with much affability and kindness. Finding me
the author of Williams' good fortune, as well as Mrs. Maurice's,
and being assured by the former of his entire conviction
of the rectitude of my conduct, he laid aside all reserve
and distance with regard to me. He inquired into my prospects
and wishes, and professed his willingness to serve
me.
I dealt with equal unreserve and frankness. I am poor,
said I. Money for my very expenses hither, I have borrowed
from a friend, to whom I am, in other respects, much
indebted, and whom I expect to compensate only by gratitude
and future services.
In coming hither, I expected only an increase of my
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debts; to sink still deeper into poverty; but happily the issue
has made me rich. This hour has given me competence,
at least.
What! call you a thousand dollars competence?
More than competence. I call it an abundance. My
own ingenuity, while I enjoy health, will enable me to live.
This I regard as a fund, first to pay my debts, and next to
supply deficiencies occasioned by untoward accidents or ill
health, during the ensuing three or four years, at least.
We parted with this new acquaintance at a late hour, and
I accepted Williams' invitation to pass the time I should
spend at Baltimore, under his sister's roof. There were
several motives for prolonging this stay. What I had heard
of Miss Fanny Maurice, excited strong wishes to be personally
acquainted with her. This young lady was affectionately
attached to Mrs. Watson, by whose means my wishes
were easily accomplished.
I never was in habits of reserve, even with those whom I
had no reason to esteem. With those who claimed my admiration
and affection, it was impossible to be incommunicative.
Before the end of my second interview, both these
women were mistresses of every momentous incident of my
life, and of the whole chain of my feelings and opinions, in
relation to every subject, and particularly in relation to
themselves. Every topic disconnected with these, is comparatively
lifeless and inert.
I found it easy to win their attention, and to render them
communicative in their turn. As full disclosures as I had
made without condition or request, my inquiries and example
easily obtained from Mrs. Watson and Miss Maurice.
The former related every event of her youth, and the circumstances
leading to her marriage. She depicted the
character of her husband, and the whole train of suspenses
and inquietudes occasioned by his disappearance. The
latter did not hide from me her opinions upon any important
subject, and made me thoroughly acquainted with her actual
situation.
This intercourse was strangely fascinating. My heart
was buoyed up by a kind of intoxication. I now found myself
exalted to my genial element, and began to taste the
delights of existence. In the intercourse of ingenuous and
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sympathetic minds, I found a pleasure which I had not previously
conceived.
The time flew swiftly away, and a fortnight passed almost
before I was aware that a day had gone by. I did
not forget the friends whom I had left behind, but maintained
a punctual correspondence with Stevens, to whom I
imparted all occurrences.
The recovery of my friend's kinsman, allowed him in a
few days to return home. His first object was the consolation
and relief of Carlton, whom, with much difficulty, he
persuaded to take advantage of the laws in favor of insolvent
debtors. Carlton's only debt was owing to his uncle, and
by rendering up every species of property, except his clothes,
and the implements of his trade, he obtained a full discharge.
In conjunction with his sister, he once more assumed the
pen, and being no longer burthened with debts he was unable
to discharge, he resumed, together with his pen, his
cheerfulness. Their mutual industry was sufficient for their
decent and moderate subsistence.
The chief reason for my hasty return, was my anxiety
respecting Clemenza Lodi. This reason was removed by
the activity and benevolence of my friend. He paid this
unfortunate stranger a visit at Mrs. Villars's. Access was
easily obtained, and he found her sunk into the deepest melancholy.
The recent loss of her child, the death of Welbeck,
of which she was soon apprized, her total dependence
upon those with whom she was placed, who, however, had
always treated her without barbarity or indecorum, were
the calamities that weighed down her spirits.
My friend easily engaged her confidence and gratitude,
and prevailed upon her to take refuge under his own roof.
Mrs. Wentworth's scruples, as well as those of Mrs. Fielding,
were removed by his arguments and entreaties, and
they consented to take upon themselves, and divide between
them, the care of her subsistence and happiness. They
condescended to express much curiosity respecting me, and
some interest in my welfare, and promised to receive me on
my return, on the footing of a friend.
With some reluctance, I at length bade my new friends
farewell, and returned to Philadelphia. Nothing remained,
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before I should enter on my projected scheme of study and
employment, under the guidance of Stephens, but to examine
the situation of Eliza Hadwin with my own eyes, and if
possible to extricate my father from his unfortunate situation.
My father's state had given me the deepest concern. I
figured to myself his condition, besotted by brutal appetites,
reduced to beggary, shut up in a noisome prison, and
condemned to that society which must foster all his depraved
propensities. I revolved various schemes for his relief. A
few hundreds would take him from prison, but how should
he be afterwards disposed of? How should he be cured of
his indolent habits? How should he be screened from the
contagion of vicious society? By what means, consistently
with my own wants, and the claims of others, should I secure
to him an acceptable subsistence?
Exhortation and example were vain. Nothing but restraint
would keep him at a distance from the haunts of
brawling and debauchery. The want of money would be
no obstacle to prodigality and waste. Credit would be
resorted to as long as it would answer his demand. When
that failed, he would once more be thrown into a prison; the
same means to extricate him would have to be repeated, and
money be thus put into the pockets of the most worthless of
mankind, the agents of drunkenness and blasphemy, without
any permanent advantage to my father, the principal object
of my charity.
Though unable to fix on any plausible mode of proceeding,
I determined, at least, to discover his present condition.
Perhaps something might suggest itself, upon the spot, suited
to my purpose. Without delay I proceeded to the village of
Newtown, and alighting at the door of the prison, inquired
for my father.
Sawny Mervyn you want, I suppose, said the keeper.
Poor fellow! He came into limbo in a crazy condition, and
has been a burthen on my hands ever since. After lingering
along for some time, he was at last kind enough to give
us the slip. It is just a week since he drank his last pint—
and died.
I was greatly shocked at this intelligence. It was some
time before my reason came to my aid, and shewed me
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that this was an event, on the whole, and on a disinterested
and dispassionate view, not unfortunate. The keeper knew
not my relation to the deceased, and readily recounted the
behavior of the prisoner and the circumstances of his last
hours.
I shall not repeat the narrative. It is useless to keep
alive the sad remembrance. He was now beyond the reach
of my charity or pity; and since reflection could answer no
beneficial end to him, it was my duty to divert my thoughts
into different channels, and live henceforth for my own happiness
and that of those who were within the sphere of my
influence.
I was now alone in the world, so far as the total want of
kindred creates solitude. Not one of my blood, nor even
of my name, were to be found in this quarter of the world.
Of my mother's kindred I knew nothing. So far as friendship
or service might he claimed from them, to me they had
no existence. I was destitute of all those benefits which
flow from kindred, in relation to protection, advice or property.
My inheritance was nothing. Not a single relic
or trinket in my possession constituted a memorial of my
family. The scenes of my childish and juvenile days were
dreary and desolate. The fields which I was wont to traverse,
the room in which I was born, retained no traces of the past.
They were the property and residence of strangers, who
knew nothing of the former tenants, and who, as I was now
told, had hastened to new model and transform every thing
within and without the habitation.
These images filled me with melancholy, which, however,
disappeared in proportion as I approached the abode of my
beloved girl. Absence had endeared the image of my
Bess—I loved to call her so—to my soul. I could not think
of her without a melting softness at my heart, and tears in
which pain and pleasure were unaccountably mingled. As
I approached Curling's house, I strained my sight, in hopes
of distinguishing her form through the evening dusk.
I had told her of my purpose, by letter. She expected
my approach at this hour, and was stationed, with a heart
throbbing with impatience, at the road side, near the gate.
As soon as I alighted, she rushed into my arms.
I found my sweet friend less blithesome and contented than
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I wished. Her situation, in spite of the parental and sisterly
regards which she received from the Curlings, was mournful
and dreary to her imagination. Rural business was irksome,
and insufficient to fill up her time. Her life was tiresome,
and uniform, and heavy.
I ventured to blame her discontent, and pointed out the
advantages of her situation. Whence, said I, can these dissatisfactions
and repinings arise?
I cannot tell, said she; I don't know how it is with me.
I am always sorrowful and thoughtful. Perhaps I think too
much of my poor father and of Susan, and yet that can't be
it neither, for I think of them but seldom; not half as much
as I ought, perhaps. I think of nobody almost but you.
Instead of minding my business, or chatting and laughing
with Peggy Curling, I love to get by myself—to read, over
and over, your letters, or to think how you are employed
just then, and how happy I should be if I were in Fanny
Maurice's place.
But it is all over now; this visit rewards me for every
thing. I wonder how I could ever be sullen or mopeful. I
will behave better, indeed I will, and be always, as now, a
most happy girl.
The greater part of three days was spent in the society
of my friend, in listening to her relation of all that had happened
during my absence, and in communicating, in my
turn, every incident which had befallen myself. After this
I once more returned to the city.
CHAPTER XLIV.
I now set about carrying my plan of life into effect. I
began with ardent zeal and unwearied diligence the career
of medical study. I bespoke the counsels and instructions
of my friend; attended him on his professional visits, and
acted, in all practicable cases, as his substitute. I found
this application of time more pleasureable than I had imagined.
My mind gladly expanded itself, as it were, for the
reception of new ideas. My curiosity grew more eager, in
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proportion as it was supplied with food, and every day added
strength to the assurance that I was no insignificant and
worthless being; that I was destined to be something in this
scene of existence, and might some time lay claim to the
gratitude and homage of my fellow men.
I was far from being, however, monopolized by these
pursuits. I was formed on purpose for the gratification of
social intercourse. To love and to be loved; to exchange
hearts, and mingle sentiments with all the virtuous and amiable,
whom my good fortune had placed within the circuit
of my knowledge, I always esteemed my highest enjoyment
and my chief duty.
Carlton and his sister, Mrs. Wentworth, and Achsa
Fielding, were my most valuable associates beyond my own
family. With all these my correspondence was frequent
and unreserved, but chiefly with the latter. This lady had
dignity and independence, a generous and enlightened spirit
beyond what her education had taught me to expect. She
was circumspect and cautious in her deportment, and was
not prompt to make advances, or accept them. She withheld
her esteem and confidence until she had full proof of
their being deserved.
I am not sure that her treatment of me was fully conformable
to her rules. My manners, indeed, as she once
told me, she had never met with in another. Ordinary rules
were so totally overlooked in my behavior, that it seemed
impossible for any one who knew me to adhere to them.
No option was left but to admit my claims to friendship and
confidence, instantly, or to reject them altogether.
I was not conscious of this singularity. The internal and
undiscovered character of another, weighed nothing with me
in the question, whether they should be treated with frankness
or reserve. I felt no scruple on any occasion, to disclose
every feeling and every event. Any one who could
listen, found me willing to talk. Every talker found me
willing to listen. Every one had my sympathy and kindness,
without claiming it, but I claimed the kindness and
sympathy of every one.
Achsa Fielding's countenance bespoke, I thought, a mind
worthy to be known and to be loved. The first moment I
engaged her attention, I told her so. I related the little
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story of my family, spread out before her all my reasonings
and determinations, my notions of right and wrong, my fears
and wishes. All this was done with sincerity and fervor,
with gestures, actions, and looks, in which I felt as if my
whole soul was visible. Her superior age, sedateness, and
prudence, gave my deportment a filial freedom and affection,
and I was fond of calling her “mamma.”
I particularly dwelt upon the history of my dear country
girl; painted her form and countenance; recounted our
dialogues, and related all my schemes for making her wise,
and good, and happy. On these occasions my friend
would listen to me with the mutest attention. I showed
her the letters I received, and offered her for her perusal,
those which I wrote in answer, before they were sealed
and sent.
On these occasions she would look by turns on my face
and away from me. A varying hue would play upon her
cheek, and her eyes were fuller than was common, of
meaning.
Such and such, I once said, are my notions; now what
do you think?
Think! emphatically, and turning somewhat aside, she
answered, that you are the most—strange of human creatures.
But tell me, I resumed, following and searching her
averted eyes, am I right; would you do thus? Can you
help me to improve my girl? I wish you knew the bewitching
little creature. How would that heart overflow
with affection and with gratitude towards you. She should
be your daughter. No—you are too nearly of an age
for that. A sister; her elder sister, you should be.
That, when there is no other relation, includes them all.
Fond sisters you would be, and I the fond brother of you
both.
My eyes glistened as I spoke. In truth, I am in that
respect, a mere woman. My friend was more powerfully
moved. After a momentary struggle, she burst into tears.
Good Heaven! said I, what ails you? Are you not
well?
Her looks betrayed an unaccountable confusion, from
which she quickly recovered.—It was folly to be thus
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affected. Something ailed me, I believe, but it is past.—But
come, you want some lines of finishing the description of
the Boa in La Cepide.
True. And I have twenty minutes to spare. Poor
Franks is very ill indeed, but he cannot be seen till nine.
We'll read till then.
Thus on the wings of pleasure and improvement passed my
time; not without some hues, occasionally of a darker tint.
My heart was now and then detected in sighing. This occurred
when my thoughts glanced at the poor Eliza, and
measured, as it were, the interval between us. We are
too—too far apart, thought I.
The best solace on these occasions, was the company of
Mrs. Fielding; her music, her discourse, or some book
which she set me to rehearsing to her. One evening, when
preparing to pay her a visit, I received the following letter
from my Bess.
To A. Mervyn.
Curling's, May 6, 1794.
Where does this letter you promised me, stay all this
while? Indeed, Arthur, you torment me more than I deserve,
and more than I could ever find it in my heart to do
you. You treat me cruelly. I must say so, though I offend
you. I must write, though you do not deserve that I should,
and though I fear I am in a humor not very fit for writing.
I had better go to my chamber and weep; weep at your—
unkindness, I was going to say; but, perhaps, it is only
forgetfulness; and yet what can be more unkind than forgetfulness?
I am sure I have never forgotten you. Sleep
itself, which wraps all other images in forgetfulness, only
brings you nearer, and makes me see you more distinctly.
But where can this letter stay?—O! that—hush! foolish
girl! If a word of that kind escape thy lips, Arthur will be
angry with thee; and then, indeed, thou mightest weep in
earnest. Then thou wouldst have some cause for thy tears.
More than once already has he almost broken thy heart
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with his reproaches. Sore and weak as it now is, any new
reproaches would assuredly break it quite.
I will be content. I will be as good a housewife and
dairy-woman, stir about as briskly, and sing as merrily as
Peggy Curling. Why not? I am as young, as innocent,
and enjoy as good health. Alas! she has reason to be
merry. She has father, mother, brothers; but I have none.
And he that was all these, and more than all these, to me,
has—forgotten me.
But, perhaps, it is some accident that hinders. Perhaps
Oliver left the market earlier than he used to do; or you
mistook the house; or, perhaps, some poor creature was
sick, was taken suddenly ill, and you were busy in chafing
his clay-cold limbs; it fell to you to wipe the clammy drops
from his brow. Such things often happen; don't they,
Arthur, to people of your trade, amd some such thing has
happened now; and that was the reason you did not write.
And if so, shall I repine at your silence? O no! At such
a time the poor Bess might easily be, and ought to be forgotten.
She would not deserve your love, if she could
repine at a silence brought about this way.
And O! May it be so! May there be nothing worse than
this. If the sick man—see, Arthur, how my hand trembles.
Can you read this scrawl? What is always bad, my fears
make worse than ever.
I must not think that. And yet, if it be so, if my friend
himself be sick, what will become of me? Of me, that
ought to cherish you and comfort you; that ought to be
your nurse. Endure for you your sickness, when she cannot
remove it.
O! that—I will speak out—O! that this strange scruple
had never possessed you. Why should I not be with
you? Who can love you and serve you as well as I? In
sickness and health, I will console and assist you. Why
will you deprive yourself of such a comforter, and such an
aid as I would be to you?
Dear Arthur, think better of it. Let me leave this dreary
spot, where, indeed, as long as I am thus alone, I can enjoy
no comfort. Let me come to you. I will put up with any
thing for the sake of seeing you, though it be but once a
day. Any garret or cellar in the dirtiest lane or darkest
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alley, will be good enough for me. I will think it a palace,
so that I can but see you now and then.
Do not refuse—do not argue with me, so fond you always
are of arguing! My heart is set upon your compliance.
And yet, dearly as I prize your company, I would not ask
it, if I thought there was any thing improper. You say there
is, and you talk about it in a way that I do not understand.
For my sake, you tell me, you refuse, but let me entreat
you to comply for my sake.
Your pen cannot teach me like your tongue. You write
me long letters, and tell me a great deal in them, but my
soul droops when I call to mind your voice and your looks,
and think how long a time must pass before I see you and
hear you again. I have no spirit to think upon the words
and paper before me. My eye and my thought wander far
away.
I bethink me how many questions I might ask you; how
many doubts you might clear up if you were but within hearing.
If you were but close to me; but I cannot ask them
here. I am too poor a creature at the pen, and, somehow
or another, it always happens, I can only write about myself
or about you. By the time I have said all this, I have tired
my fingers, and when I set about telling you how this poem
and that story have affected me, I am at a loss for words; I
am bewildered and bemazed as it were.
It is not so when we talk to one another. With your arm
about me, and your sweet face close to mine, I can prattle
forever. Then my heart overflows at my lips. After hours
thus spent, it seems as if there were a thousand things still
to be said. Then I can tell you what the book has told me.
I can repeat scores of verses by heart, though I heard them
only once read, but it is because you have read them to me.
Then there is nobody here to answer my questions.
They never look into books. They hate books. They
think it waste of time to read. Even Peggy, who you say
has naturally a strong mind, wonders what I can find to
amuse myself in a book. In her playful mood, she is always
teazing me to lay it aside.
I do not mind her, for I like to read; but if I did not like
it before, I could not help doing so ever since you told me
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that nobody could gain your love who was not fond of books.
And yet, though I like it on that account, more than I did, I
don't read somehow so earnestly, and understand so well as
I use to do, when my mind was all at ease; always frolicsome,
and ever upon tiptoe, as I may say.
How strangely, (have you not observed is?) I am altered
of late; I that was ever light of heart, the very soul of gaiety,
brimfull of glee—am now, demure as our old tabby—and
not half as wise. Tabby had wit enough to keep her paws
out of the coals, whereas poor I have—but no matter what.
It will never come to pass, I see that. So many reasons for
every thing! Such looking forward! Arthur, are not men
sometimes too wise to be happy?
I am now so grave. Not one smile can Peggy sometimes
get from me, though she tries for it the whole day. But I
know how it comes. Strange, indeed, if losing father and
sister, and thrown upon the wide world, pennyless and friendless
too, now that you forget me; I should continue to smile.
No. I never shall smile again. At least, while I stay here,
I never shall, I believe.
If a certain somebody suffer me to live with him—near
him, I mean: perhaps the sight of him as he enters the
door, perhaps the sound of his voice, asking—“where is my
Bess?”—might produce a smile. Such a one as the very
thought produces now—yet not, I hope, so transient, and so
quickly followed by a tear. Women are born, they say,
to trouble, and tears are given them for their relief. 'Tis
all very true.
Let it be as I wish, will you? If Oliver bring not back
good tidings, if he bring not a letter from thee, or thy letter
still refuses my request,—I don't know what may happen.
Consent, if you love your poor girl.
E. H.
CHAPTER XLV.
The reading of this letter, though it made me mournful,
did not hinder me from paying the visit I intended. My
friend noticed my discomposure.
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What, Arthur, thou art quite the “penseroso” to night.
Come, let me cheer thee with a song. Thou shalt have thy
favorite ditty.—She stepped to the instrument, and with
more than airy lightness, touched and sung:
Now knit hands and beat the ground
In a light, fantastic round,
Till the tell-tale sun descry
Our conceal'd solemnity.
Her music, though blithesome and aerial, was not sufficient
for the end. My cheerfulness would not return even at her
bidding. She again noticed my sedateness, and inquired
into the cause.
This girl of mine, said I, has infected me with her own
sadness. There is a letter I have just received—she took
it and began to read.
Meanwhile, I placed myself before her, and fixed my eyes
steadfastly upon her features. There is no book in which I
read with more pleasure, than the face of woman. That is
generally more full of meaning, and of better meaning too,
than the hard and inflexible lineaments of man, and this
woman's face has no parallel.
She read it with visible emotion. Having gone through
it, she did not lift her eye from the paper, but continued
silent, as if buried in thought. After some time, for I
would not interrupt the pause, she addressed me thus;
This girl seems to be very anxious to be with you.
As much as I am that she should be so.—My friend's
countenance betrayed some perplexity. As soon as I perceived
it, I said, why are you thus grave? Some little confusion,
appeared, as if she would not have her gravity
discovered. There again, said I, new tokens in your face,
my good mamma, of something which you will not mention.
Yet, sooth to say, this is not your first perplexity. I have
noticed it before, and wondered. It happens only when my
Bess is introduced. Something in relation to her it must
be, but what I cannot imagine. Why does her name, particularly,
make you thoughtful; disturbed; dejected?—
There now—but I must know the reason. You don't agree
with me in my notions of this girl, I fear, and you will not
disclose your thoughts.
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By this time, she had gained her usual composure, and
without noticing my comments on her looks, said; since
you are both of one mind, why does she not leave the
country?
That cannot be, I believe. Mrs. Stevens says it would
be disreputable. I am no proficient in etiquette, and must,
therefore, in affairs of this kind, be guided by those who are.
But would to Heaven, I were truly her father or brother.
Then all difficulties would be done away.
Can you seriously wish that?
Why no. I believe it would be more rational to wish
that the world would suffer me to act the fatherly or brotherly
part, without the relationship.
And is that the only part you wish to act towards this
girl?
Certainly, the only part.
You surprise me. Have you not confessed your love
for her?
I do love her. There is nothing upon earth more dear to
me than my Bess.
But love is of different kinds. She was loved by her
father—
Less than by me. He was a good man, but not of lively
feelings. Besides, he had another daughter, and they shared
his love between them, but she has no sister to share my
love. Calamity too, has endeared her to me; I am all her
consolation, dependence and hope, and nothing, surely, can
induce me to abandon her.
Her reliance upon you, for happiness, replied my friend,
with a sigh, is plain enough.
It is; but why that sigh? And yet I understand it. It
remonstrates with me on my incapacity for her support. I
know it well, but it is wrong to be cast down. I have youth,
health and spirits, and ought not to despair of living for my
own benefit and hers; but you sigh again, and it is impossible
to keep my courage when you sigh. Do tell me what
you mean by it?
You partly guessed the cause. She trusts to you for
happiness, but I somewhat suspect she trusts in vain.
In vain! I beseech you tell me why you think so.
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You say you love her—why then not make her your
wife?
My wife! Surely her extreme youth, and my destitute
condition, will account for that.
She is fifteen; the age of delicate fervor; of inartificial
love, and suitable enough for marriage. As to your condition,
you may live more easily together than apart. She
has no false taste or perverse desires to gratify. She has
been trained in simple modes and habits. Besides, that
objection can be removed another way. But are these all
your objections?
Her youth I object to, merely in connexion with her mind.
She is too little improved to be my wife. She wants that
solidity of mind; that maturity of intelligence which ten
years more may possibly give her, but which she cannot
have at this age.
You are a very prudential youth; then you are willing to
wait ten years for a wife?
Does that follow? Because my Bess will not be qualified
for wedlock, in less time, does it follow that I must wait
for her?
I spoke on the supposition that you loved her.
And that is true; but love is satisfied with studying her
happiness as her father or brother. Some years hence, perhaps
in half a year, for this passion, called wedded, or
marriage-wishing love, is of sudden growth, my mind may
change, and nothing may content me but to have Bess for
my wife. Yet I do not expect it.
Then you are determined against marriage with this girl.
Of course; until that love comes which I feel not now;
but which, no doubt, will come, when Bess has had the
benefit of five or eight years more, unless previously excited
by another.
All this is strange, Arthur. I have heretofore supposed
that you actually loved (I mean with the marriage-seeking
passion) your Bess.
I believe I once did; but it happened at a time when
marriage was improper; in the life of her father and sister,
and when I had never known in what female excellence
consisted. Since that time my happier lo has cast me
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among women so far above Eliza Hadwin; so far above,
and so widely different from any thing which time is likely
to make her, that I own, nothing appears more unlikely than
that I shall ever love her.
Are you not a little capricious in that respect, my good
friend? You have praised your Bess as rich in natural endowments;
as having an artless purity and rectitude of mind,
which somewhat supersedes the use of formal education;
as being full of sweetness and tenderness, and in her person
a very angel of loveliness.
All that is true. I never saw features and shape so delicately
beautiful; I never knew so young a mind so quick
sighted and so firm; but, nevertheless, she is not the creature
whom I would call my wife. My bosom slave; counsellor;
friend; the mother; the pattern; the tutress of my
children must be a different creature.
But what are the attributes of this desirable which Bess
wants?
Every thing she wants. Age, capacity, acquirements,
person, features, hair, complexion, all, all are different
from this girl's.
And pray of what kind may they be?
I cannot portray them in words—but yes, I can:—The
creature whom I shall worship:—it sounds oddly, but, I
verily believe, the sentiment which I shall feel for my wife,
will be more akin to worship than any thing else. I shall
never love, but such a creature as I now image to myself,
and such a creature will deserve, or almost deserve, worship—
but this creature, I was going to say, must be the exact
counterpart, my good mamma—of yourself.
This was said very earnestly, and with eyes and manners
that fully expressed my earnestness; perhaps my expressions
were unwittingly strong and emphatic, for she started
and blushed, but the cause of her discomposure, whatever
it was, was quickly removed, and she said;
Poor Bess! This will be sad news to thee!
Heaven forbid! said I, of what moment can my opinions
be to her?
Strange questioner that thou art. Thou knowest that her
gentle heart is touched with love. See how it shews itself
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in the tender and inimitable strain of this epistle. Does
not this sweet ingenuousness bewitch you?
It does so, and I love, beyond expression, the sweet girl;
but my love is in some inconceivable way, different from the
passion which that other creature will produce. She is no
stranger to my thoughts. I will impart every thought over
and over to her. I question not but I shall make her happy
without forfeiting my own.
Would marriage with her, be a forfeiture of your happiness?
Not absolutely, or forever, I believe. I love her company.
Her absence for a long time is irksome. I cannot
express the delight with which I see and hear her. To
mark her features, beaming with vivacity; playful in her
pleasures; to hold her in my arms, and listen to her prattle;
always musically voluble; always sweetly tender, or
artlessly intelligent—and this you will say is the dearest
privilege of marriage; and so it is; and dearly should I
prize it; and yet, I fear my heart would droop as often as
that other image should occur to my fancy. For then, you
know, it would occur as something never to be possessed
by me.
Now this image might, indeed, seldom occur. The intervals,
at least, would be serene. It would be my interest
to prolong these intervals as much as possible, and my
endeavors to this end, would, no doubt, have some effect.
Besides, the bitterness of this reflection would be lessened
by contemplating, at the same time, the happiness of my
beloved girl.
I should likewise have to remember, that to continue
unmarried, would not necessarily secure me the possession
of the other good—
But these reflections, my friend (broke she in upon me)
are of as much force to induce you to marry, as to reconcile
you to a marriage already contracted.
Perhaps they are. Assuredly, I have not a hope that
the fancied excellence will ever be mine. Such happiness
is not the lot of humanity, and is, least of all, within my
reach.
Your diffidence, replied my friend, in a timorous accent,
has not many examples; but your character, without
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doubt, is all your own, possessing all and disclaiming all, is,
in few words, your picture.
I scarcely understand you. Do you think I ever shall
be happy to that degree which I have imagined. Think
you I shall ever meet with an exact copy of yourself?
Unfortunate you will be, if you do not meet with many
better. Your Bess, in personals, is, beyond measure, my
superior, and in mind, allowing for difference in years,
quite as much so.
But that, returned I, with quickness and fervor, is not
the object. The very counterpart of you I want; neither
worse nor better, nor different in any thing. Just such
form, such features, such hues. Just that melting voice,
and above all, the same habits of thinking and conversing.
In thought, word, and deed; gesture, look and form, that
rare and precious creature whom I shall love, must be your
resemblance. Your—
Have done with these comparisons, interrupted she, in
some hurry, and let us return to the country girl, thy Bess.
You once, my friend, wished me to treat this girl of yours
as my sister. Do you know what the duties of a sister are?
They imply no more kindness or affection than you already
feel toward thy Bess. Are you not her sister?
I ought to have been so. I ought to have been proud of
the relation you ascribe to me, but I have not performed
any of its duties. I blush to think upon the coldness and
perverseness of my heart. With such means as I possess,
of giving happiness to others, I have been thoughtless and
inactive to a strange degree; perhaps, however, it is not
yet too late. Are you still willing to invest me with all the
rights of an elder sister over this girl? And will she consent,
think you?
Certainly, she will; she has.
Then the first act of sistership, will be to take her from
the country; from persons on whose kindness she has no
natural claim, whose manners and characters are unlike her
own, and with whom no improvement can be expected, and
bring her back to her sister's house and bosom, to provide
for her subsistence and education, and watch over her happiness.
I will not be a nominal sister. I will not be a sister by
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halves. All the rights of that relation I will have, or none.
As for you, you have claims upon her, on which I must be
permitted to judge, as becomes the elder sister, who, by the
loss of all other relations, must occupy the place, possess the
rights, and fulfil the duties of father, mother and brother.
She has now arrived at an age, when longer to remain in
a cold and churlish soil, will stunt her growth and wither her
blossoms. We must hasten to transplant her to a genial
element, and a garden well enclosed. Having so long
neglected this charming plant, it becomes me henceforth to
take her wholly to myself.
And now, for it is no longer in her or your power to take
back the gift, since she is fully mine, I will charge you with
the office of conducting her hither. I grant it to you as a
favor. Will you go?
Go! I will fly! I exclaimed, in an ecstacy of joy, on
pinions swifter than the wind. Not the lingering of an instant
will I bear. Look! one, two, three—thirty minutes after
nine. I will reach Curling's gate by the morn's dawn. I
will put my girl into a chaise, and by noon, she shall throw
herself into the arms of her sister. But first, shall I not, in
some way, manifest my gratitude?
My senses were bewildered, and I knew not what I did.
I intended to kneel, as to my mother or my deity, but, instead
of that, I clasped her in my arms, and kissed her lips
fervently. I stayed not to discover the effects of this insanity,
but left the room and the house, and calling for a moment
at Stevens', left word with the servant, my friend being
gone abroad, that I should not return till the morrow.
Never was a lighter heart, a gaiety more overflowing, and
more buoyant than mine. All cold from a boisterous night,
at a chilly season, all weariness from a rugged and miry
road, were charmed away. I might have ridden, but I
could not brook delay, even the delay of inquiring for and
equipping a horse. I might thus have saved myself fatigue,
and have lost no time, but my mind was in too great a tumult
for deliberation and forecast. I saw nothing but the
image of my girl, whom my tidings would render happy.
The way was longer than my fond imagination had foreseen.
I did not reach Curling's till an hour after sunrise.
The distance was full thirty-five miles. As I hastened up
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the green lane leading to the house, I spied my Bess passing
through a covered way, between the dwelling and kitchen.
I caught her eye. She stopped and held up her hands, and
then ran into my arms.
What means my girl? Why this catching of the breath?
Why this sobbing? Look at me, my love. It is Arthur, he
who has treated you with forgetfulness, neglect, and cruelty.
O! do not, she replied, hiding her face with her hand.
One single reproach, added to my own, will kill me. That
foolish, wicked letter—I could tear my fingers for writing it.
But, said I, I will kiss them—and put them to my lips.
They have told me the wishes of my girl. They have enabled
me to gratify her wishes. I have come to carry thee
this very moment to town.
Lord bless me, Arthur—said she, lost in a sweet confusion,
and her cheeks, always glowing, glowing still more
deeply—indeed, I did not mean—I meant only—I
will stay here—I would rather stay—
It grieves me to hear that, said I, with earnestness, I
thought I was studying our mutual happiness.
It grieves you? Don't say so. I would not grieve you
for the world—but, indeed, indeed, it is too soon. Such a
girl as I, am not yet fit to—live in your city. Again she
hid her glowing face in my bosom.
Sweet consciousness! Heavenly innocence! thought I;
may Achsa's conjectures prove false!—You have mistaken
my design, for I do not intend to carry you to town with
such a view as you have hinted—but merely to place you
with a beloved friend; with Achsa Fielding, of whom
already you know so much, where we shall enjoy each
other's company without restraint or intermission.
I then proceeded to disclose to her the plan suggested by
my friend, and to explain all the consequences that would
flow from it. I need not say that she assented to the scheme.
She was all rapture and gratitude. Preparations for departure
were easily and speedily made. I hired a chaise of
a neighboring farmer, and, according to my promise, by
noon the same day, delivered the timid and bashful girl into
the arms of her new sister.
She was received with the utmost tenderness, not only
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by Mrs. Fielding, but by all my friends. Her affectionate
heart was encouraged to pour forth all its feeling as into the
bosom of a mother. She was reinspired with confidence.
Her want of experience was supplied by the gentlest admonitions
and instructions. In every plan for her improvement,
suggested by her new mamma, for she never called
her by any other name, she engaged with docility and eagerness;
and her behavior and her progress exceeded the
most sanguine hopes that I had formed, as to the softness
of her temper and the acuteness of her genius.
Those graces which a polished education, and intercourse
with the better classes of society, are adapted to give, my
girl possessed, in some degree, by a native and intuitive refinement
and sagacity of mind. All that was to be obtained
from actual observation and instruction, was obtained without
difficulty; and in a short time, nothing but the affectionate
simplicity and unperverted feelings of the country girl,
bespoke the original condition.—
What art so busy about, Arthur? Always at thy pen of
late. Come, I must know the fruit of all this toil and all this
meditation. I am determined to scrape acquaintance with
Haller and Linæus. I will begin this very day. All one's
friends you know should be our's. Love has made many a
patient, and let me see if it cannot, in my case, make a
physician. But first, what is all this writing about?
Mrs. Wentworth has put me upon a strange task—not
disagreeable, however, but such as I should, perhaps, have
declined, had not the absence of my Bess, and her mamma,
made the time hang somewhat heavy. I have, oftener than
once, and far more circumstantially than now, told her my
adventures, but she is not satisfied. She wants a written
narrative, for some purpose which she tells me she will disclose
to me hereafter.
Luckily, my friend Stevens has saved me more than half
the trouble. He has done me the favor to compile much of
my history with his own hand. I cannot imagine what
could prompt him to so wearisome an undertaking; but he
says that adventures and a destiny so singular as mine, ought
not to be abandoned to forgetfulness like any vulgar and
every-day existence. Besides, when he wrote it, he suspected
that it might be necessary to the safety of my
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reputation and my life, from the consequences of my connexion
with Welbeck. Time has annihilated that danger. All
enmities and all suspicions are buried with that ill-fated
wretch. Wortley has been won by my behavior, and confides
in my integrity now as much as he formerly suspected
it. I am glad, however, that the task was performed. It
has saved me a world of writing. I had only to take up the
broken thread, and bring it down to the period of my present
happiness, and this was done, just as you tripped along
the entry this morning.
To bed, my friend, it is late, and this delicate frame is
not half so able to encounter fatigue as a youth spent in the
hay-field and the dairy might have been expected to be.
I will, but let me take these sheets along with me. I will
read them, that I am determined, before I sleep, and watch
if you have told the whole truth.
Do so, if you please; but remember one thing. Mrs.
Wentworth requested me to write not as if it were designed
for her perusal, but for those who have no previous knowledge
of her or of me. 'Twas an odd request. I cannot
imagine what she means by it, but she never acts without
good reason, and I have done so. And now withdraw, my
dear, and farewell.
CHAPTER XLVI.
Move on, my quill! wait not for my guidance. Reanimated
with thy master's spirit, all airy light! An heyday
rapture! A mounting impulse sways him: lifts him from
the earth.
I must, cost what it will, rein in this upward pulling, forward
going—what shall I call it? But there are times, and
now is one of them, when words are poor.
It will not do—Down this hill, up that steep; through this
thicket, over that hedge—I have labored to fatigue myself:
To reconcile me to repose; to lolling on a sofa; to poring
over a book, to any thing that might win for my heart a respite
from these throbs; to deceive me into a few tolerable momonts
of forgetfulness.
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Let me see; they tell me this is Monday night. Only
three days yet to come! If thus restless to day; if my heart
thus bounds till its mansion scarcely can hold it, what must
be my state tomorrow! What next day! What as the hour
hastens on; as the sun descends; as my hand touches her
in sign of wedded unity, of love without interval; of concord
without end.
I must quell these tumults. They will disable me else.
They will wear out all my strength. They will drain away
life itself. But who could have thought! So soon! Not
three months since I first set eyes upon her. Not three
weeks since our plighted love, and only three days to terminate
suspense and give me all.
I must compel myself to quiet; to sleep. I must find some
refuge from anticipations so excruciating. All extremes
are agonies. A joy like this is too big for this narrow tenement.
I must thrust it forth; I must bar and bolt it out for
a time, or these frail walls will burst asunder. The pen is a
pacifyer. It checks the mind's career; it circumscribes
her wanderings. It traces out, and compels us to adhere to
one path. It ever was my friend. Often it has blunted my
vexations; hushed my stormy passions; turned my peevishness
to soothing; my fierce revenge to heart dissolving
pity.
Perhaps it will befriend me now. It may temper my
impetuous wishes; lull my intoxication; and render my
happiness supportable; and, indeed, it has produced partly
this effect already. My blood, within the few minutes thus
employed, flows with less destructive rapidity. My thoughts
range themselves in less disorder. And now that the conquest
is effected, what shall I say? I must continue at the
pen, or shall immediately relapse.
What shall I say? Let me look back upon the steps that
led me hither. Let me recount the preliminaries. I cannot
do better.
And first as to Achsa Fielding—to describe this woman.
To recount, in brief, so much of her history as has come
to my knowledge, will best account for that zeal, almost to
idolatry, with which she has, ever since I thoroughly knew
her, been regarded by me.
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Never saw I one to whom the term lovely more truly belonged.
And yet, in stature she is too low; in complexion,
dark and almost sallow; and her eyes, though black and of
piercing lustre, have a cast, which I cannot well explain. It
lessens without destroying their lustre and their force to
charm; but all personal defects are outweighed by her heart
and her intellect. There is the secret of her power to entrance
the soul of the listener and beholder. It is not only
when she sings that her utterance is musical. It is not only
when the occasion is urgent and the topic momentous
that her eloquence is rich and flowing. They are always so.
I had vowed to love her and serve her, and been her frequent
visitant, long before I was acquainted with her past
life. I had casually picked up some intelligence, from
others, or from her own remarks. I knew very soon that
she was English by birth, and had been only a year and a
half in America; that she had scarcely passed her twenty
fifth year, and was still embellished with all the graces of
youth; that she had been a wife; but was uninformed
whether the knot had been untied by death or divorce;
that she possessed considerable, and even splendid fortune;
but the exact amount, and all besides these particulars, were
unknown to me till some time after our acquaintance was
begun.
One evening, she had been talking very earnestly on the
influence annexed, in Great Britain, to birth, and had given
me some examples of this influence. Meanwhile, my eyes
were fixed steadfastly on hers. The peculiarity in their expression
never before affected me so strongly. A vague
resemblance to something seen elsewhere, on the same day,
occurred, and occasioned me to exclaim, suddenly, in a
pause of her discourse—
As I live, my good mamma, those eyes of yours have told
me a secret. I almost think they spoke to me; and I am
not less amazed at the strangeness than at the distinctness of
their story.
And pry'thee what have they said?
Perhaps I was mistaken. I might have been deceived
by a fancied voice, or have confounded one word with another
near akin to it; but let me die, if I did not think they
said that you were—a Jew.
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At this sound, her features were instantly veiled with the
deepest sorrow and confusion. She put her hand to her
eyes, the tears started and she sobbed. My surprise at this
effect of my words, was equal to my contrition. I besought
her to pardon me, for having thus unknowingly alarmed and
grieved her.
After she had regained some composure, she said, you
have not offended, Arthur. Your surmise was just and
natural, and could not always have escaped you. Connected
with that word are many sources of anguish, which time
has not, and never will, dry up; and the less I think of past
events, the less will my peace be disturbed. I was desirous
that you should know nothing of me, but what you see;
nothing but the present and the future, merely that no
allusions might occur in our conversation, which will call up
sorrows and regrets that will avail nothing.
I now perceive the folly of endeavoring to keep you in
ignorance, and shall therefore, once for all, inform you of
what has befallen me, that your inquiries and suggestions
may be made, and fully satisfied at once, and your curiosity
have no motive for calling back my thoughts to what I
ardently desire to bury in oblivion.
My father was indeed a Jew, and one of the most opulent
of his nation in London. A Portuguese by birth, but came
to London when a boy. He had few of the moral or external
qualities of Jews. For I suppose there is some justice in
the obloquy that follows them so closely. He was frugal
without meanness, and cautious in his dealings, without extortion.
I need not fear to say this, for it was the general
voice.
Me, an only child, and of course, the darling of my parents,
they trained up in the most liberal manner. My
education was purely English. I learned the same things
and of the same masters with my neighbors. Except frequenting
their church and repeating their creed, and partaking
of the same food, I saw no difference between them
and me. Hence I grew more indifferent, perhaps, than
was proper, to the distinctions of religion. They were
never enforced upon me. No pains were taken to fill me
with scruples and antipathies. They never stood, as I
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may say, upon the threshold. They were often thought
upon, but were vague and easily eluded or forgotten.
Hence it was that my heart too readily admitted impressions,
that more zeal and more parental caution would have
saved me from. They could scarcely be avoided, as my
society was wholly English; and my youth, my education,
and my father's wealth made me an object of much attention.
And the same causes that lulled to sleep my own
watchfulness, had the same effect upon that of others. To
regret or to praise this remissness, is now too late. Certain
it is, that my destiny, and not a happy destiny, was fixed
by it.
The fruit of this remissness was a passion for one, who
fully returned it. Almost as young I, who was only sixteen;
he knew as little as myself, what obstacles the difference of
our births was likely to raise between us. His father, Sir
Ralph Fielding, a man nobly born, high in office, splendidly
allied, could not be expected to consent to the marriage of
his eldest son, in such green youth, to the daughter of an
alien, a Portuguese, a Jew; but these impediments were
not seen by my ignorance, and were overlooked by the
youth's passion.
But strange to tell, what common prudence would have
so confidently predicted, did not happen. Sir Ralph had
a numerous family, likely to be still more so; had but slender
patrimony; the income of his offices nearly made up
his all. The young man was headstrong, impetuous, and
would probably disregard the inclinations of his family.
Yet the father would not consent but on one condition, that
of my admission to the English church.
No very strenuous opposition to these terms could be expected
from me. At so thoughtless an age, with an education
so unfavorable to religious impressions; swayed likewise,
by the strongest of human passions; made somewhat
impatient by the company I kept, of the disrepute and
scorn to which the Jewish nation are every where condemned,
I could not be expected to be very averse to the
scheme.
My fears, as to what my father's decision would be, were
soon at an end. He loved his child too well to thwart
her wishes in so essential a point. Finding in me no
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scruples, no unwillingness, he thought it absurd to be scrupulous
for me. My own heart having abjured my religion, it was
absurd to make any difficulty about a formal renunciation.
These were his avowed reasons for concurrence, but time
shewed that he had probably other reasons, founded, indeed,
a his regard for my happiness, but such, as, if they had
been known, would probably have strengthened into invincible,
the reluctance of my lover's family.
No marriage was ever attended with happier presages.
The numerous relations of my husband admitted me with
the utmost cordiality among them. My father's tenderness
was unabated by this change, and those humiliations to
which I had before been exposed, were now no more; and
every tie was strengthened, at the end of a year, by the
feelings of a mother. I had need, indeed, to know a season
of happiness, that I might be fitted to endure the sad reverses
that succeeded. One after the other my disasters came,
each one more heavy than the last, and in such swift succession,
that they hardly left me time to breathe.
I had scarcely left my chamber, I had scarcely recovered
my usual health, and was able to press with true fervor,
the new and precious gift to my bosom, when melancholy
tidings came—I was in the country, at the seat of my
father in law, when the messenger arrived.
A shocking tale it was! and told abruptly, with every
unpitying aggravation. I hinted to you once, my father's
death. The kind of death—O! my friend! It was horrible.
He was then a placid, venerable old man; though
many symptoms of disquiet had long before been discovered
by my mother's watchful tenderness. Yet none could
suspect him capable of such a deed; for none, so carefully
had he conducted his affairs, suspected the havoc that
mischance had made of his property.
I, that had so much reason to love my father—I will
leave you to imagine how I was affected by a catastrophe
so dreadful, so unlooked for. Much less could I suspect
the cause of his despair; yet he had foreseen his ruin before
my marriage; had resolved to defer it for his daughter's
and his wife's sake, as long as possible, but had still determined
not to survive the day that should reduce him to
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indigence. The desperate act was thus preconcerted—thus
deliberate.
The true state of his affairs was laid open by his death.
The failure of great mercantile houses at Frankfort and
Liege was the cause of his disasters.
Thus were my prospects shut in. That wealth, which, no
doubt, furnished the chief inducement with my husband's
family to concur in his choice, was now suddenly exchanged
for poverty.
Bred up, as I had been, in pomp and luxury; conscious
that my wealth was my chief security from the contempt of
the proud and bigoted, and my chief title to the station to
which I had been raised, and which I the more delighted in
because it enabled me to confer so great obligations on my
husband. What reverse could be harder than this, and how
much bitterness was added by it to the grief, occasioned by
the violent end of my father!
Yet, loss of fortune, though it mortified my pride, did not
prove my worst calamity. Perhaps it was scarcely to be
ranked with evils, since it furnished a touchstone by which
my husband's affections were to be tried; especially as the
issue of the trial was auspicious; for my misfortune seemed
only to heighten the interest which my character had made
for me in the hearts of all that knew me. The paternal regards
of Sir Ralph had always been tender, but that tenderness
seemed now to be redoubled.
New events made this consolation still more necessary.
My unhappy mother!—She was nearer to the dreadful
scene when it happened; had no surviving object to beguile
her sorrow; was rendered, by long habit, more dependent
upon fortune than her child.
A melancholy, always mute, was the first effect upon my
mother. Nothing could charm her eye, or her ear. Sweet
sounds that she once loved, and especially when her darling
child was the warbler, were heard no longer. How, with
streaming eyes, have I sat and watched the dear lady, and
endeavored to catch her eye, to rouse her attention!—But
I must not think of these things.
But even this distress was little in comparison with what
was to come. A frenzy thus mute, motionless and vacant,
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was succeeded by fits, talkative, outrageous, requiring incessant
superintendence, restraint, and even violence.
Why led you me thus back to my sad remembrances?
Excuse me for the present. I will tell you the rest some
other time; tomorrow.
Tomorrow, accordingly, my friend resumed her story.
Let me now make an end, said she, of my mournful
narrative, and never, I charge you, do any thing to revive
it again.
Deep as was my despondency, occasioned by these calamities,
I was not destitute of some joy. My husband and
my child were lovely and affectionate. In their caresses,
in their welfare, I found peace; and might still have found
it, had there not been—But why should I open afresh,
wounds which time has imperfectly closed? But the story
must some time be told to you, and the sooner it is told
and dismissed to forgetfulness, the better.
My ill fate led me into company with a woman too well
known in the idle and dissipated circles. Her character
was not unknown to me. There was nothing in her features
or air to obviate disadvantageous prepossessions. I sought
not her intercourse; I rather shunned it, as unpleasing and
discreditable, but she would not be repulsed. Self-invited,
she made herself my frequent guest; took unsolicited part
in my concerns; did me many kind offices; and, at length,
in spite of my counter inclination, won upon my sympathy
and gratitude.
No one in the world, did I fondly think, had I less reason
to fear than Mrs. Waring. Her character excited not
the slightest apprehension for my own safety. She was upwards
of forty, nowise remarkable for grace or beauty;
tawdry in her dress; accustomed to render more conspicuous
the traces of age by her attempts to hide them; the
mother of a numerous family, with a mind but slenderly
cultivated; always careful to save appearances; studiously
preserving distance with my husband, and he, like myself,
enduring, rather than wishing her society. What could I fear
from the arts of such a one?
But alas! the woman had consummate address. Patience
too, that nothing could tire. Watchfulness that none could
detect. Insinuation the wiliest and most subtle. Thus
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wound she herself into my affections, by an unexampled
perseverance in seeming kindness; by tender confidence;
by artful glosses of past misconduct; by self-rebukes and
feigned contritions.
Never were stratagems so intricate, dissimulation so profound!
But still, that such a one should seduce my husband;
young, generous, ambitious, impatient of contumely
and reproach, and surely not indifferent; before this fatal intercourse,
not indifferent to his wife and child!—Yet, so it was!
I saw his discontents; his struggles; I heard him curse
this woman, and the more deeply for my attempts, unconscious
as I was of her machinations, to reconcile them to
each other, to do away what seemed a causeless indignation,
or antipathy against her. How little I suspected the nature
of the conflict in his heart, between a new passion and the
claims of pride; of conscience and of humanity; the claims
of a child and a wife; a wife already in affliction, and placing
all that yet remained of happiness, in the firmness of his
virtue; in the continuance of his love; a wife, at the very
hour of his meditated flight, full of terrors at the near approach
of an event, whose agonies demand a double share
of a husband's supporting; encouraging love—
Good Heaven! For what evils are some of thy creatures
reserved! Resignation to thy decree, in the last, and most
cruel distress, was, indeed, a hard task.
He was gone. Some unavoidable engagement calling
him to Hamburgh was pleaded. Yet to leave me at such
an hour! I dare not upbraid, nor object. The tale was so
specious! The fortunes of a friend depended on his punctual
journey. The falsehood of his story too soon made
itself known. He was gone, in company with his detested
paramour!
Yet, though my vigilance was easily deceived, it was not
so with others. A creditor, who had his bond for three
thousand pounds, pursued, and arrested him at Harwich.
He was thrown into prison, but his companion, let me, at
least, say that in her praise, would not desert him. She
took lodging near the place of his confinement, and saw him
daily. That, had she not done it, and had my personal
condition allowed, should have been my province.
Indignation and grief hastened the painful crisis with me.
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I did not weep that the second fruit of this unhappy union
saw not the light. I wept only that this hour of agony, was
not, to its unfortunate mother, the last.
I felt not anger; I had nothing but compassion for Fielding.
Gladly would I have recalled him to my arms and to
virtue; I wrote, adjuring him by all our past joys, to return;
vowing only gratitude for his new affection, and claiming
only the recompense of seeing him restored to his family;
to liberty; to reputation.
But alas! Fielding had a good, but a proud heart. He
looked upon his error with remorse; with self-detestation,
and with the fatal belief that it could not be retrieved; shame
made him withstand all my reasonings and persuasions, and
in the hurry of his feelings, he made solemn vows that he
would, in the moment of restored liberty, abjure his country
and his family forever. He bore indignantly the yoke of
his new attachment, but he strove in vain to shake it off.
Her behavior, always yielding, doating, supplicative, preserved
him in her fetters. Though upbraided, spurned and
banished from his presence, she would not leave him, but
by new efforts and new artifices, soothed, appeased, and
won again, and kept his tenderness.
What my entreaties were unable to effect, his father
could not hope to accomplish. He offered to take him
from prison; the creditor offered to cancel the bond, if he
would return to me; but this condition he refused. All his
kindred, and one who had been his bosom friend from
childhood, joined in beseeching his compliance with these
conditions; but his pride, his dread of my merited reproaches;
the merits and dissuasions of his new companion,
whose sacrifices for his sake had not been small, were obstacles
which nothing could subdue.
Far, indeed, was I from imposing these conditions. I
waited only till, by certain arrangements, I could gather
enough to pay his debts, to enable him to execute his vow;
empty would have been my claims to his affection, if I
could have suffered, with the means of his deliverance in
my hands, my husband to remain a moment in prison.
The remains of my father's vast fortune was a jointure
of a thousand pounds a year, settled on my mother, and
after her death, on me. My mother's helpless condition
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put this revenue into my disposal. By this means was I
enabled, without the knowledge of my father-in-law, or
my husband, to purchase the debt, and dismiss him from
prison. He set out instantly, in company with his paramour,
to France.
When somewhat recovered from the shock of this calamity,
I took up my abode with my mother. What she had
was enough, as you, perhaps, will think, for plentiful subsistence,
but to us, with habits of a different kind, it was
little better than poverty. That reflection, my father's memory,
my mother's deplorable state, which every year grew
worse, and the late misfortune, were the chief companions
of my thoughts.
The dear child, whose smiles were uninterrupted by his
mother's afflictions, was some consolation in my solitude.
To his instruction and to my mother's wants, all my hours
were devoted. I was sometimes not without the hope of
better days. Full as my mind was of Fielding's merits,
convinced by former proofs of his ardent and generous
spirit, I trusted that time and reflection would destroy that
spell by which he was now bound.
For some time, the progress of these reflections was not
known. In leaving England, Fielding dropped all correspondence
and connexion with his native country. He
parted with the woman at Rouen, leaving no trace behind
him by which she might follow him, as she wished to do.
She never returned to England, but died a twelvemonth
afterwards in Switzerland.
As to me, I had only to muse day and night upon the
possible destiny of this beloved fugitive. His incensed
father cared not for him. He had cast him out of his paternal
affections, ceased to make inquiries respecting him,
and even wished never to hear of him again. My boy succeeded
to my husband's place in his grandfather's affections,
and in the hopes and views of the family; and his mother
wanted nothing which their compassionate and respectful
love could bestow.
Three long and tedious years passed away, and no tidings
were received. Whether he were living or dead, nobody
could tell. At length, an English traveller, going out of
the customary road from Italy, met with Fielding, in a town
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in the Venaissin. His manners, habits and language, had
become French. He seemed unwilling to be recognised by
an old acquaintance, but not being able to avoid this, and
becoming gradually familiar, he informed the traveller of
many particulars in his present situation. It appeared that
he had made himself useful to a neighboring Seigneur, in
whose chateau he had long lived on the footing of a brother.
France he had resolved to make his future country, and
among other changes for that end, he had laid aside his
English name, and taken that of his patron, which was
Perrin. He had endeavored to compensate himself for all
other privations, by devoting himself to rural amusements
and to study.
He carefully shunned all inquiries respecting me, but
when my name was mentioned by his friend, who knew
well all that had happened, and my general welfare, together
with that of his son, asserted, he shewed deep sensibility,
and even consented that I should be made acquainted
with his situation.
I cannot describe the effect of this intelligence on me.
My hopes of bringing him back to me, were suddenly revived.
I wrote him a letter, in which I poured forth my
whole heart; but his answer contained avowals of all his
former resolutions, to which time had only made his adherence
more easy. A second and third letter were written,
and an offer made to follow him to his retreat, and
share his exile; but all my efforts availed nothing. He
solemnly and repeatedly renounced all the claims of a husband
over me, and absolved me from every obligation as a
wife.
His part in this correspondence, was performed without
harshness or contempt. A strange mixture there was of
pathos and indifference; of tenderness and resolution.
Hence I continually derived hope, which time, however,
brought no nearer to certainty.
At the opening of the revolution, the name of Perrin appeared
among the deputies to the constituent assembly, for
the district in which he resided. He had thus succeeded
in gaining all the rights of a French citizen; and the hopes
of his return became almost extinct; but that, and every
other hope, respecting him, has since been totally
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extinguished by his marriage with Marguerite D'Almont, a
young lady of great merit and fortune, and a native of
Avignon.
A long period of suspense was now at an end, and left
me in a state almost as full of anguish as that which our
first separation produced. My sorrows were increased by
my mother's death, and this incident freeing me from those
restraints upon my motions which before existed, I determined
to come to America.
My son was now eight years old, and his grandfather
claiming the province of his instruction, I was persuaded to
part with him, that he might be sent to a distant school.
Thus was another tie removed, and in spite of the well
meant importunities of my friends, I persisted in my scheme
of crossing the ocean.
I could not help, at this part of her narration, expressing
my surprise that any motives were strong enough to recommend
this scheme.
It was certainly a freak of despair. A few months would,
perhaps, have allayed the fresh grief, and reconciled me to
my situation; but I would not pause or deliberate. My
scheme was opposed by my friends, with great earnestness.
During my voyage, affrighted by the dangers which surrounded
me, and to which I was wholly unused, I heartily
repented of my resolution; but now, methinks, I have reason
to rejoice at my perseverance. I have come into a
scene and society so new, I have had so many claims made
upon my ingenuity and fortitude, that my mind has been
diverted in some degree from former sorrows. There are
even times when I wholly forget them, and catch myself indulging
in cheerful reveries.
I have often reflected with surprise on the nature of my
own mind. It is eight years since my father's violent death.
How few of my hours since that period, have been blessed
with serenity! How many nights and days, in hateful and
lingering succession, have been bathed in tears and tormented
with regrets! That I am still alive with so many
causes of death, and with such a slow consuming malady,
is surely to be wondered at.
I believe the worst foes of man, at least of men in grief,
are solitude and idleness. The same eternally occurring
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round of objects, feeds his disease, and the effects of mere
vacancy and uniformity is sometimes mistaken for those
of grief. Yes, I am glad I came to America. My relations
are importunate for my return, and, till lately, I had some
thoughts of it; but I think now, I shall stay where I am,
for the rest of my days.
Since I arrived, I am become more of a student than I
used to be. I always loved literature, but never, till of late,
had a mind enough at ease, to read with advantage. I
now find pleasure in the occupation which I never expected
to find.
You see in what manner I live. The letters which I
brought secured me a flattering reception from the best
people in your country; but scenes of gay resort had
nothing to attract me, and I quickly withdrew to that seclusion
in which you now find me. Here, always at leisure,
and mistress of every laudable means of gratification, I am
not without the belief of serene days yet to come.
I now ventured to inquire what were her latest tidings of
her husband.
At the opening of the revolution, I told you, he became
a champion of the people. By his zeal and his efforts he
acquired such importance as to be deputed to the National
Assembly. In this post he was the adherent of violent
measures, till the subversion of monarchy; and then, when
too late for his safety, he checked his career.
And what has since become of him?
She sighed deeply. You were yesterday reading a list
of the proscribed under Robespierre. I checked you. I
had good reason. But this subject grows too painful; let
us change it.
Some time after, I ventured to renew this topic; and
discovered that Fielding, under his new name of Perrin
d'Almont, was among the outlawed deputies of last year,*
and had been slain in resisting the officers sent to arrest him.
My friend had been informed that his wife, Philippine d'Almont,
whom she had reason to believe a woman of great
merit, had eluded persecution, and taken refuge in some
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part of America. She had made various attempts, but in
vain, to find out her retreat. Ah! said I, you must commission
me to find her. I will hunt her through the continent
from Penobscot to Savannah. I will not leave a nook
unsearched.
* 1793.
CHAPTER XLVII.
None will be surprised, that to a woman thus unfortunate
and thus deserving, my heart willingly rendered up all its
sympathies; that as I partook of all her grief, I hailed, with
equal delight, those omens of felicity which now, at length,
seemed to play in her fancy.
I saw her often, as often as my engagements would permit,
and oftener than I allowed myself to visit any other.
In this I was partly selfish. So much entertainment, so
much of the best instruction did her conversation afford me,
that I never had enough of it.
Her experience had been so much larger than mine, and
so wholly different, and she possessed such unbounded
facility of recounting all she had seen and felt, and absolute
sincerity and unreserve in this respect, were so
fully established between us, that I can imagine nothing
equally instructive and delightful with her conversation.
Books are cold, jejune, vexatious in their sparingness of
information at one time, and their impertinent loquacity at
another. Besides, all they choose to give, they give at
once; they allow no questions; offer no further explanations,
and bend not to the caprices of our curiosity. They
talk to us behind a screen. Their tone is lifeless and monotonous.
They charm not our attention by mute significances
of gesture and looks. They spread no light upon
their meaning by cadences and emphasis and pause.
How different was Mrs. Fielding's discourse! So versatile;
so bending to the changes of the occasion; so obsequious
to my curiosity, and so abundant in that very
knowledge in which I was most deficient, and on which I
set the most value, the knowledge of the human heart; of
society as it existed in another world, more abundant in the
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varieties of customs and characters, than I had ever had the
power to witness.
Partly selfish I have said my motives were, but not wholly
so, as long as I saw that my friend derived pleasure, in her
turn, from my company. Not that I could add directly to
her knowledge or pleasure, but that expansion of heart,
that ease of utterance and flow of ideas which always were
occasioned by my approach, were sources of true pleasure
of which she had been long deprived, and for which her
privation had given her a higher relish than ever.
She lived in great affluence and independence, but made
use of her privileges of fortune chiefly to secure to herself
the command of her own time. She had been long ago
tired and disgusted with the dull and fulsome uniformity
and parade of the play-house and ball-room. Formal
visits were endured as mortifications and penances, by
which the delights of privacy and friendly intercourse
were by contrast increased. Music she loved, but never
sought it in places of public resort, or from the skill of
mercenary performers, and books were not the least of her
pleasures.
As to me, I was wax in her hand. Without design and
without effort, I was always of that form she wished me to
assume. My own happiness became a secondary passion,
and her gratification the great end of my being. When
with her, I thought not of myself. I had scarcely a separate
or independent existence, since my senses were occupied
by her, and my mind was full of those ideas which her
discourse communicated. To meditate on her looks and
words, and to pursue the means suggested by my own
thoughts, or by her, conducive, in any way, to her good,
was all my business.
What a fate, said I, at the conclusion of one of our interviews,
has been yours. But, thank Heaven, the storm
has disappeared before the age of sensibility has gone past,
and without drying up every source of happiness. You
are still young; all your powers unimpaired; rich in the
compassion and esteem of the world; wholly independent
of the claims and caprices of others; amply supplied with
that means of usefulness, called money; wise in that experience
which only adversity can give. Past evils and
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sufferings, if incurred and endured without guilt, if called to
view without remorse, make up the materials of present joy.
They cheer our most dreary hours with the whispered accents
of “well done,” and they heighten our pleasures into
somewhat of celestial brilliancy, by furnishing a deep, a
ruefully deep contrast.
From this moment, I will cease to weep for you. I will
call you the happiest of women. I will share with you your
happiness by witnessing it—but that shall not content me.
I must some way contribute to it. Tell me how I shall
serve you? What can I do to make you happier? Poor
am I in every thing but zeal, but still I may do something.
What—pray tell me what can I do?
She looked at me with sweet and solemn significance.
What it was exactly, I could not divine, yet I was strangely
affected by it. It was but a glance, instantly withdrawn.
She made me no answer.
You must not be silent; you must tell me what I can do
for you. Hitherto I have done nothing. All the service is
on your side. Your conversation has been my study, a
delightful study, but the profit has only been mine. Tell
me how I can be grateful—my voice and manner, I believe,
seldom belie my feelings. At this time, I had almost done
what a second thought made me suspect to be unauthorized.
Yet I cannot tell why. My heart had nothing in it but reverence
and admiration. Was she not the substitute of my
lost mamma? Would I not have clasped that beloved
shade? Yet the two beings were not just the same, or I
should not, as now, have checked myself, and only pressed
her hand to my lips.
Tell me, repeated I, what can I do to serve you? I read
to you a little now, and you are pleased with my reading.
I copy for you when you want the time. I guide the reins
for you when you choose to ride. Humble offices, indeed,
though, perhaps, all that a raw youth like me can do for
you; but I can be still more assiduous. I can read several
hours in the day, instead of one. I can write ten times as
much as now.
Are you not my lost mamma come back again? And
yet, not exactly her, I think. Something different; something
better, I believe, if that be possible. At any rate, methinks
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I would be wholly yours. I shall be impatient and uneasy
till every act, every thought, every minute, someway does
you good.
How! said I—her eye still averted, seemed to hold
back the tear with difficulty, and she made a motion as if to
rise—have I grieved you? Have I been importunate?
Forgive me if I have offended you.
Her eyes now overflowed without restraint. She articulated
with difficulty—tears are too prompt with me of late;
but they did not upbraid you. Pain has often caused them
to flow, but now it—is—pleasure.
What a heart must yours be, I resumed. When susceptible
of such pleasures, what pangs must formerly have
rent it!—But you are not displeased, you say, with my importunate
zeal. You will accept me as your own in every
thing. Direct me; prescribe to me. There must be
something in which I can be of still more use to you; some
way in which I can be wholly yours—
Wholly mine! she repeated, in a smothered voice, and
rising—leave me, Arthur. It is too late for you to be here.
It was wrong to stay so late.
I have been wrong, but how too late! I entered but this
moment. It is twilight still; is it not?
No—it is almost twelve. You have been here a long
four hours; short ones, I would rather say—but indeed you
must go.
What made me so thoughtless of the time! But I will
go, yet not till you forgive me. I approached her with a
confidence, and for a purpose at which, upon reflection, I
am not a little surprised, but the being called Mervyn is not
the same in her company and in that of another. What is
the difference, and whence comes it? Her words and looks
engross me. My mind wants room for any other object.
But why inquire whence the difference? The superiority
of her merits and attractions to all those whom I knew,
would surely account for my fervor. Indifference, if I felt
it, would be the only just occasion of wonder.
The hour was, indeed, too late, and I hastened home.
Stevens was waiting my return with some anxiety. I apologized
for my delay, and recounted to him what had just
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passed. He listened with more than usual interest. When
I had finished,—
Mervyn, said he, you seem not to be aware of your present
situation. From what you now tell me, and from what
you have formerly told me, one thing seems very plain to
me.
Pry'thee, what is it?
Eliza Hadwin—do you wish—could you bear to see her
the wife of another?
Five years hence I will answer you. Then my answer
may be—“No; I wish her only to be mine.” Till then, I
wish her only to be my pupil, my ward, my sister.
But these are remote considerations; they are bars to
marriage, but not to love. Would it not molest and disquiet
you to observe in her a passion for another?
It would, but only on her own account; not on mine. At
a suitable age it is very likely I may love her, because, it is
likely, if she holds on in her present career, she will then be
worthy, but, at present, though I would die to insure her
happiness, I have no wish to insure it by marriage with her.
Is there no other whom you love?
No. There is one worthier than all others; one whom I
wish the woman who shall be my wife to resemble in all
things.
And who is this model?
You know I can only mean Achsa Fielding.
If you love her likeness, why not love herself?
I felt my heart leap.—What a thought is that! Love her
I do as I love my God; as I love virtue. To love her in
another sense would brand me for a lunatic.
To love her as a woman, then, appears to you an act of
folly.
In me it would be worse than folly. 'Twould be frenzy.
And why?
Why? Really, my friend, you astonish me. Nay, you
startle me—for a question like that implies a doubt in you
whether I have not actually harbored the thought.
No, said he, smiling, presumptuous though you be, you
have not, to be sure, reached so high a pitch. But still,
though I think you innocent of so heinous an offence, there
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is no harm in asking why you might not love her, and even
seek her for a wife.
Achsa Fielding my wife! Good Heaven!—The very
sound threw my soul into unconquerable tumults. Take
care, my friend, continued I, in beseeching accents, you
may do me more injury than you conceive, by even starting
such a thought.
True, said he, as long as such obstacles exist to your
success; so many incurable objections; for instance, she is
six years older than you.
That is an advantage. Her age is what it ought to be.
But she has been a wife and mother already.
That is likewise an advantage. She has wisdom, because
she has experience. Her sensibilities are stronger, because
they have been exercised and chastened. Her first marriage
was unfortunate. The purer is the felicity she will
taste in a second! If her second choice be propitious, the
greater her tenderness and gratitude.
But she is a foreigner; independent of control, and rich.
All which are blessings to herself, and to him for whom
her hand is reserved; especially, if, like me, he is indigent.
But then she is unsightly as a night-hag, tawny as a
moor, the eye of a gipsy, low in stature, contemptibly diminutive,
scarcely bulk enough to cast a shadow as she
walks, less luxuriance than a charred log, fewer elasticities
than a sheet pebble.
Hush! hush! blasphemer!—and I put my hand before
his mouth—have I not told you that in mind, person, and
condition, she is the type after which my enamored fancy
has modelled my wife?
O ho! Then the objection does not lie with you. It lies
with her, it seems. She can find nothing in you to esteem!
And pray, for what faults do you think she would reject
you?
I cannot tell. That she can ever balance for a moment,
on such a question, is incredible. Me! Me! That Achsa
Fielding should think of me!
Incredible, indeed! You who are loathsome in your person,
an ideot in your understanding, a villain in your morals!
deformed! withered! vain, stupid, and malignant. That
such a one should choose you for an idol!
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Pray, my friend, said I anxiously, jest not. What mean
you by a hint of this kind!
I will not jest then, but will soberly inquire, what faults
are they which make this lady's choice of you so incredible?
You are younger than she, though no one, who merely
observed your manners, and heard you talk, would take
you to be under thirty. You are poor; are these impediments?
I should think not. I have heard her reason with admirable
eloquence, against the vain distinctions of property
and nation, and rank. They were once of moment in her
eyes; but the sufferings, humiliations, and reflections of
years, have cured her of the folly. Her nation has suffered
too much by the inhuman antipathies of religious and political
faction; she, herself, has felt so often the contumelies of
the rich, the high-born, and the bigoted, that—
Prythee, then, what dost imagine her objections to be?
Why—I don't know. The thought was so aspiring; to
call her my wife, was an height of bliss; the very far off
view of which made my head dizzy.
An height, however, to attain which you suppose only her
consent, her love, to be necessary?
Without doubt, her love is indispensable.
Sit down, Arthur, and let us no longer treat this matter
lightly. I clearly see the importance of this moment to
this lady's happiness and yours. It is plain that you love
this woman. How could you help it? A brilliant skin is not
her's; nor elegant proportions; nor majectic stature; yet no
creature had ever more power to bewitch. Her manners
have grace and dignity that flow from exquisite feeling, delicate
taste, and the quickest and keenest penetration. She
has the wisdom of men and of books. Her sympathies are
enforced by reason, and her charities regulated by knowledge.
She has a woman's age, fortune more than you wish,
and a spotless fame. How could you fail to love her?
You, who are her chosen friend, who partake her pleasures,
and share her employments, on whom she almost exclusively
bestows her society and confidence, and to whom
she thus affords the strongest of all indirect proofs of impassioned
esteem. How could you, with all that firmness of
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love, joined with all that discernment of her excellence, how
could you escape the enchantment?
You have not thought of marriage. You have not suspected
your love. From the purity of your mind, from the
idolatry with which this woman has inspired you, you have
imagined no delight beyond that of enjoying her society as
you now do, and have never fostered a hope beyond this
privilege.
How quickly would this tranquillity vanish, and the true
state of your heart be evinced, if a rival should enter the
scene and be entertained with preference; then would the
seal be removed, the spell be broken, and you would awaken
to terror and to anguish.
Of this, however, there is no danger. Your passion is
not felt by you alone. From her treatment of you, your
diffidence disables you from seeing, but nothing can be clearer
to me than, that she loves you.
I started on my feet. A flush of scorching heat flowed
to every part of my frame. My temples began to throb
like my heart. I was half delirious, and my delirium was
strangely compounded of fear and hope, of delight and of
terror.
What have you done, my friend? You have overturned
my peace of mind. Till now the image of this woman has
been followed by complacency and sober rapture; but your
words have dashed the scene with dismay and confusion.
You have raised up wishes, and dreams, and doubts, which
possess me in spite of my reason, in spite of a thousand
proofs.
Good God! You say she loves; loves me! me, a boy in
age; bred in clownish ignorance; scarcely ushered into the
world; more than childishly unlearned and raw; a barndoor
simpleton; a plough-tail, kitchen-hearth, turnip-hoeing
novice! She, thus splendidly endowed; thus allied to nobles;
thus gifted with arts, and adorned with graces; that
she should choose me, me for the partner of her fortune; her
affections; and her life! It cannot be. Yet, if it were; if
your guesses should—prove—Oaf! madman! To indulge
so fatal a chimera! So rash a dream!
My friend! my friend! I feel that you have done me an
irreparable injury. I can never more look her in the face. I
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can never more frequent her society. These new thoughts
will beset and torment me. My disquiet will chain up my
tongue. That overflowing gratitude; that innocent joy,
unconscious of offence, and knowing no restraint, which
have hitherto been my titles to her favor, will fly from my
features and manners. I shall be anxious, vacant and unhappy
in her presence. I shall dread to look at her, or to
open my lips lest my mad and unhallowed ambition should
betray itself.
Well, replied Stevens, this scene is quite new. I could
almost find it in my heart to pity you. I did not expect
this; and yet from my knowledge of your character, I ought,
perhaps, to have foreseen it. This is a necessary part of
the drama. A joyous certainty, on these occasions, must
always be preceded by suspenses and doubts, and the close
will be joyous in proportion as the preludes are excruciating.
Go to bed, my good friend, and think of this. Time and a
few more interviews with Mrs. Fielding, will, I doubt not,
set all to rights.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
I went to my chamber, but what different sensations did
I carry into it, from those with which I had left it a few
hours before. I stretched myself on the mattress and put
out the light; but the swarm of new images that rushed on
my mind, set me again instantly in motion. All was rapid,
vague and undefined, wearying and distracting my attention.
I was roused as by a divine voice, that said:—“Sleep no
more; Mervyn shall sleep no more.”
What chiefly occupied me was a nameless sort of terror.
What shall I compare it to? Methinks, that one falling from
a tree, overhanging a torrent, plunged into the whirling eddy,
and gasping and struggling while he sinks to rise no more,
would feel just as I did then. Nay, some such image
actually possessed me. Such was one of my reveries, in
which, suddenly, I stretched my hand, and caught the arm
of a chair. This act called me back to reason, or rather
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gave my soul opportunity to roam into a new track equally
wild.
Was it the abruptness of this vision that thus confounded
me! was it a latent error in my moral constitution, which
this new conjuncture drew forth into influence? These were
all the tokens of a mind lost to itself; bewildered; unhinged;
plunged into a drear insanity.
Nothing less could have prompted so phantastically—for
midnight as it was, my chamber's solitude was not to be
supported. After a few turns across the floor, I left the
room, and the house. I walked without design and in a
hurried pace. I posted straight to the house of Mrs. Fielding.
I lifted the latch, but the door did not open. It was,
no doubt, locked.
How comes this, said I, and looked around me. The hour
and occasion were unthought of. Habituated to this path,
I had taken it spontaneously. How comes this? repeated
I. Locked upon me! but I will summon them, I warrant
me—and rung the bell, not timidly or slightly, but with
violence. Some one hastened from above. I saw the
glimmer of a candle through the key-hole.
Strange, thought I, a candle at noon day!—The door was
opened, and my poor Bess, robed in a careless and hasty
manner, appeared. She started at sight of me, but
merely because she did not, in a moment, recognise me.—
Ah! Arthur, is it you? Come in. My mamma has wanted
you these two hours. I was just going to despatch Philip to
tell you to come.
Lead me to her, said I.
She led the way into the parlor.—“Wait a moment
here; I will tell her you are come”—and she tripped
away.
Presently a step was heard. The door opened again,
and then entered a man. He was tall, elegant, sedate to a
degree of sadness; something in his dress and aspect that
bespoke the foreigner; the Frenchman.
What, said he, mildly, is your business with my wife?
She cannot see you instantly, and has sent me to receive
your commands.
Your wife! I want Mrs. Fielding.
True; and Mrs. Fielding is my wife. Thank
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Heaven I have come in time to discover her, and claim her
as such.
I started back. I shuddered. My joints slackened, and
I stretched my hand to catch something by which I might
be saved from sinking on the floor. Meanwhile, Fielding
changed his countenance into rage and fury. He called
me villain! bade me avaunt! and drew a shining steel from
his bosom, with which he stabbed me to the heart. I sunk
upon the floor, and all, for a time, was darkness and oblivion!
At length, I returned as it were to life. I opened my
eyes. The mists disappeared, and I found myself stretched
upon the bed in my own chamber. I remembered the
fatal blow I had received. I put my hand upon my breast;
the spot where the dagger entered. There were no traces
of a wound. All was perfect and entire. Some miracle
had made me whole.
I raised myself up. I re-examined my body. All around
me was hushed, till a voice from the pavement below, proclaimed
that it was “past three o'clock.”
What, said I, has all this miserable pageantry, this midnight
wandering, and this ominous interview, been no more
than—a dream!
It may be proper to mention, in explanation of this scene,
and to shew the thorough perturbation of my mind, during
this night, intelligence gained some days after from Eliza.
She said, that about two o'clock, on this night, she was
roused by a violent ringing of the bell. She was startled
by so unseasonable a summons. She slept in a chamber
adjoining Mrs. Fielding's, and hesitated whether she should
alarm her friend, but the summons not being repeated, she
had determined to forbear.
Added to this, was the report of Mrs. Stevens, who, on
the same night, about half an hour after I and her husband
had retired, imagined that she heard the street door opened
and shut, but this being followed by no other consequence,
she supposed herself mistaken. I have little doubt, that,
in my feverish and troubled sleep, I actually went forth, posted
to the house of Mrs. Fielding, rung for admission, and
shortly after, returned to my own apartment.
This confusion of mind was somewhat allayed by, the
return of light. It gave way to more uniform, but not less
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rueful and despondent perceptions. The image of Achsa
filled my fancy, but it was the harbinger of nothing but humiliation
and sorrow. To outroot the conviction of my
own unworthiness, to persuade myself that I was regarded
with the tenderness that Stevens has ascribed to her, that
the discovery of my thoughts would not excite her anger and
grief, I felt to be impossible.
In this state of mind, I could not see her. To declare
my feelings would produce indignation and anguish; to
hide them from her scrutiny was not in my power; yet,
what would she think of my estranging myself from her
society? What expedient could I honestly adopt to justify
my absence, and what employments could I substitute for
those precious hours hitherto devoted to her.
This afternoon, thought I, she has been invited to spend at
Stedman's country house on Schuylkill. She consented
to go, and I was to accompany her. I am fit only for solitude.
My behaviour, in her presence, will be enigmatical,
capricious and morose. I must not go; yet, what will
she think of my failure? Not to go will be injurious and
suspicious.
I was undetermined. The appointed hour arrived. I
stood at my chamber window, torn by a variety of purposes,
and swayed alternately by repugnant arguments. I several
times went to the door of my apartment, and put my foot
upon the first step of the stair-case, but as often paused,
reconsidered and returned to my room.
In these fluctuations the hour passed. No messenger
arrived from Mrs. Fielding, inquiring into the cause of my
delay. Was she offended at my negligence? Was she
sick and disabled from going, or had she changed her mind?
I now remembered her parting words at our last interview.
Were they not susceptible of two constructions? She said
my visit was too long, and bade me begone. Did she suspect
my presumption, and is she determined thus to punish me?
This terror added anew to all my former anxieties. It
was impossible to rest in this suspense. I would go to her
I would lay before her all the anguish of my heart; I would
not spare myself. She shall not reproach me more severely
than I will reproach myself. I will hear my sentence
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from her own lips, and promise unlimited submission to
the doom of separation and exile, which she will pronounce.
I went forth to her house. The drawing-room and summer-house
were empty. I summoned Philip the footman—
his mistress was gone to Mr. Stedman's.
How?—To Stedman's?—In whose company?
Miss Stedman and her brother called for her in the carriage,
and persuaded her to go with them.
Now my heart sunk, indeed! Miss Stedman's brother!
A youth, forward, gallant and gay! Flushed with prosperity,
and just returned from Europe, with all the confidence
of age, and all the ornaments of education! She has gone
with him, though pre-engaged to me! Poor Arthur, how
art thou despised!
This information only heightened my impatience. I went
away, but returned in the evening. I waited till eleven, but
she came not back. I cannot justly paint the interval that
passed till next morning. It was void of sleep. On leaving
her house, I wandered into the fields. Every moment increased
my impatience. She will probably spend the morrow
at Stedman's, said I, and possibly the next day. Why
should I wait for her return? Why not seek her there, and
rid myself at once of this agonizing suspense? Why not
go thither now? This night, wherever I spend it, will be
unacquainted with repose. I will go, it is already near
twelve, and the distance is more than eight miles. I will
hover near the house till morning, and then, as early as possible,
demand an interview.
I was well acquainted with Stedman's Villa, having
formerly been there with Mrs. Fielding. I quickly entered
its precincts. I went close to the house; looked
mournfully at every window. At one of them a light
was to be seen, and I took various stations to discover,
if possible, the persons within. Methought once I caught
a glimpse of a female, whom my fancy easily imagined to
be Achsa. I sat down upon the lawn, some hundred feet
from the house, and opposite the window whence the light
proceeded. I watched it, till at length some one came to
the window, lifted it, and leaning on her arms, continued to
look out.
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The preceding day had been a very sultry one; the night,
as usual after such a day, and the fall of a violent shower,
was delightfully serene and pleasant. Where I stood, was
enlightened by the moon. Whether she saw me or not, I
could hardly tell, or whether she distinguished any thing but
a human figure.
Without reflecting on what was due to decorum and
punctilio, I immediately drew near the house. I quickly
perceived that her attention was fixed. Neither of us
spoke, till I had placed myself directly under her; I then
opened my lips, without knowing in what manner to address
her. She spoke first, and in a startled and anxious
voice—
Who is that?
Arthur Mervyn; he that was two days ago your friend.
Mervyn! What is it that brings you here at this hour?
What is the matter? What has happened? Is any body
sick?
All is safe—all are in good health.
What then do you come hither for at such an hour?
I meant not to disturb you; I meant not be seen.
Good Heavens! How you frighten me. What can be
the reason of so strange—
Be not alarmed. I meant to hover near the house till
morning, that I might see you as early as possible.
For what purpose?
I will tell you when we meet, and let that be at five
o'clock; the sun will then be risen; in the cedar grove
under the bank; till when, farewell.
Having said this, I prevented all expostulation, by turning
the angle of the house, and hastening towards the shore of
the river. I roved about the grove that I have mentioned.
In one part of it is a rustic seat and table, shrouded by trees
and shrubs, and an intervening eminence, from the view of
those in the house. This I designed to be the closing scene
of my destiny.
Presently, I left this spot, and wandered upward through
embarrassed and obscure paths, starting forward or checking
my pace, according as my wayward meditations governed
me. Shall I describe my thoughts?—Impossible! It was
certainly a temporary loss of reason; nothing less than
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madness could lead into such devious tracts, drag me down
to so hopeless, helpless, panicful a depth, and drag me
down so suddenly; lay waste, as at a signal, all my flourishing
structures, and reduce them in a moment to a scene of
confusion and horror.
What did I fear? What did I hope? What did I design?
I cannot tell; my glooms were to retire with the
night. The point to which every tumultuous feeling was
linked, was the coming interview with Achsa. That was
the boundary of fluctuation and suspense. Here was the
sealing and ratification of my doom.
I rent a passage through the thicket, and struggled upward
till I reached the edge of a considerable precipice;
I laid me down at my length upon the rock, whose cold
and hard surface I pressed with my bared and throbbing
breast. I leaned over the edge; fixed my eyes upon the
water, and wept—plentifully; but why?
May this be my heart's last beat, if I can tell why.
I had wandered so far from Stedman's, that when roused
by the light, I had some miles to walk before I could reach
the place of meeting. Achsa was already there. I slid
down the rock above, and appeared before her. Well
might she be startled at my wild and abrupt appearance.
I placed myself, without uttering a word, upon a seat opposite
to her, the table between, and crossing my arms upon
the table, leaned my head upon them, while my face was
turned towards and my eyes fixed upon hers. I seemed to
have lost the power and the inclination to speak.
She regarded me, at first, with anxious curiosity? after
examining my looks, every emotion was swallowed up in terrified
sorrow. For God's sake!—what does all this mean?
Why am I called to this place? What tidings, what fearful
tidings do you bring?
I did not change my posture or speak. What, she resumed,
could inspire all this wo? Keep me not in this suspense,
Arthur; these looks and this silence shock and afflict
me too much.
Afflict you? said I, at last; I come to tell you, what, now
that I am here, I cannot tell—there I stopped.
Say what, I entreat you. You seem to be very unhappy—
such a change—from yesterday!
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Yes! From yesterday; all then was a joyous calm, and
now all is—but then I knew not my infamy, my guilt—
What words are these, and from you, Arthur? Guilt is to
you impossible. If purity is to be found on earth, it is
lodged in your heart. What have you done?
I have dared—how little you expect the extent of my
daring. That such as I should look upwards with this
ambition.
I stood up, and taking her hands in mine, as she sat,
looked earnestly in her face—I come only to beseech your
pardon. To tell you my crime, and then disappear forever;
but first let me see if there be any omen of forgiveness.
Your looks—they are kind; heavenly; compassionate
still. I will trust them, I believe; and yet—letting go
her hands, and turning away.—This offence is beyond the
reach even of your mercy.
How beyond measure these words and this deportment
distress me! Let me know the worst; I cannot bear to be
thus perplexed.
Why, said I, turning quickly round, and again taking her
hands, that Mervyn, whom you have honored and confided
in, and blessed with your sweet regards, has been—
What has he been? Divinely amiable, heroic in his virtue,
I am sure. What else has he been?
This Mervyn has imagined, has dared—Will you forgive
him?
Forgive you what? Why don't you speak? Keep not my
soul in this suspense.
He has dared—But do not think that I am he. Continue
to look as now, and reserve your killing glances, the vengeance
of those eyes as for one that is absent.—Why,
what—You weep, then, at last. That is a propitious sign.
When pity drops from the eyes of our judge, then should
the suppliant approach. Now, in confidence of pardon, I
will tell you; this Mervyn, not content with all you have
hitherto granted him, has dared—to love you; nay, to think
of you, as of his wife!
Her eye sunk beneath mine, and disengaging her hands,
covered her face with them.
I see my fate, said I, in a tone of despair. Too well did
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I predict the effect of this confession; but I will go—and
unforgiven.
She now partly uncovered her face. The hand withdrawn
from her cheek, and stretched towards me. She looked at
me.
Arthur! I do forgive thee.—With what accents was this
uttered! With what looks! The cheek that was before
pale with terror, was now crimsoned over by a different
emotion, and delight swam in her eye.
Could I mistake? My doubts, my new born fears made
me tremble, while I took the offered hand.
Surely—faltered I, I am not—I cannot be—so blessed.
There was no need of words. The hand that I held, was
sufficiently eloquent. She was still silent.
Surely, said I, my senses deceive me. A bliss like this
cannot be reserved for me. Tell me, once more—set my
doubting heart at rest.—
She now gave herself to my arms—I have not words—
Let your own heart tell you, you have made your Achsa—
At this moment, a voice from without, it was Miss Stedman's,
called—Mrs. Fielding! where are you?
My friend started up, and in a hasty voice, bade me begone!
You must not be seen by this giddy girl. Come
hither this evening, as if by my appointment, and I will return
with you.—She left me in a kind of trance. I was immovable.
My reverie was too delicious;—but let me not
attempt the picture. If I can convey no image of my state,
previous to this interview, my subsequent feelings are still
more beyond the reach of my powers to describe.
Agreeably to the commands of my mistress, I hastened
away, evading paths which might expose me to observation.
I speedily made my friends partake of my joy, and
passed the day in a state of solemn but confused rapture.
I did not accurately portray the various parts of my felicity.
The whole rushed upon my soul at once. My conceptions
were too rapid, and too comprehensive to be distinct.
I went to Stedman's in the evening. I found in the accents
and looks of my Achsa new assurances that all which
had lately passed was more than a dream. She made excuses
for leaving the Stedmans' sooner than ordinary, and
was accompanied to the city by her friend. We dropped
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Mrs. Fielding at her own house, and thither, after accompanying
Miss Stedman to her own home, I returned upon the
wings of tremulous impatience.
Now could I repeat every word of every conversation that
has since taken place betwen us; but why should I do that
on paper? Indeed it could not be done. All is of equal
value, and all could not be comprised but in many volumes.
There needs nothing more deeply to imprint it on my
memory; and while thus reviewing the past, I should be
iniquitously neglecting the present. What is given to the
pen, would be taken from her; and that, indeed, would
be—but no need of saying what it would be, since it is impossible.
I merely write to allay these tumults which our necessary
separation produces; to aid me in calling up a little patience,
till the time arrives, when our persons, like our minds, shall
be united forever. That time—may nothing happen to
prevent—but nothing can happen. But why this ominous
misgiving just now? My love has infected me with these
unworthy terrors, for she has them too.
This morning I was relating my dream to her. She
started, and grew pale. A sad silence ensued the cheerfulness
that had reigned before—why thus dejected, my
friend?
I hate your dream. It is a horrid thought. Would to
God it had never occurred to you.
Why surely you place no confidence in dreams.
I know not where to place confidence; not in my present
promises of joy—and she wept. I endeavored to soothe or
console her. Why, I asked, did she weep.
My heart is sore. Former disappointments were so
heavy; the hopes which were blasted, were so like my
present ones, that the dread of a like result, will intrude
upon my thoughts. And now your dream! Indeed, I know
not what to do. I believe I ought still to retract—ought, at
least, to postpone an act so irrevocable.
Now was I obliged again to go over my catalogue of
arguments to induce her to confirm her propitious resolution
to be mine within the week. I, at last, succeeded, even in
restoring her serenity, and beguiling her fears by dwelling
on our future happiness.
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Our household, while we staid in America—in a year or
two we hie to Europe—should be thus composed. Fidelity,
and skill, and pure morals, should be sought out, and enticed,
by generous recompences, into our domestic service.
Duties which should be light and regular.—Such and such
should be our amusements and employments abroad and at
home, and would not this be true happiness?
O yes—if it may be so.
It shall be so; but this is but the humble outline of the
scene; something is still to be added to complete our felicity.
What more can be added!
What more? Can Achsa ask what more? She who has
not been only a wife—
But why am I indulging this pen prattle? The hour she
fixed for my return to her is come, and now take thyself
away, quill. Lie there, snug in thy leathern case, till I call
for thee, and that will not be very soon. I believe I will
abjure thy company till all is settled with my love. Yes; I
will abjure thee, so let this be thy last office, till Mervyn has
been made the happiest of men.
END OF SECOND VOLUME.
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