University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

After viewing various parts of the city; intruding
into churches; and diving into alleys, I returned.
The rest of the day I spent chiefly in my chamber, reflecting
on my new condition; surveying my apartment, its presses
and closets; and conjecturing the causes of appearances.

At dinner and supper I was alone. Venturing to inquire
of the servant where his master and mistress were, I was
answered that they were engaged. I did not question him
as to the nature of their engagement, though it was a fertile
source of curiosity.

Next morning, at breakfast, I again met Welbeck and the
lady. The incidents were nearly those of the preceding
morning, if it were not that the lady exhibited tokens of
somewhat greater uneasiness. When she left us Welbeck
sank into apparent meditation. I was at a loss whether to
retire or remain where I was. At last, however, I was on
the point of leaving the room, when he broke silence and
began a conversation with me.

He put questions to me, the obvious scope of which was
to know my sentiments on moral topics. I had no motives
to conceal my opinions, and therefore delivered them with
frankness. At length he introduced allusions to my own history,
and made more particular inquiries on that head. Here
I was not equally frank: yet I did not fain any thing, but
merely dealt in generals. I had acquired notions of propriety

on this head, perhaps somewhat fastidious. Minute details,
respecting our own concerns, are apt to weary all but the
narrator himself. I said thus much and the truth of my
remark was eagerly assented to.

With some marks of hesitation and after various preliminaries,
my companion hinted that my own interest, as well
as his, enjoined upon me silence to all but himself, on the
subject of my birth and early adventures. It was not likely,
that while in his service, my circle of acquaintance would be
large or my intercourse with the world frequent; but in my
communication with others he requested me to speak rather
of others than of myself. This request, he said, might appear
singular to me, but he had his reasons for making it, which
it was not necessary, at present, to disclose, though, when I
should know them, I should readily acknowledge their validity.

I scarcely knew what answer to make. I was willing to
oblige him. I was far from expecting that any exigence
would occur, making disclosure my duty. The employment
was productive of pain more than of pleasure, and the curiosity
that would uselessly seek a knowledge of my past life,
was no less impertinent than the loquacity that would uselessly
communicate that knowledge. I readily promised,
therefore, to adhere to his advice.

This assurance afforded him evident satisfaction; yet it
did not seem to amount to quite as much as he wished. He
repeated in stronger terms, the necessity there was for caution.
He was far from suspecting me to possess an impertinent
and talkative disposition, or that in my eagerness to
expatiate on my own concerns, I should overstep the limits
of politeness: But this was not enough. I was to govern
myself by a persuasion that the interests of my friend and
myself would be materially affected by my conduct.

Perhaps I ought to have allowed these insinuations to breed
suspicion in my mind: but conscious as I was of the benefits
which I had received from this man; prone, from my inexperience,

to rely upon professions and confide in appearances;
and unaware that I could be placed in any condition, in
which mere silence respecting myself could be injurious or
criminal, I made no scruple to promise compliance with his
wishes. Nay, I went farther than this: I desired to be accurately
informed as to what it was proper to conceal. He
answered that my silence might extend to every thing anterior
to my arrival in the city, and my being incorporated
with his family. Here our conversation ended and I retired
to ruminate on what had passed.

I derived little satisfaction from my reflections. I began
now to perceive inconveniencies that might arise from this
precipitate promise. Whatever should happen in consequence
of my being immured in the chamber, and of the loss of
my clothes and of the portrait of my friend, I had bound myself
to silence. These inquietudes, however, were transient.
I trusted that these events would operate auspiciously; but
my curiosity was now awakened as to the motives which
Welbeck could have for exacting from me this concealment?
To act under the guidance of another, and to wander in the
dark, ignorant whither my path tended, and what effects
might flow from my agency, was a new and irksome situation.

From these thoughts I was recalled by a message from
Welbeck. He gave me a folded paper which he requested
me to carry to No..... South Fourth Street, “Inquire,” said
he, “for Mrs. Wentworth, in order merely to ascertain the
house, for you need not ask to see her: merely give the letter
to the servant and retire. Excuse me for imposing this service
upon you. It is of too great moment to be trusted to a
common messenger: I usually perform it myself, but am at
present otherwise engaged.”

I took the letter and set out to deliver it. This was a
trifling circumstance, yet my mind was full of reflections on
the consequences that might flow from it. I remembered the
directions that were given, but construed them in a manner
different, perhaps, from Welbeck's expectations or wishes.

He had charged me to leave the billet with the servant who
happened to answer my summons; but had he not said that
the message was important, insomuch that it could not be
intrusted to common hands? He had permitted, rather than
enjoined, me to dispense with seeing the lady, and this permission
I conceived to be dictated merely by regard to my
convenience. It was incumbent on me, therefore, to take
some pains to deliver the script into her own hands.

I arrived at the house and knocked. A female servant
appeared. “Her mistress was up stairs: she would tell her if
I wished to see her,” and meanwhile invited me to enter the
parlour: I did so; and the girl retired to inform her mistress
that one waited for her—I ought to mention that my departure
from the directions which I had received was, in some
degree, owing to an inquisitive temper: I was eager after
knowledge, and was disposed to profit by every opportunity
to survey the interior of dwellings and converse with their
inhabitante.

I scanned the walls, the furniture, the pictures. Over
the fire-place was portrait in oil of a female. She was
elderly and matron-like. Perhaps she was the mistress of
this habitation, and the person to whom I should immediately
be introduced. Was it a casual suggestion, or was there an
actual resemblance between the strokes of the pencil which
executed this portrait and that of Clavering? However that
be, the sight of this, picture revived the memory of my
friend and called up a fugitive suspicion that this was the
production of his skill.

I was busily revolving this idea when the lady herself
entered. It was the same whose portrait I had been examining.
She fixed scrutinizing and powerful eyes upon me.
She looked at the superscription of the letter which I presented,
and immediately resumed her examination of me.
I was somewhat abashed by the closeness of her observation
and gave tokens of this state of mind which did not pass
unobserved. They seemed instantly to remind her that she

behaved with too little regard to civility. She recovered
herself and began to peruse the letter. Having done this,
her attention was once more fixed upon me. She was
evidently desirous of entering into some conversation, but
seemed at a loss in what manner to begin. This situation
was new to me and was productive of no small embarrassment.
I was preparing to take my leave when she spoke,
though not without considerable hesitation.

“This letter is from Mr. Welbeck—you are his friend—
I presume—perhaps—a relation?”

I was conscious that I had no claim to either of these
titles, and that I was no more than his servant. My pride
would not allow me to acknowledge this, and I merely said—
“I live with him at present Madam.”

I imagined that this answer did not perfectly satisfy her;
yet she received it with a certain air of acquiescene. She
was silent for a few minutes, and then, rising, said—“Excuse
me, Sir, for a few minutes. I will write a few words
to Mr. Welbeck.”—So sayings he withdrew.

I returned to the contemplation of the picture. From
this, however, my attention was quickly diverted by a paper
that lay on the mantle. A single glance was sufficient to
put my blood into motion. I started and laid my hand upon
the well-known pacquet. It was that which inclosed the
portrait of Clavering!

I unfolded and examined it with eagerness. By what
miracle came it hither? It was found, together with my
bundle, two nights before. I had despaired of ever seeing
it again, and yet, here was the same portrait inclosed in the
self-same paper! I have forborne to dwell upon the regret,
amounting to grief, with which I was affected in consequence
of the loss of this precious relique. My joy on thus
speedily and unexpectedly regaining it, is not easily described.

For a time I did not reflect that to hold it thus in my
hand was not sufficient to intitle me to repossession. I

must acquaint this lady with the history of this picture, and
convince her of my ownership. But how was this to be done?
Was she connected in any way, by friendship or by consan
guinity, with that unfortunate youth. If she were, some
information as to his destiny would be anxiously sought. I
did not, just then, perceive any impropriety in imparting it.
If it came into her hands by accident still it will be necessary
to relate the mode in which it was lost in order to prove
my title to it.

I now heard her descending footsteps and hastily replaced
the picture on the mantle. She entered, and presenting me
a letter, desired me to deliver it to Mr. Welbeck. I had
no pretext for deferring my departure; but was unwilling to
go without obtaining possession of the portrait. An interval
of silence and irresolution succeeded. I cast significant
glances at the spot where it lay and at length, mustered un
my strength of mind, and pointing to the paper—“Madam,”
said I, “there is something which I recognize to be mine—
I know not how it came into your possession, but so lately
as the day before yesterday, it was in mine. I lost it by a
strange accident, and as I deem it of inestimable value, I
hope you will have no objection to restore it.”—

During this speech the lady's countenance exhibited marks
of the utmost perturbation—“Your picture!” she exclaimed,
“You lost it! How? Where? Did you know that person?
What has become of him?”—

“I knew him well,” said I. “That picture was executed
by himself. He gave it to me with his own hands; and,
till the moment I unfortunately lost it, it was my dear and
perpetual companion.”

“Good Heaven!” she exclaimed with increasing vehemence,
“where did you meet with him? What has become
of him? Is he dead or alive?”

These appearances sufficiently shewed me that Clavering
and this lady were connected by some ties of tenderness. I
answered that he was dead; that my mother and myself were

his attendants and nurses, and that this portrait was his
legacy to me.

This intelligence melted her into tears, and it was some
time before she recovered strength enough to resume the
conversation. She then inquired “When and where was it
that he died? How did you lose this portrait? It was found
wrapt in some coarse clothes, lying in a stall in the market-house,
on Saturday evening. Two negro women, servants
of one of my friends, strolling through the market, found it
and brought it to their mistress, who, recognizing the portrait,
sent it to me. To whom did that bundle belong?
Was it yours?”

These questions reminded me of the painful predicament
in which I now stood. I had promised Welbeck to conceal
from every one my former condition: but to explain in what
manner this bundle was lost, and how my intercourse with
Clavering had taken place was to violate this promise. It
was possible, perhaps, to escape the confession of the truth
by equivocation. Falsehoods were easily invented, and
might lead her far away from my true condition: but I was
wholly unused to equivocation. Never yet had a lie polluted
my lips. I was not weak enough to be ashamed of
my origin. This lady had an interest in the fate of Clavering,
and might justly claim all the information which I
was able to impart. Yet to forget the compact which I had
so lately made, and an adherence to which might possibly be,
in the highest degree, beneficial to me and to Welbeck—
I was willing to adhere to it, provided falsehood could be
avoided.

These thoughts rendered me silent. The pain of my
embarrassment amounted almost to agony. I felt the keenest
regret at my own precipitation in claiming the picture.
Its value to me was altogether imaginary. The affection
which this lady had borne the original, whatever was the
source of that affection, would prompt her to cherish the

copy, and, however precious it was in my eyes, I should
cheerfully resign it to her.

In the confusion of my thoughts an expedient suggested
itself sufficiently inartificial and bold—“It is true, Madam;
what I have said. I saw him breathe his last. This is his
only legacy. If you wish it I willingly resign it; but this
is all that I can now disclose. I am placed in circumstances
which render it improper to say more.”

These words were uttered not very distinctly, and the
lady's vehemence hindered her from noticing them. She
again repeated her interrogations, to which I returned the
same answer.

At first she expressed the utmost surprise at my conduct.
From this she descended to some degree of asperity. She
made rapid allusions to the history of Clavering. He was
the son of the gentleman who owned the house in which
Welbeck resided. He was the object of immeasurable
fondness and indulgence. He had sought permission to
travel, and this being refused by the absurd timidity of his
parents, he had twice been frustrated in attempting to embark
for Europe clandestinely. They ascribed his disappearance
to a third and successful attempt of this kind, and had exercised
anxious and unwearied diligence in endeavouring to
trace his footsteps. All their efforts had failed. One motive
for their returning to Europe was the hope of discovering
some traces of him, as they entertained no doubt of his
having crossed the ocean. The vehemence of Mrs. Wentworth's
curiosity as to those particulars of his life and death
may be easily conceived. My refusal only heightened this
passion.

Finding me refractory to all her efforts she at length dismissed
me in anger.