University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Welbeck did not return though hour succeeded
hour till the clock struck ten. I inquired of the servants,
who informed me that their master was not accustomed to
stay out so late. I seated myself at a table, in the parlour,
on which there stood a light, and listened for the signal of
his coming, either by the sound of steps on the pavement
without or by a peal from the bell. The silence was uninterrupted
and profound, and each minute added to my sum
of impatience and anxiety.

To relieve myself from the heat of the weather, which
was aggravated by the condition of my thoughts, as well as
to beguile this tormenting interval, it occurred to me to
betake myself to the bath. I left the candle where it stood,
and imagined that even in the bath, I should hear the sound
of the bell which would be rung upon his arrival at the door.

No such signal occurred, and, after taking this refreshment,
I prepared to return to my post. The parlour was
still unoccupied, but this was not all: the candle I had left
upon the table was gone. This was an inexplicable circumstance.
On my promise to wait for their master, the servants
had retired to bed. No signal of any one's entrance
had been given. The street door was locked and the key
hung at its customary place, upon the wall. What was I
to think? It was obvious to suppose that the candle had been
removed by a domestic; but their footsteps could not be

traced, and I was not sufficiently acquainted with the house
to find the way, especially immersed in darkness, to their
chamber. One measure, however, it was evidently proper
to take, which was to supply myself, anew, with a light.
This was instantly performed; but what was next to be done?

I was weary of the perplexities in which I was embroiled.
I saw no avenue to escape from them but that which led me
to the bosom of nature and to my ancient occupations. For
a moment I was tempted to resume my rustic garb, and, on
that very hour, to desert this habitation. One thing only detained
me; the desire to apprize my patron of the treachery
of Thetford. For this end I was anxious to obtain an
interview; but now I reflected that this information, could,
by other means be imparted. Was it not sufficient to write
him briefly these particulars, and leave him to profit by the
knowledge? Thus, I might, likewise, acquaint him with
my motives for thus abruptly and unseasonably deserting his
service.

To the execution of scheme pen and paper were necessary.
The business of writing was performed in the chamber
on the third story. I had been hitherto denied access to this
room: In it was a show of papers and books. Here it was
that the task, for which I had been retained, was to be performed;
but I was to enter it and leave it only in company
with Welbeck. For what reasons, I asked, was this procedure
to be adopted?

The influence of prohibitions and an appearance of disguise
in awakening curiosity, are well known. My mind fastened
upon the idea of this room with an unusual degree of intenseness.
I had seen it but for a moment. Many of Welbeck's
hours were spent in it. It was not to be inferred that they
were consumed in idleness: What then was the nature of
his employment over which a veil of such impenetrable
secrecy was cast?

Will you wonder that the design of entering this recess
was insensibly formed? Possibly it was locked, but its accessibleness

was likewise possible. I meant not the commission
of any crime. My principal purpose was to procure the
implements of writing, which were elsewhere not to be found.
I should neither unseal papers nor open drawers. I would
merely take a survey of the volumes and attend to the objects
that spontaneously presented themselves to my view. In
this there surely was nothing criminal or blameworthy.
Meanwhile I was not unmindful of the sudden disappearance
of the candle. This incident filled my bosom with the inquietudes
of fear and the perturbations of wonder.

Once more I paused to catch any sound that might arise
from without. All was still. I seized the candle and prepared
to mount the stairs. I had not reached the first landing
when I called to mind my midnight meeting with Welbeck
at the door of his daughter's chamber. The chamber
was now desolate: perhaps it was accessible: if so no injury
was done by entering it. My curiosity was strong, but it
pictured to itself no precise object. Three steps would
bear me to the door. The trial, whether it was fastened,
might be made in a moment; and I readily imagined that
something might be found within to reward the trouble of
examination. The door yielded to my hand and I entered.

No remarkable object was discoverable. The apartment
was supplied with the usual furniture. I bent my steps
towards a table over which a mirror was suspended. My
glances, which roved with swiftness from one object to another,
shortly lighted on a miniature portrait that hung near.
I scrutinized it with eagerness. It was impossible to overlook
its resemblance to my own visage. This was so great
that, for a moment, I imagined myself to have been the
original from which it had been drawn. This flattering conception
yielded place to a belief merely of similitude between
me and the genuine original.

The thoughts which this opinion was fitted to produce
were suspended by a new object. A small volume, that
had, apparently, been much used, lay upon the toilet. I

opened it, and found it to contain some of the Dramas of
Apostolo Zeno. I turned over the leaves: a written paper
saluted my sight. A single glance informed me that it was
English. For the present I was insensible to all motives
that would command me to forbear. I seized the paper with
an intention to peruse it.

At that moment a stunning report was heard. It was loud
enough to shake the walls of the apartment, and abrupt
enough to throw me into tremours. I dropped the book
and yielded for a moment to confusion and surprise. From
what quarter it came, I was unable accurately to determine:
but there could be no doubt, from its loudness, that it was
near, and even in the house. It was no less manifest that
the sound arose from the discharge of a pistol. Some hand
must have drawn the trigger. I recollected the disappearance
of the candle from the room below. Instantly a supposition
darted into my mind which made my hair rise and my teeth
chatter.

“This,” I said, “is the deed of Welbeck. He entered
while I was absent from the room; he hied to his chamber;
and, prompted by some unknown instigation, has inflicted
on himself death!” This idea had a tendency to palsy my
limbs and my thoughts. Some time past in painful and
tumultuous fluctuation. My aversion to this catastrophe,
rather than a belief of being, by that means, able to prevent
or repair the evil, induced me to attempt to enter his
chamber. It was possible that my conjectures were erroneous.

The door of his room was locked. I knocked: I demanded
entrance in a low voice: I put my eye and my ear
to the key-hole and the crevices: nothing could be heard or
seen. It was unavoidable to conclude that no one was
within; yet the effluvia of gun-powder was perceptible.

Perhaps the room above had been the scene of this catastrophe.
I ascended the second flight of stairs. I approached
the door. No sound could be caught by my most vigilant

attention. I put out the light that I carried, and was then
able to perceive that there was light within the room. I
scarcely knew how to act. For some minutes I paused at
the door. I spoke, and requested permission to enter. My
words were succeeded by a death-like stillness. At length I
ventured softly to withdraw the bolt; to open and to advance
within the room. Nothing could exceed the horror of my
expectation; yet I was startled by the scene that I beheld.

In a chair, whose back was placed against the front wall,
sat Welbeck. My entrance alarmed him not, nor roused
him from the stupor into which he was plunged. He rested
his bands upon his knees, and his eyes were rivetted to something
that lay, at the distance of a few feet before him, on
the floor. A second glance was sufficient to inform me of
what nature this object was. It was the body of a man,
bleeding, ghastly, and still exhibiting the marks of convulsion
and agony!

I shall omit to describe the shock which a spectacle like
this communicated to my unpractised senses. I was nearly
as panic-struck and powerless as Welbeck himself. I gazed,
without power of speech, at one time, at Welbeck: Then
I fixed terrified eyes on the distorted features of the dead.
At length, Welbeck, recovering from his reverie, looked
up, as if to see who it was that had entered. No surprise,
no alarm, was betrayed by him on seeing me. He manifested
no desire or intention to interrupt the fearful silence.

My thoughts wandered in confusion and terror. The
first impulse was to fly from the scene; but I could not be
long insensible to the exigencies of the moment. I saw
that affairs must not be suffered to remain in their present
situation. The insensibility or despair of Welbeck required
consolation and succour. How to communicate my thoughts,
or offer my assistance, I knew not. What led to this murderous
catastrophe; who it was whose breathless corpse was
before me; what concern Welbeck had in producing his
death; were as yet unknown.

At length he rose from his seat, and strode at first with
faltering, and then with more steadfast steps, across the
floor. This motion seemed to put him in possession of himself.
He seemed now, for the first time, to recognize my
presence. He turned to me and said in a tone of severity:

“How now! What brings you here?”

This rebuke was unexpected. I stammered out in reply,
that the report of the pistol had alarmed me, and that I
came to discover the cause of it.

He noticed not my answer, but resumed his perturbed
steps, and his anxious, but abstracted looks. Suddenly he
checked himself, and glancing a furious eye at the corse, he
muttered, “Yes, the die is cast. This worthless and miserable
scene shall last no longer. I will at once get rid of
life and all its humiliations.”

Here succeeded a new pause. The course of his thoughts
seemed now to become once more tranquil. Sadness, rather
than fury, overspread his features; and his accent, when he
spoke to me, was not faltering, but solemn.

“Mervyn,” said he, “you comprehend not this scene.
Your youth and inexperience make you a stranger to a deceitful
and flagitious world. You know me not. It is time
that this ignorance should vanish. The knowledge of me
and of my actions may be of use to you. It may teach you
to avoid the shoals on which my virtue and my peace have
been wrecked; but to the rest of mankind it can be of on
use. The ruin of my fame is, perhaps, irretrievable; but the
height of my iniquity need not be known. I perceive in you
a rectitude and firmness worthy to be trusted; promise me,
therefore, that not a syllable of what I tell you shall ever
pass your lips.”

I had lately experienced the inconvenience of a promise;
but I was now confused, embarrassed, ardently inquisitive
as to the nature of this scene, and unapprized of the motives
that might afterwards occur, persuading or compelling me

to disclosure. The promise which he exacted was given.
He resumed:

“I have detained you in my service, partly for your own
benefit, but chiefly for mine. I intended to inflict upon you
injury, and to do you good. Neither of these ends can I
now accomplish, unless the lessons which my example may
inculcate shall inspire you with fortitude, and arm you with
caution.

“What it was that made me thus, I know not. I am
not destitute of understanding. My thirst of knowledge,
though irregular, is ardent. I can talk and can feel as virtue
and justice prescribe; yet the tenor of my actions has
been uniform. One tissue of iniquity and folly has been my
life; while my thoughts have been familiar with enlightened
and disinterested principles. Scorn and detestation I have
heaped upon myself. Yesterday is remembered with remorse.
To-morrow is contemplated with anguish and fear; yet every
day is productive of the same crimes and of the same follies.

“I was left, by the insolvency of my father (a trader of
Liverpool,) without any means of support, but such as
labour should afford me. Whatever could generate pride,
and the love of independence, was my portion. Whatever
can incite to diligence was the growth of my condition; yet
my indolence was a cureless disease; and there were no arts
too sordid for me to practise.

“I was content to live on the bounty of a kinsman. His
family was numerous, and his revenue small. He forebore
to upbraid me, or even to insinuate the propriety of providing
for myself; but he empowered me to pursue any liberal
or mechanical profession which might suit my taste. I was
insensible to every generous motive. I laboured to forget
my dependent and disgraceful condition, because the remembrance
was a source of anguish, without being able to inspire
me with a steady resolution to change it.

“I contracted an acquaintance with a woman who was
unchaste, perverse and malignant. Me, however, she found

it no difficult task to deceive. My uncle remonstrated
against the union. He took infinite pains to unveil my
error, and to convince me that wedlock was improper for
one destitute, as I was, of the means of support, even if
the object of my choice were personally unexceptionable.

“His representations were listened to with anger. That
he thwarted my will, in this respect, even by affectionate
expostulation, cancelled all that debt of gratitude which I
owed to him. I rewarded him for all his kindness by invective
and disdam, and hastened to complete my ill-omened
marriage. I had deceived the woman's father by assertions
of possessing secret resources. To gratify my passion I
descended to dissimulation and falsehood. He admitted me
into his family, as the husband of his child; but the character
of my wife and the fallacy of my assertions were quickly
discovered. He denied me accommodation under his roof,
and I was turned forth to the world to endure the penalty of
my rashness and my indolence.

“Temptation would have moulded me into any villainous
shape. My virtuous theories and comprehensive erudition
would not have saved me from the basest of crimes. Luckily
for me, I was, for the present, exempted from temptation.
I had formed an acquaintance with a young American captain.
On being partially informed of my situation, he
invited me to embark with him for his own country. My
passage was gratuitous. I arrived, in a short time, at
Charleston, which was the place of his abode.

“He introduced me to his family, every member of which
was, like himself, imbued with affection and benevolence.
I was treated like their son and brother. I was hospitably
entertained until I should be able to select some path of
lucrative industry. Such was my incurable depravity, that
made no haste to select my pursuit. An interval of inoccupation
succeeded, which I applied to the worst purposes.

“My friend had a sister, who was married; but, during
the absence of her husband resided with her family. Hence

originated our acquaintance. The purest of human hearts
and the most vigorous understanding were hers. She idolized
her husband, who well deserved to be the object of her adoratien.
Her affection for him, and her general principles,
appeared to be confirmed beyond the power to be shaken. I
sought her intercourse without illicit views: I delighted in
the effusions of her candour and the flashes of her intelligence:
I conformed, by a kind of instinctive hypocrisy, to
her views: I spoke and felt from the influence of immediate
and momentary conviction. She imagined she had found in
me a friend worthy to partake in all her sympathies, and forward
all her wishes. We were mutually deceived. She
was the victim of self-delusion; but I must charge myself
with practising deceit both upon myself and her.

“I reflect with astonishment and horror on the steps which
led to her degradation and to my calamity. In the high
career of passion all consequences were overlooked. She was
the dupe of the most audacious sophistry and the grossest
delusion. I was the slave of sensual impulses and voluntary
blindness. The effect may be easily conceived. Not till
symptoms of pregnancy began to appear were our eyes opened
to the ruin which impended over us.

“Then I began to revolve the consequences, which the
mist of passion had hitherto concealed. I was tormented by
the pangs of remorse, and pursued by the phantom of ingratitude.
To complete my despair, this unfortunate lady was
apprised of my marriage with another woman; a circumstance
which I had anxiously concealed from her. She fled from
her father's house at a time when her husband and brother
were hourly expected. What became of her I knew not.
She left behind her a letter to her father, in which the melancholy
truth was told.

“Shame and remorse had no power over my life. To
clude the storm of invective and upbraiding; to quiet the
uproar of my mind, I did not betake myself to voluntary
death. My pusillanimity still clung to this wretched existence.

I abruptly retired from the scene, and, repairing to
the port, embarked in the first vessel which appeared. The
ship chanced to belong to Wilmington, in Delaware, and
here I sought out an obscure and cheap abode.

“I possessed no means of subsistence. I was unknown to
my neighbours, and desired to remain unknown. I was unqualified
for manual labour by all the habits of my life; but there
was no choice between penury and diligence—between honest
labour and criminal inactivity. I mused incessantly on the
forlornness of my condition. Hour after hour passed, and
the borrors of want began to encompass me. I sought with
eagerness for an avenue by which I might escape from it.
The perversness of my nature led me on from one guilty
thought to another. I took refuge in my customary sophistries,
and reconciled myself at length to a scheme of—forgery!”