 | CHAPTER XII. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
Such was Welbeck's tale listened to by me with
an eagerness in which every faculty was absorbed. How
adverse to my dreams were the incidents that had just been
related! The curtain was lifted, and a scene of guilt and ignominy
disclosed where my rash and inexperienced youth had
suspected nothing but loftiness and magnanimity.
For a while the wondrousness of this tale kept me from
contemplating the consequences that awaited us. My unfledged
fancy had not hitherto soared to this pitch. All was
astounding by its novelty, or terrific by its horror. The very
scene of these offences partook, to my rustic apprehension, of
fairy splendour, and magical abruptness. My understanding
was bemazed, and my senses were taught to distrust
their own testimony.
From this musing state I was recalled by my companion,
who said to me in solemn accents. Mervyn! I have but
two requests to make. Assist me to bury these remains,
and then accompany me accross the river. I have no power
to compel your silence on the acts that you have witnessed.
I have meditated to benefit, as well as to injure you; but I
do not desire that your demeanour should conform to any
other standard than justice. You have promised, and to
that promise I trust.
If you chuse to fly from this scene, to witdraw yourself
from what you may conceive to be a theatre of guilt or peril,
you have a man-like spirit, if you are grateful for the benefits
bestowed upon you, if your discernment enables you to
see that compliance with my request will intangle you in no
guilt, and betray you into no danger, stay, and aid me in
hiding these remains from human scrutiny.
Watson is beyond the reach of further injury. I never
intended him harm, though I have torn from him his sister
and friend, and have brought his life to an untimely close.
To provide him a grave, is a duty that I owe to the dead and
to the living. I shall quickly place myself beyond the reach
of inquisitors and judges, but would willingly rescue from
molestation or suspicion those whom I shall leave behind.
What would have been the fruit of deliberation, if I had
had the time or power to deliberate, I know not. My thoughts
flowed with tumult and rapidity. To shut this spectacle
from my view was the first impulse; but to desert this man,
in a time of so much need, appeared a thankless and dastardly
deportment. To remain where I was, to conform implicitly
to his direction, required no effort. Some fear was
connected with his presence, and with that of the dead; but,
in the tremulous confusion of my present thoughts, solitude
would conjure up a thousand phantoms.
I made no preparation to depart. I did not verbally
assent to his proposal. He interpreted my silence into acquiescence.
He wrapt the body in the carpet, and then lifting
one end, cast at me a look which indicated his expectations,
that I would aid him in lifting this ghastly burthen. During
this process, the silence was unbroken.
I knew not whither he intended to convey the corpse. He
had talked of burial, but no receptacle had been provided.
How far safety might depend upon his conduct in this particular,
I was unable to estimate. I was in too heartless a
mood to utter my doubts. I followed his example in raising
the corpse from the floor.
He led the way into the passage and down stairs. Having
reached the first floor, he unbolted a door which led into the
cellar. The stairs and passage were illuminated by lamps,
that hung from the ceiling, and were accustomed to burn
during the night. Now, however, we were entering dark-some
and murky recesses.
Return, said he, in a tone of command, and fetch the light.
I will wait for you.
I obeyed. As I returned with the light, a suspicion stole
into my mind, that Welbeck had taken this opportunity to
fly; and that on regaining the foot of the stairs, I should
find the spot deserted by all but the dead. My blood was
chilled by this image. The momentary resolution it inspired
was to follow the example of the fugitive, and leave the persons,
whom the ensuing day might convene on this spot, to form
their own conjectures as to the cause of this catastrophe.
Meanwhile, I cast anxious eyes forward. Welbeck was
discovered in the same place and posture in which he had
been left, lifting the corpse and its shroud in his arms he
directed me to follow him. The vaults beneath were lofty
and spacious. He passed from one to the other till we
reached a small and remote cell. Here he cast his burthen
on the ground. In the fall, the face of Watson chanced to
be disengaged from its covering. Its closed eyes and sunken
muscles were rendered, in a tenfold degree, ghastly and
rueful by the feeble light which the candle shed upon it.
This object did not escape the attention of Welbeck.
He leaned against the wall and folding his arms resigned himself
to reverie. He gazed upon the countenance of Watson
but his looks denoted his attention to be elsewhere employed.
As to me, my state will not be easily described. My
eye roved fearfully from one object to another. By turns it
was fixed upon the murdered person and the murderer. The
narrow cell in which we stood, its rudely fashioned walls and
arches, destitute of communication with the external air,
and its palpable dark scarcely penetrated by the rays of a
universal, produced an impression on my fancy which no
time will obliterate.
Perhaps my imagination was distempered by terror. The
incident which I am going to relate may appear to have
existed only in my fancy. Be that as it may, I experienced
all the effects which the fullest belief is adapted to produce.
glancing vaguely at the countenance of Watson, my attention
was arrested by a convulsive motion in the eye-lids. This
motion increased, till, at length the eyes opened, and a
glance, languid but wild, was thrown around. Instantly
they closed, and the tremulous appearance vanished.
I started from my place and was on the point of uttering
some involuntary exclamation. At the same moment.
Welbeck seemed to recover from his reverie.
How is this! said he. Why do we linger here? Every
moment is precious. We cannot dig for him a grave with
our hands. Wait here, while I go in search of a spade.
Saying this, he snatched the candle from my hand, and
hasted away. My eye followed the light as its gleams shifted
their place upon the walls and ceilings, and gradually vanishing,
gave place to unrespited gloom. This proceeding
was so unexpected and abrupt, that I had no time to remonstrate
against it. Before I retreived the power of reflection,
the light had disappeared and the foot-steps were no longer to
be heard.
I was not, on ordinary occasions, destitute of equanimity,
but, perhaps the imagination of man is naturally abhorrent
of death, until tutored into indifference by habit. Every
circumstance combined to fill me with shuddering and panick.
For a while, I was enabled to endure my situation by the
exertions of my reason. That the lifeless remains of an
human being are powerless to injure or benefit, I was thoroughly
persuaded. I summoned this belief to my aid, and
was able, if not to subdue, yet to curb my fears. I listened
hoped that every new moment would terminate my solitude.
No signal of his coming was afforded. At length it occurred
to me that Welbeck had gone with no intention to
return: That his malice had seduced me hither, to encounter
the consequences of his deed. He had fled and barred every
door behind him. This suspicion may well be supposed to
overpower my courage, and to call forth desperate efforts
for my deliverance.
I extended my hands and went forward. I had been too
little attentive to the situation and direction of these vaults
and passages, to go forward with undeviating accuracy. My
fears likewise tended to confuse my perceptions and bewilder
my steps. Notwithstanding the danger of encountering
obstructions. I rushed towards the entrance with precipitation.
My temerity was quickly punished. In a moment, I was
repelled by a jutting angle of the wall, with such force that
I staggered backward and fell. The blow was stunning, and
when I recovered my senses, I perceived that a torrent of
blood was gushing from my nostrils. My clothes were moistened
with this unwelcome effusion, and I could not but
reflect on the hazard which I should incur by being detected
in this recess, covered by these accusing stains.
This reflection once more set me on my feet, and incited
my exertions. I now proceeded with greater wariness and
caution. I had lost all distinct notions of my way. My motions
were at random. All my labour was to shun obstructions
and to advance whenever the vacuity would permit.
By this means, the entrance was at length found, and after
various efforts, I arrived, beyond my hopes, at the foot of
the stair-case.
I ascended, but quickly encountered an infuperable impediment.
The door at the stair-head, was closed and barred.
My utmost strength was exerted in vain, to break the lock or
the hinges. Thus were my direst apprehensions fulfilled.
obviate suspicions the most atrocious and plausible that
the course of human events is capable of producing.
Here I must remain till the morrow: till some one can
be made to overhear my calls and come to my deliverance.
What effects will my appearance produce on the spectator!
Terrified by phantoms and stained with blood shall I not
exhibit the tokens of a maniac as well as an assassin?
The corpse of Watson will quickly be discovered. If
previous to this disclosure I should change my blood-stained
garments and withdraw into the country, shall I not
be pursued by the most vehement suspicions and, perhaps,
hunted to my obscurest retreat by the ministers of justice?
I am innocent, but my tale however circumstantial or true,
will scarcely suffice for my vindicat on. My flight will be
construed into a proof of incontestable guilt.
While harassed by these thoughts my attention was
attracted by a faint gleam cast upon the bottom of the staircase.
It grew stronger, hovered for a moment in my sight,
and then disappeared. That it proceeded from a lamp or
candle, borne by some one along the passages was no untenable
opinion, but was far less probable than that the effulgence
was meteorous. I confided in the latter supposition and
fortified myself anew against the dread of preternatural
dangers. My thoughts reverted to the contemplation of
the hazards and suspicions which flowed from my continuance
in this spot.
In the midst of my perturbed musing, my attention was
again recalled by an illumination like the former. Instead
of hovering and vanishing, it was permanent. No ray could
be more feeble, but the tangible obscurity to which it succeeded
rendered it conspicuous as an electrical flash. For a
while I eyed it without moving from my place, and in
momentary expectation of its disappearance.
Remarking its stability, the propriety of scrutinizing it
more nearly, and of ascertaining the source whence it flowed,
parent of my conduct. Though utterly at a loss to assign
the cause of this appearance, I was willing to believe some
connection between that cause and the means of my deliverance.
I had scarcely formed the resolution of descending the
stair, when my hope was extinguished by the recollection
that the cellar had narrow and grated windows, through
which light from the street might possibly have found access.
A second recollection supplanted this belief, for in my way
to this stair-case, my attention would have been solicited,
and my steps, in some degree, been guided by light coming
through these avenues.
Having returned to the bottom of the stair, I perceived
every part of the long drawn passage illuminated. I threw
a glance forward, to the quarter whence the rays seemed to
proceed, and beheld, at a considerable distance, Welbeck in
the cell which I had left, turning up the earth with a spade.
After a pause of astonishment, the nature of the error
which I had committed, rushed upon apprehension. I now
perceived that the darkness had misled me to a different
stair-case from that which I had originally descended, It was
apparent that Welbeck intended me no evil, but had really
gone in search of the instrument which he had mentioned.
This discovery overwhelmed me with contrition and shame,
though it freed from the terrors of imprisonment and accusation.
To return to the cell which I had left, and where
Welbeck was employed in his disastrous office, was the
expedient which regards to my own safety unavoidably suggested.
Welbeck paused at my approach, and betrayed a momentary
consternation at the sight of my ensanguined visage.
The blood, by some inexplicable process of nature, perhaps
by the counteracting influence of fear, had quickly ceased
to flow. Whether the cause of my evasion, and of my flux
of blood, was guessed, or whether his attention was with
proceeded in his task in silence.
A shallow bed, and a slight covering of clay was provided
for the hapless Watson. Welbeck's movements were hurried
and tremulous. His countenance betokened a mind engrossed
by a single purpose, in some degree, foreign to the
scene before him. An intensity and fixedness of features, that
conspicuous, were led me to suspect the subversion of his
reason.
Having finished the task, he threw aside his impliment.
He then put into my hand a pocket-book, saying it belonged
to Watsou, and might contain something serviceable to the
living. I might make what use of it I thought proper. He
then remounted the stairs and, placing the candle on a table
in the hall, opened the principal door and went forth. I was
driven, by a sort of mechanical impulse, in his foots-teps. I
followed him because it was agreeable to him and because I
knew not whither else to direct my steps.
The streets were desolate and silent. The watchman's
call remotely and faintly heard, added to the general solemnity.
I followed my companion in a state of mind not easily
described. I had no spirit even to inquire whither he was
going. It was not till we arrived at the water's edge that I
persuaded myself to break silence. I then began to reflect
on the degree in which his present schemes might endanger
Welbeck or myself. I had acted long enough a servile
and mechanical part; and been guided by blind and foreign
impulses. It was time to lay aside my fetters, and demand
to know whither the path tended in which I was importuned
to walk.
Meanwhile I found myself intangled among boats and
shipping. I am unable to describe the spot by any indisputable
tokens. I know merely that it was the termination of
one of the principal streets. Here Welbeck selected a boat
and prepared to enter it. For a moment I hesitated to comply
with his apparent invitation. I stammered out an interrogation.
service can I do for you? I ought to know the purpose of my
voyage before I enter it.
He checked himself and surveyed me for a minute in
silence. What do you fear? said he. Have I not explained
my wishes? Merely cross the river with me, for I cannot
navigate a boat by myself. Is there any thing ardnous or
mysterious in this undertaking? we part on the Jersey shore,
and I shall leave you to your destiny. All I shall ask from
you will be silence, and to hide from mankind what you know
concerning me.
He now entered the boat and urged me to follow his example.
I reluctantly complied. I perceived that the boat contained
but one oar and that was a small one. He seemed
startled and thrown into great perplexity by this discovery.
It will be impossible, said he, in a tone of panic and vexation,
to procure another at this hour; what is to be done?
This impediment was by no means insuperable. I had
sinewy arms and knew well how to use an oar for the double
purpose of oar and rudder. I took my station at the stern,
and quickly extricated the boat from its neighbours and from
the wharves. I was wholly unacquainted with the river.
The bar, by which it was incumbered, I knew to exist, but
in what direction and to what extent it existed, and how it
might be avoided in the present state of the tide I knew not.
It was probable, therefore, unknowing as I was of the proper
tract, that our boat would speedily have grounded.
My attention, meanwhile, was fixed upon the oar. My companion
sat at the prow and was in a considerable degree
unnoticed. I cast eyes occasionally at the scene which I
had left. Its novelty, joined with the incidents of my condition,
threw me into a state of suspense and wonder which
frequently slackened my hand, and left the vessel to be driven
by the downward current. Lights were sparingly seen, and
these were perpetually fluctuating, as masts, yards, and hulls
were interposed, and passed before them. In proportion as
and the suggestion that the city was involved in confusion
and uproar, did not easily give way to maturer thoughts.
Twelve was the hour cried, and this ascended at once from
all quarters, and was mingled with the baying of dogs, so as
to produce trepidation and alarm.
From this state of magnificent and awful feeling, I was
suddenly called by the conduct of Welbeck. We had
scarcely moved two hundred yards from the shore, when he
plunged into the water. The first conception was that some
implement or part of the boat had fallen overboard. I
looked back and perceived that his seat was vacant. In my
first astonishment I loosened my hold of the oar, and it
floated away. The surface was smooth as glass and the eddy
occasioned by his sinking was scarcely visible. I had not
time to determine whether this was designed or accidental.
Its suddenness deprived me of the power to exert myself for
his succour. I wildly gazed around me in hopes of seeing
him rise. After some time my attention was drawn, by the
sound of agitation in the water, to a considerable distance.
It was too dark for any thing to be distinctly seen. There
was no cry for help. The noise was like that of one vigorously
struggling for a moment, and then finking to the bottom.
I listened with painful eagerness, but was unable to
distinguish a third signal. He sunk to rise no more.
I was, for a time, inattentive to my own situation. The
dreadfulness, and unexpectedness of this catastrophe occupied
me wholly. The quick motion of the lights upon the shore,
shewed me that I was borne rapidly along with the tide.
How to help myself, how to impede my course, or to regain
either shore, since I had lost the oar, I was unable to tell. I
was no less at a loss to conjecture whither the current, if
suffered to control my vehicle, would finally transport me.
The disappearance of lights and buildings, and the diminution
of the noises, acquainted me that I had passed the
town. It was impossible longer to hesitate. The shore was
To any exploit of this kind, my strength and my skill were
adequate. I threw away my loose gown; put the pocket-book
of the unfortunate Watson in my mouth, to preserve
it from being injured by moisture; and committed myself
to the stream.
I landed in a spot incommoded with mud and reeds. I
sunk knee-deep into the former, and was exhausted by the
fatigue of extricating myself. At length I recovered firm
ground, and threw myself on the turf to repair my wasted
strength, and to reflect on the measures which my future
welfare enjoined me to pursue.
What condition was ever parallel to mine? The transactions
of the last three days, resembled the monstrous creations
of delirium. They were painted with vivid hues on my memory;
but so rapid and incongruous were these transitions,
that I almost denied belief to their reality. They exercised
a bewildering and stupifying influence on my mind, from
which the meditations of an hour were scarcely sufficient to
relieve me. Gradually I recovered the power of arranging
my ideas, and forming conclusions.
Welbeck was dead. His property was swallowed up, and
his creditors left to wonder at his disappearance. All that
was left, was the furniture of his house, to which Mrs. Wentworth
would lay claim, in discharge of the unpaid rent.
What now was the destiny that awaited the lost and friendless
Mademoiselle Lodi. Where was the concealed? Welbeck
had dropped no intimation by which I might be led to
suspect the place of her abode. If my power, in other
respects, could have contributed aught to her relief, my ignorance
of her asylum had utterly disabled me.
But what of the murdered person? He had suddenly vanished
from the face of the earth. His fate and the place of
his interment would brobably be suspected and ascertained.
Was I sure to escape from the consequences of this deed?
Watson had relatives and friends. What influence on their
possess, it was obvious to inquire. This idea led me to the
recollection of his pocket-book. Some papers might be there
explanatory of his situation.
I resumed my feet. I knew not where to direct my steps.
I was dropping with wet, and shivering with the cold. I
was destitute of habitation and friend. I had neither money,
nor any valuable thing in my possession. I moved forward,
mechanically and at random. Where I landed was at no
great distance from the verge of the town. In a short time I
discovered the glimmering of a distant lamp. To this I
directed my steps, and here I paused to examine the contents
of the pocket-book.
I found three bank-notes, each of fifty dollars, inclosed in
a piece of blank paper. Beside these were three letters,
apparently written by his wife, and dated at Baltimore.
They were brief, but composed in a strain of great tenderness,
and containing affecting allusions to their child. I
could gather from their date and tenor, that they were
received during his absence on his recent voyage; that her
condition was considerably necessitous, and surrounded by
wants which their prolonged separation had increased.
The fourth letter was open, and seemed to have been very
lately written. It was directed to Mrs. Mary Watson. He
informed her in it of his arrival at Philadelphia from St. Domingo;
of the loss of his ship and cargo; and of his intention
to hasten home with all possible expedition. He told her that
all was lost but one hundred and fifty dollars, the greater part
of which he should bring with him, to relieve her more pressing
wants. The letter was signed, and folded, and superscribed,
but unsealed.
A little consideration shewed me, in what manner it became
me, on this occasion, to demean myself. I put the bank-notes
in the letter, and sealed it with a wafer; a few of which
were found in the pocket-book. I hesitated sometime whether
I should add any thing to the information which the
my view; but I concluded to forbear. I could select no suitable
terms in which to communicate the mournful truth. I
resolved to deposit this letter at the post-office, where I knew
letters could be left at all hours.
My reflections at length, reverted to my own condition.
what was the fate reserved for me? How far my safety might
be affected by remaining in the city, in consequence of the
disappearance of Welbeck, and my known connection with
the fugitive, it was impossible to foresee. My fears readily
suggested innumerable embarrassments and inconveniences
which would flow from this source. Besides, on what
pretence should I remain? To whom could I apply for protection
or employment? All avenues, even to subsistence,
were shut against me. The country was my sole asylum.
Here, in exchange for my labour, I could at least purchase
food, safety, and repose. But if my choice pointed to the
country, there was no reason for a moment's delay. It
would be prudent to regain the fields, and be far from this
detested city before the rising of the sun.
Meanwhile I was chilled and chaffed by the clothes that I
wore. To change them for others, was absolutely necessary
to my ease. The clothes which I wore were not my own,
and were extremely unsuitable to my new condition. My
rustic and homely garb was deposited in my chamber at
Welbeck's. These thoughts suggested the design of returning
thither. I considered, that, probably, the servants had
not been alarmed. That the door was unfastened, and the
house was accessible. It would be easy to enter and retire
without notice; and this, not without some waverings and
misgivings, I presently determined to do.
Having deposited my letter at the office, I proceeded to
my late abode. I approached, and lifted the latch with
caution. There were no appearances of any one having been
disturbed. I procured a light in the kitchen, and hied softly
and with dubious foot-steps to my chamber. There I disrobed,
coat. This change being accomplished, nothing remained
but that I should strike into the country with the utmost
expedition.
In a momentary review which I took of the past, the
design for which Welbeck professed to have originally
detained me in his service, occurred to my mind. I knew the
danger of reasoning loosely on the subject of property. To
any trinket, or piece of furniture in this house, I did not
allow myself to question the right of Mrs. Wentworth; a
right accruing to her in consequence of Welbeck's failure
in the payment of his rent; but there was one thing which
I felt an irresistible desire, and no scruples which should
forbid me, to possess, and that was, the manuscript to which
Welbeck had alluded, as having been written by the deceased
Lodi.
I was well instructed in Latin, and knew the Tuscan language
to be nearly akin to it. I despaired not of being at sometime
able to cultivate this language, and believed that the
possession of this manuscript might essentially contribute to
this end, as well as to many others equally beneficial. It was
easy to conjecture that the volume was to be found among
his printed books, and it was scarcely less easy to ascertain
the truth of this conjecture. I entered, not without tremulous
sensations, into the apartment which had been the scene
of the disastrous interview between Watson and Welbeck.
At every step I almost dreaded to behold the spectre of the
former rise before me.
Numerous and splendid volumes were arranged on mahogany
shelves, and screened by doors of glass. I ran swiftly
over their names, and was at length so fortunate as to light
upon the book of which I was in search. I immediately
secured it, and leaving the candle extinguished on a table
in the parlour, I once more issued forth into the street.
With light steps and palpitating heart I turned my face
towards the country. My necessitous condition I believed
bridge, and the eastern sky began to brighten with the dawn
of morning not till I had gained the distance of nine miles
from the city.
Such is the tale which I proposed to relate to you. Such
are the memorable incidents of five days of my life; from
which I have gathered more instruction than from the
whole tissue of my previous existence. Such are the particulars
of my knowledge respecting the crimes and misfortunes
of Welbeck; which the insinuations of Wortley, and
my desire to retain your good opinion, have induced me to
unfold.
| CHAPTER XII. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 | |