 | CHAPTER XIII. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
Mervyn's pause allowed his auditors to reflect
on the particulars of his narration, and to compare them
with the facts, with a knowledge of which, their own observation
had supplied them. My profession introduced me to
the friendship of Mrs. Wentworth, by whom, after the disappearance
of Welbeck, many circumstances respecting him
had been mention. She particularly dwelt upon the deportment
and appearance of this youth, at the single interview
which took place between them, and her representations
were perfectly conformable to those which Mervyn had himself
delivered.
Previously to this interview Welbeck had insinuated to
her that a recent event had put him in possession of the truth
respecting the destiny of Clavering. A kinsman of his,
had arrived from Portugal, by whom this intelligence had
been brought. He dexterously eluded her intreaties to be
furnished with minuter information, or to introduce this
kinsman to her acquaintance. As soon as Mervyn was
ushered into her presence, she suspected him to be the person
to whom Welbeck had alluded, and this suspicion his conversation
had confirmed. She was at a loss to comprehend
the reasons of the silence which he so pertinaciously maintained.
Her uneasiness, however, prompted her to renew her solicitations.
On the day, subsequent to the catastrophe related
to see him. Gabriel, the black servant, informed the messenger
that his master had gone into the country for a week.
At the end of the week, a messenger was again dispatched
with the same errand. He called and knocked, but no one
answered his signals. He examined the entrance by the
kitchen, but every avenue was closed. It appeared that the
house was wholly deserted.
These appearances naturally gave birth to curiosity and
suspicion. The house was repeatedly examined, but the
solitude and silence within continued the same. The creditors
of Welbeck were alarmed by these appearances, and
their claims to the property remaining in the house were precluded
by Mrs. Wentworth, who, as owner of the mansion,
was legally entitled to the furniture, in place of the rent
which Welbeck had suffered to accumulate.
On examining the dwelling, all that was valuable and
portable, particularly linen and plate, was removed. The
remainder was distrained, but the tumults of pestilence succeeded,
and hindered it from being sold. Things were allowed
to continue in their former situation, and the house was carefully
secured. We had no leisure to form conjectures on
the causes of this desertion. An explanation was afforded
us by the narrative of this youth. It is probable that the
servants, finding their master's absence continue, had pillaged
the house and fled.
Meanwhile, though our curiosity with regard to Welbeck
was appeased, it was obvious to inquire by what series of
inducements and events Mervyn was reconducted to the city
and led to the spot where I first met with him. We intimated
our wishes in this respect, and our young friend readily
consented to take up the thread of his story and bring
it down to the point that was desired. For this purpose,
the ensuing evening was selected. Having, at an early
hour, shut ourselves up from all intruders and visitors, he
continued as follows:
I have mentioned that, by sun-rise, I had gained the distance
of many miles from the city. My purpose was to stop
at the first farm-house, and seek employment as a day-labourer.
The first person whom I observed was a man of
placid mien and plain garb. Habitual benevolence was apparent
amidst the wrinkles of age. He was traversing his
buck-wheat field and measuring, as it seemed, the harvest
that was now nearly ripe.
I accosted him with diffidence, and explained my wishes.
He listened to my tale with complacency, inquired into my
name and family, and into my qualifications for the office to
which I aspired. My answers were candid and full.
Why, said he, I believe thou and I can make a bargain.
We will, at least, try each other for a week or two. If it
does not suit our mutual convenience we can change. The
morning is damp and cool, and thy plight does not appear
the most comfortable that can be imagined. Come to the
house and eat some breakfast.
The behaviour of this good man filled me with gratitude
and joy. Methought I could embrace him as a father, and
entrance into his house, appeared like return to a long-lost
and much-loved home. My desolate and lonely condition
appeared to be changed for paternal regards and the tenderness
of friendship.
These emotions were confirmed and heightened by every
object that presented itself under this roof. The family
consisted of Mrs. Hadwin, two simple and affectionate
girls, his daughters, and servants. The manners of this
family, quiet, artless, and cordial, the occupations allotted,
me, the land by which the dwelling was surrounded, its pure
airs, romantic walks, and exhaustless fertility, constituted a
powerful contrast to the scenes which I had left behind, and
were congenial with every dictate of my understanding and
every sentiment that glowed in my heart.
My youth, mental cultivation, and circumspect deportment
entitled me to deference and confidence. Each hour confirmed
affections of his daughters. In the mind of my employer,
the simplicity of the husbandman and the devotion of the
Quaker, were blended with humanity and intelligence. The
sisters, Susan and Eliza, were unacquainted with calamity
and vice, through the medium of either observation or books.
They were strangers to the benefits of an elaborate education,
but they were endowed with curiosity and discernment, and
had not suffered their slender means of instruction to remain
unimproved.
The sedateness of the elder formed an amusing contrast
with the laughing eye and untamable vivacity of the younger:
but they smiled and they wept in unison. They thought
and acted in different but not discordant keys. On all momentous
occasions, they reasoned and felt alike. In ordinary
cases, they separated, as it were, into different tracks; but
this diversity was productive, not of jarring, but of harmony.
A romantic and untutored disposition like mine, may be
supposed liable to strong impressions from perpetual converse
with persons of their age and sex. The elder was soon discovered
to have already disposed of her affections. The
younger was free, and somewhat that is more easily conceived
than named, stole insensibly upon my heart. The
images that haunted me at home and abroad, in her absence
and her presence gradually coalesced into one shape, and
gave birth to an incessant train of latent palpitations and
indefinable hopes. My days were little else than uninterrupted
reveries, and night only called up phantoms more vivid
and equally enchanting.
The memorable incidents which had lately happened
scarcely counterpoised my new sensations or diverted my
contemplations from the present. My views were gradually
led to rest upon futurity, and in that I quickly found caust
of circumspection and dread. My present labours were light
and were sufficient for my subsistence in a single state; but
wedlock was the parent of new wants and of new cares.
maintenance, but divided between his children would be too
scanty for either. Besides this division could only take place
at his death, and that was an event whose speedy occurrence
was neither desirable nor probable.
Another obstacle was now remembered. Hadwin was the
consciencious member of a sect, which forbade the marriage
of its votaries with those of a different communion. I had
been trained in an opposite creed, and imagined it impossible
that I should ever become a proselyte to Quakerism. It
only remained for me to feign conversion, or to root out the
opinions of my friend, and win her consent to a secret marriage.
Whether hypocrisy was eligible was no subject of
deliberation. If the possession of all that ambition can conceive,
were added to the transports of union with Eliza Hadwin,
and offered as the price of dissimulation, it would have
been instantly rejected. My external goods were not abundant
nor numerous, but the consciousness of rectitude was
mine, and, in competition with this, the luxury of the heart
and of the senses, the gratifications of boundless ambition and
inexhaustible wealth were contemptible and frivolous.
The conquest of Eliza's errors was easy; but to introduce
discord and sorrow into this family, was an act of the utmost
ingratitude and profligacy. It was only requisite for my
understanding clearly to discern, to be convinced of the insuperability
of this obstacle. It was manifest, therefore, that
the point to which my wishes tended was placed beyond my
reach.
To foster my passion, was to foster a disease destructive
either of my integrity or my existence. It was indispensable
to fix my thoughts upon a different object, and to debar
myself even from her intercourse. To ponder on themes
foreign to my darling image, and to seclude myself from her
society, at hours which had usually been spent with her,
were difficult tasks. The latter was the least practicable. I
had to contend with eyes, which alternately wondered at,
of the nature of her own feelings, and this ignorance
made her less scrupulous in the expression of her sentiments.
Hitherto I had needed not employment beyond myself and
my companions. Now my new motives made me eager
to discover some means of controling and beguiling my
thoughts. In this state, the manuscript of Lodi occurred
to me. In my way hither, I had resolved to make the study
of the language of this book, and the translation of its contents
into English, the business and solace of my leisure.
Now this resolution was revived with new force.
My project was perhaps singular. The ancient language
of Italy possessed a strong affinity with the modern. My
knowledge of the former, was my only means of gaining the
latter. I had no grammar or vocabulary to explain how far
the meanings and inflections of Tuscan words varied from
the Roman dialect. I was to ponder on each sentence and
phrase; to select among different conjectures the most plausible,
and to ascertain the true, by patient and repeated
scrutiny.
This undertaking, phantastic and impracticable as it may
seem, proved upon experiment, to be within the compass of
my powers. The detail of my progress would be curious and
instructive. What impediments, in the attainment of a
darling purpose, human ingenuity and patience are able to
surmount; how much may be done by strenuous and solitary
efforts; how the mind, unassisted, may draw forth the principles
of inflection and arrangement; may profit by remote,
analagous, and latent similitudes, would be forcibly illustrated
by my example; but the theme, however attractive, must,
for the present, be omitted.
My progress was slow; but the perception of hourly improvement
afforded me unspeakable pleasure. Having arrived
near the last pages, I was able to pursue, with little interruption,
the thread of an eloquent narration. The triumph
of a leader of out-laws over the popular enthusiasm of the
about to be depicted. The Condottiero Sforza, had taken
refuge from his enemies in a tomb; accidentally discovered
amidst the ruins of a Roman fortress in the Appenine. He
had sought this recess for the sake of concealment, but found
in it a treasure, by which he would be enabled to secure the
wavering and venal faith of that crew of ruffians that followed
his standard, provided he fell not into the hands of the
enemies who were now in search of him.
My tumultuous curiosity was suddenly checked by the
following leaves being glewed together at the edges. To
dissever them without injury to the written spaces, was by
no means easy. I proceeded to the task, not without precipitation.
The edges were torn away, and the leaves
parted.
It may be thought that I took up the thread where it had
been broken; but no. The object that my eyes encountered,
and which the cemented leaves had so long concealed, was
beyond the power of the most capricious or lawless fancy to
have prefigured; yet it bore a shadowy resemblance to the
images with which my imagination was previously occupied.
I opened, and beheld—a bank-note!
To the first transports of surprise, the conjecture succeeded
that the remaining leaves, cemented together in the same
manner, might inclose similar bills. They were hastily separated,
and the conjecture was verified. My sensations, at
this discovery, were of an inexplicable kind. I gazed at the
notes in silence. I moved my finger over them; held them
in different positions; read and re-read the name of each sum,
and the signature; added them together, and repeated to
myself—Twenty thousand dollars! They are mine, and
by such means!
This sum would have reedeemed the falling fortunes of
Welbeck. The dying Lodi was unable to communicate all
the contents of this inestimable volume. He had divided
his treasure, with a view to its greater safety, between the
suddenly to allow him to explain his precautions. Welbeck
had placed the book in his collection, purposing sometime to
peruse it; but deterred by anxieties, which the perusal
would have dissipated, he rushed to desperation and suicide,
from which some evanescent contingency, by unfolding
this treasure to his view, would have effectually rescued
him.
But was this event to be regretted? This sum, like the former,
would probably have been expended in the same pernicious
prodigality. His career would have continued sometime
longer, but his inveterate habits would have finally
conducted his existence to the same criminal and ignominious
close.
But the destiny of Welbeck was accomplished. The
money was placed, without guilt or artifice, in my possession.
My fortune had been thus unexpectedly and wonderously
propitious. How was I to profit by her favour? Would not
this sum enable me to gather round me all the instruments
of pleafure? Equipage, and palace, and a multitude of servants;
polished mirrors, splendid hangings, banquets, and
flatterers, were equally abhorrent to my taste, and my principles.
The accumulation of knowledge, and the diffusion of
happiness, in which riches may be rendered eminently instrumental,
were the only precepts of duty, and the only avenues
to genuine felicity.
But what, said I, is my title to this money? By retaining
it, shall I not be as culpable as Welbeck? It came into his
possession as it came into mine, without a crime; but my
knowledge of the true proprietor is equally certain, and the
claims of the unfortunate stranger are as valid as ever.
Indeed, if utility, and not law, be the measure of justice, her
claim, desolate and indigent as she is, unfitted, by her past
life, by the softness and the prejudices of her education, for
contending with calamity, is incontestible.
As to me, health and diligence will give me, not only the
competence which I seek, but the power of enjoying it. If
my present condition be unchangeable, I shall not be unhappy.
My occupations are salutary and meritorious; I am a stranger
to the cares as well as to the enjoyment of riches; abundant
means of knowledge are possessed by me, as long as I ahve
eyes to gaze at man and at nature, as they are exhibited in
their original forms or in books. The precepts of my duty
cannot be mistaken. The lady must be sought and the money
be restored to her.
Certain obstacles existed to the immediate execution of
this scheme. How should I conduct my search? What
apology should I make for withdrawing thus abruptly, and
contrary to the terms of an agreement into which I had lately
entered, from the family and service of my friend and benefactor,
Hadwin?
My thoughts were called away from pursuing these inquiries
by a rumour, which had gradually swelled to formidable
dimensions; and which, at length, reached us in our
quiet retreats. The city, we were told, was involved in conlusion
and panick, for a pestilential disease had begun its
destructive progress. Magistrates and citizens were flying
to the country. The numbers of the sick multiplied beyond
all example; even in the pest affected cities of the Levant.
The malady was malignant, and unsparing.
The usual occupations and amusements of life were at an
end. Terror had exterminated all the sentiments of nature.
Wives were deserted by husbands, and children by parents.
Some had shut themselves in their houses, and debarred
themselves from all communication with the rest of mankind.
The consternation of others had destroyed their
understanding, and their misguided steps hurried them into
the midst of the danger which they had previously laboured
to shun. Men were seized by this disease in the streets;
passengers fled from them; entrance into their own dwellings
was denied to them; they perished in the public ways.
The chambers of disease were deserted, and the sick left
to die of negligence. None could be found to remove the
lifeless bodies. Their remains, suffered to decay by piece-meal,
filled the air with deadly exhalations, and added tenfold
to the devastation.
Such was the tale, distorted and diversified a thousand
ways, by the credulity and exaggeration of the tellers. At
first I listened to the story with indifference or mirth. Methought
it was confuted by its own extravagance. The
enormity and variety of such an evil made it unworthy to be
believed. I expected that every new day would detect the
absurdity and fallacy of such representations. Every new
day, however, added to the number of witnesses, and the
consistency of the tale, till, at length, it was not possible to
withhold my faith.
| CHAPTER XIII. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 | |