 | CHAPTER XX. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 |  |
20. CHAPTER XX.
I LAID myself on the bed and wrapped my limbs
in the folds of the carpet. My thoughts were restless and
perturbed. I was once more busy in reflecting on the conduct
which I ought to pursue, with regard to the bank-bills.
I weighed with scrupulous attention, every circumstance that
might influence my decision. I could not conceive any more
beneficial application of this property, than to the service of
the indigent, at this season of multiplied distress, but I considered
that if my death were unknown, the house would not
be opened or examined till the pestilence had ceased, and the
benefits of this application would thus be partly or wholly
precluded.
This season of disease, however, would give place to a
season of scarcity. The number and wants of the poor, during
the ensuing winter, would be deplorably aggravated. What
multitudes might be rescued from famine and nakedness by
the judicious application of this sum?
But how should I secure this application? To inclose the
bills in a letter, directed to some eminent citizen or public
officer, was the obvious proceeding. Both of these conditions
were fulfilled in the person of the present chief magistrate.
To him, therefore, the packet was to be sent.
Paper and the implements of writing were necessary for
this end. Would they be found, I asked, in the upper room?
If that apartment, like the rest which I had seen, and its
but if the means of writing were not to be immediately
procured, my purpose, momentous and dear as it was,
must be relinquished.
The truth, in this respect, was easily, and ought immediately
to be ascertained. I rose from the bed which I had
lately taken, and proceeded to the study. The entries and
stair cases were illuminated by a pretty strong twilight. The
rooms, in consequence of every ray being excluded by the
closed shutters, were nearly as dark as if it had been midnight.
The rooms into which I had already passed, were
locked, but its key was in each lock. I flattered myself
that the entrance into the study would be found in the same
condition. The door was shut but no key was to be seen.
My hopes were considerably damped by this appearance, but
I conceived it to be still possible to enter, since, by chance
or by design, the door might be unlocked.
My fingers touched the lock, when a sound was heard as if
a bolt, appending to the door on the inside, had been drawn.
I was startled by this incident. It betokened that the room
was already occupied by some other, who desired to exclude
a visitor. The unbarred shutter below was remembered, and
associated itself with this circumstance. That this house
should be entered by the same avenue, at the same time, and
this room should be sought, by two persons was a mysterious
concurrence.
I began to question whether I had heard distinctly. Numberless
inexplicable noises are apt to assail the ear in an empty
dwelling. The very echoes of our steps are unwonted and
new. This perhaps was some such sound. Resuming courage,
I once more applied to the lock. The door, in spite
of my repeated efforts, would not open.
My design was too momentous to be readily relinquished.
My curiosity and my fears likewise were awakened. The
marks of violence, which I had feen on the closets and cabinets
Here was one who laboured for seclusion and concealment.
The pillage was not made upon my property. My weakness
would disable me from encountering or mastering a man
of violence. To solicit admission into this room would be
useless. To attempt to force my way would be absurd. These
reflections prompted me to withdraw from the door, but the
uncertainty of the conclusions I had drawn, and the importance
of gaining access to this appartment, combined to check
my steps.
Perplexed as to the means I should employ, I once more
tried the lock. This attempt was fruitless as the former.
Though hopeless of any information to be gained by that
means, I put my eye to the key-hole. I discovered a light
different from what was usually met with at this hour. It
was not the twilight which the sun, imperfectly excluded,
produces, but gleams, as from a lamp; yet gleams were fainter
and obscurer than a lamp generally imparts.
Was this a confirmation of my first conjecture? Lamp-light
at noon-day, in a mansion thus deserted, and in a room which
had been the scene of memorable and disastrous events, was
ominous. Hitherto no direct proof had been given of the
presence of an human being. How to ascertain his presence,
or whether it were eligible by any means, to ascertain it,
were points on which I had not deliberated.
I had no power to deliberate. My curiosity, impelled me
to call—“Is there any one within? Speak.”
These words were scarcely uttered, when some one exclaimed,
in a voice, vehement but half-smothered—Good
God!—
A deep pause succeeded. I waited for an answer: for
somewhat to which this emphatic invocation might be a prelude.
Whether the tones were expressive of surprise or
pain, or grief, was, for a moment dubious. Perhaps the
motives which led me to this house, suggested the suspicion,
which, presently succeeded to my doubts, that the person
own condition took away the improbability from this belief.
Why might not another be induced like me to hide himself
in this desolate retreat? might not a servant, left to take
care of the house, a measure usually adopted by the opulent
at this time, be seized by the reigning malady? Incapacitated
for exertion, or fearing to be dragged to the hospital,
he has fhut himself in this apartment. The robber, it may
be, who came to pillage, was overtaken and detained by disease.
In either case, detection or intrusion would be hateful,
and would be assiduously eluded.
These thoughts had no tendency to weaken or divert my
efforts to obtain access to this room. The person was a
brother in calamity, whom it was my duty to succour and
cherish to the utmost of my power. Once more I spoke:—
Who is within? I beseech you answer me. Whatever
you be, I desire to do you good and not injury. Open the
door and let me know your condition. I will try to be of
use to you.
I was answered by a deep groan, and by a sob counteracted
and devoured as it were by a mighty effort. This
token of distress thrilled to my heart. My terrors wholly
disappeared, and gave place to unlimited compassion. I
again intreated to be admitted, promising, all the succour or
consolation which my situation allowed me to afford.
Answer were made in tones of anger and impatience,
blended with those of grief—I want no succour—vex me
not with your entreaties and offers. Fly from this spot:
Linger not a moment lest you participate my destiny and
rush upon your death.
These, I considered merely as the effusions of delirium,
or the dictates of despair. The style and articulation denoted
the speaker to be superior to the class of servants.
Hence my anxiety to see and to aid him was increased.
My remonstrances were sternly and pertinaciously repelled.
For a time, incoherent and impassioned exclamations flowed
aspirations and sobs, more eloquent and more indicative of
grief than any language.
This deportment filled me with no less wonder than commiseration.
By what views this person was led hither, by
what motives induced to deny himself to my interaties, was
wholly incomprehensible. Again, though hopeless of success,
I repeated my request to be admitted.
My perseverance seemed now to have exhausted all his
patience, and he exclaimed, in a voice of thunder—Arthur
Mervyn! Begone. Linger but a moment and my rage,
tyger-like, will rush upon you and rend you limb from
limb.
This address petrified me. The voice that uttered this
sanguinary menace, was strange to my ears. It suggested no
suspicion of ever having heard it before. Yet my accents
had betrayed me to him. He was familiar with my name.
Notwithstanding the improbability of my entrance into this
dwelling, I was clearly recognized and unhesitatingly named!
My curiosity and compassion were in no wise diminished,
but I found myself compelled to give up my purpose—I withdrew
reluctantly from the door, and once more threw myself
upon my bed. Nothing was more necessary in the present
condition of my frame, than fleep; and sleep had, perhaps,
been possible, if the scene around me had been less preg
nant with causes of wonder and panic.
Once more I tasked my memory in order to discover, in
the persons with whom I had hitherto conversed, some resemblance
in voice or tones, to him whom I had just heard. This
process was effectual. Gradually my imagination called up
an image, which now, that it was clearly seen, I was astonished
had not instantly occurred. Three years ago, a man,
by name Colvill, came on foot, and with a knapsack on his
back, into the district where my father resided. He had
learning and genius, and readily obtained the station for
His demeanour was gentle and modest; his habits, as to
sleep, food, and exercise, abstemious and regular. Meditation
in the forest, or reading in his closet, seemed to constitute,
together with attention to his scholars, his sole amusement
and employment. He estranged himself from company,
not because society afforded no pleasure, but because studious
seclusion afforded him chief satisfaction.
No one was more idolized by his unsuspecting neighbours.
His scholars revered him as a father, and made under his
tuition a remarkable proficiency. His character seemed open
to boundless inspection, and his conduct was pronounced by
all to be faultless.
At the end of a year the scene was changed. A daughter
of one of his patrons, young, artless and beautiful,
appeared to have fallen a prey to the arts of some detestable
seducer. The betrayer was gradually detected, and successive
discoveries shewed that the same artifices had been
practised, with the same success upon many others. Colvill
was the arch-villain. He retired from the storm of
vengeance that was gathering over him, and had not been
heard of since that period.
I saw him rarely, and for a short time, and I was a mere
boy. Hence, the failure to recollect his voice, and to perceive
that the voice of him, immured in the room above,
was the same with that of Colvill. Though I had flight
reasons for recognizing his features, or accents, I had abundant
cause to think of him with detestation, and pursue him
with implacable revenge, for the victim of his acts, she
whose ruin was first detected, was—my sister.
This unhappy girl, escaped from the upbraidings of her
parents, from the contumelies of the world, from the goadings
of remorse, and the anguish flowing from the perfidy
and desertion of Colvill, in a voluntary death. She was
innocent and lovely. Previous to this evil, my soul was
as well as by perpetual intercourse from infancy, and
by the fraternal relation. She was my sister, my preceptress
and friend, but she died—her end was violent, untimely,
and criminal!—I cannot think of her without heart-bursting
grief, of her destroyer, without a rancour which I know to
be wrong, but which I cannot subdue.
When the image of Colvill rushed, upon this occasion, on
my thought, I almost started on my fect. To meet him,
after so long a separation, here, and in these circumstances,
was so unlooked-for and abrupt an event, and revived a tribe
of such hateful impulfes and agonizing recollections, that a
total revolution seemed to have been effected in my frame. His
recognition of my person, his aversion to be seen, his ejaculation
of terror and surprise on first hearing my voice, all
contributed to strengthen my belief.
How was I to act? My feeble frame could but illy second
my vengeful purposes; but vengeance, though it sometimes
occupied my thoughts, was hindered by my reason, from
leading me in any instance, to outrage or even to upbraiding.
All my wishes with regard to this man, were limited to
expelling his image from my memory, and to shunning a
meeting with him. That he had not opened the door at my
bidding, was now a topic of joy. To look upon some bottomless
pit, into which I was about to be cast headlong, and
alive, was less to be abhorred than to look upon the face of
Colvill. Had I known that he had taken refuge in this
house, no power should have compelled me to enter it. To
be immersed in the infection of the hospital, and to be
hurried, yet breathing and observant, to my grave, was a
more supportable fate.
I dwell, with self-condemnation and shame, upon this part
of my story. To feel extraordinary indignation at vice,
merely because we have partaken in an extraordinary degree,
of its mischiefs, is unjustifiable. To regard the wicked with
no emotion but pity, to be active in reclaiming them, in
the ills which they produce, is the only province of duty.
This lesson, as well as a thousand others, I have yet to
learn; but I despair of living long enough for that or any
beneficial purpose.
My emotions with regard to Colvill, were erroneous, but
omnipotent. I started from my bed, and prepared to rush
into the street. I was careless of the lot that should befal
me, since no fate could be worse than that of abiding under
the same roof with a wretch spotted with so many crimes.
I had not set my feet upon the floor before my precipitation
was checked by a sound from above. The door of the
study was cautiously and slowly opened. This incident
admitted only of one construction, supposing all obstructions
removed. Colvill was creeping from his hiding place, and
would probably fly with speed from the house. My belief
of his sickness was now confuted. An illicit design was
congenial with his character and congruous with those appearances
already observed.
I had no power or wish to obstruct his flight. I thought
of it with transport and once more threw myself upon the
bed, and wrapped my averted face in the carpet. He would
probably pass this door, unobservant of me, and my muffled
face would save me from the agonies connected with the sight
of him.
The foot-steps above were distinguishable, though it was
manifest that they moved with lightsomeness and circumspection.
They reached the stair and descended. The
room in which I lay, was, like the rest, obscured by the
closed shutters. This obscurity now gave way to a light,
resembling that glimmering and pale reflection which I had
noticed in the study. My eyes, though averted from the
door, were disengaged from the folds which covered the rest
of my head, and observed these tokens of Colvill's approach,
flitting on the wall.
My feverifh perturbations increased as he drew nearer.
He reached the door, and stopped. The light rested for a
moment. Presently he entered the apartment. My emotions
suddenly rose to an height that would not be controlled.
I imagined that he approached the bed, and was gazing upon
me. At the same moment, by an involuntary impulse, I
threw off my covering, and, turning my face, fixed my eyes
upon my visitant.
It was as I suspected. The figure, lifting in his right
hand a candle, and gazing at the bed, with lineaments and
attitude, bespeaking fearful expectation and tormenting
doubts, was now beheld. One glance communicated to my
senses all the parts of this terrific vision. A sinking at my
heart, as if it had been penetrated by a dagger, seized me.
This was not enough, I uttered a shriek, too rueful and loud
not to have startled the attention of the passengers, if any
had, at that moment been paffing the street.
Heaven seemed to have decreed that this period should
be filled with trials of my equanimity and fortitude. The
test of my courage was once more employed to cover me
with humiliation and remorse. This second time, my fancy
conjured up a spectre, and I shuddered as if the grave were
forsaken and the unquiet dead haunted my pillow.
The visage and the shape had indeed preternatural attitudes,
but they belonged, not to Colvill, but to—Welbeck.
| CHAPTER XX. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 | |