 | CHAPTER XXI. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 |  |
21. CHAPTER XXI.
He whom I had accompanied to the midst of the
river; whom I had imagined that I saw sink to rise no
more, was now before me. Though incapable of precluding
the groundless belief of preternatural visitatious, I was able
to banish the phantom almost at the same instant at which
it appeared. Welbeck had escaped from the stream alive;
or had, by some inconceivable means, been restored to life.
The first was the most plausible conclusion. It instantly
engendered a suspicion, that his plunging into the water was
an artifice, intended to establish a belief of his death. His
own tale had shewn him to be versed in frauds, and flexible
to evil. But was he not associated with Colvill; and what,
but a compact in iniquity, could bind together such men?
While thus musing, Welbeck's countenance and gesture
displayed emotions too vehement for speech. The glances
that he fixed upon me were unsteadfast and wild. He walked
along the floor, stopping at each moment, and darting looks
of eagerness upon me. A conflict of passions kept him mute.
At length, advancing to the bed, on the side of which I was
now sitting, he addressed me.
What is this? Are you here? In defiance of pestilence, are
you actuated by some demon to haunt me, like the ghost of
my offences, and cover me with shame? What have I to do
with that dauntless, yet guileless front? With that foolishly,
confiding, and obsequious, yet erect and unconquerable spirit?
hands, a second time, in blood; and dig for you a grave by
the side of Watson?
These words were listened to with calmness. I suspected
and pitied the man, but I did not fear him. His words and
his looks were indicative less of cruelty than madness. I
looked at him with an air compassionate and wistful. I spoke
with mildness and composure.
Mr. Welbeck, you are unfortunate and criminal. Would
to God I could restore you to happiness and virtue; but
though my desire be strong, I have no power to change your
habits or rescue you from misery.
I believed you to be dead. I rejoice to find myself mistaken.
While you live, there is room to hope that your
errors will be cured; and the turmoils, and inquietudes that
have hitherto beset your guilty progress, will vanish by your
reverting into better paths.
From me you have nothing to fear. If your welfare will
be promoted by my silence on the subject of your history,
my silence shall be inviolate. I deem not lightly of my
promises. They are given and shall not be recalled.
This meeting was casual. Since I believed you to be dead,
it could not be otherwise. You err, if you suppose that any
injury will accrue to you from my life; but you need not
discard that error. Since my death is coming, I am not averse
to your adopting the belief that the event is fortunate to you.
Death is the inevitable and universal lot. When or how
it comes, is of little moment. To stand, when so many
thousands are falling around me, is not to be expected. I
have acted an humble and obscure part in the world, and
my career has been short; but I murmur not at the decree
that makes it so.
The pestilence is now upon me. The chances of recovery
are too slender to deserve my confidence. I came hither to
die unmolested, and at peace. All I ask of you is to consult
your own safety by immediate flight; and not to disappoint
agents of the hospital.
Welbeck listened with the deepest attention. The wildness
of his air disappeared, and gave place to perplexity and
apprehension.
You are sick, said he, in a tremulous tone, in which terror
was mingled with affection. You know this, and expect not
to recover. No mother, nor sister, nor friend will be near to
administer food, or medicine, or comfort; yet you can talk
calmly; can be thus considerate of others—of me; whose
guilt has been so deep, and who has merited so little at
your hands!
Wretched coward! Thus miserable as I am, and expect
to be, I cling to life. To comply with your heroic counsel,
and to fly; to leave you thus desolate and helpless, is the
strongest impulse. Fain would I resist it but cannot.
To desert you would be flagitious and dastardly beyond all
former acts, yet to stay with you is to contract the disease
and to perish after you.
Life, burthened as it is, with guilt and ignominy, is still
dear—yet you exhort me to go; you dispense with my assistance.
Indeed, I could be of no use, I should injure
myself and profit you nothing. I cannot go into the city
and procure a physician or attendant. I must never more
appear in the streets of this city. I must leave you then—
He hurried to the door. Again, he hesitated. I renewed
my intreaties that he would leave me; and encouraged his
belief that his presence might endanger himself without conferring
the slightest benefit upon me.
Whither should I fly? The wide world contains no
asylum for me. I lived but on one condition. I came
hither to find what would save me from ruin—from death.
I find it not. It has vanished. Some audacious and fortunate
hand has snatched it from its place, and now my
ruin is complete. My last hope is extinct.
Yes. Mervyn! I will stay with you. I will hold your
head. I will put water to your lips. I will watch night
and day by your side. When you die, I will carry you by
night to the neighbouring field: will bury you, and water your
grave with those tears that are due to your incomparable
worth and untimely destiny. Then I will lay myself in
your bed and wait for the same oblivion.
Welbeck seemed now no longer to be fluctuating between
opposite purposes. His tempestuous features subsided into
calm. He put the candle, still lighted on the table, and paced
the floor with less disorder than at his first entrance.
His resolution was seen to be the dictate of despair. I
hoped that it would not prove invincible to my remonstrances.
I was conscious that his attendance might preclude, in some
degree, my own exertions, and alleviate the pangs of death;
but these consolations might be purchased too dear. To
receive them at the hazard of his life would be to make them
odious.
But if he should remain, what conduct would his companion
pursue? Why did he continue in the study when Welbeck
had departed? By what motives were those men led
hither? I addressed myself to Welbeck.
Your resolution to remain is hasty and rash. By persisting
in it, you will add to the miseries of my condition; you
will take away the only hope that I cherished. But, however
you may act, Colv.ll or I must be banished from this roof.
What is the league between you? Break it, I conjure you;
before his frauds have involved you in inextricable destruction.
Welbeck looked at me with some expression of doubt.
I mean, continued I, the man whose voice I heard above.
He is a villain and betrayer. I have manifold proofs of his
guilt. Why does he linger behind you? However you may
decide, it is fitting that he should vanish.
Alas! said Welbeck, I have no companion; none to partake
with me in good or evil. I came hither alone.
How? exclaimed I. Whom did I hear in the room above?
Some one answered my interrogations and intreaties, whom
I too certainly recognized. Why does he remain?
You heard no one but myself. The design that brought
me hither, was to be accomplished without a witness. I desired
to escape detection, and repelled your solicitations for admission
in a counterfeited voice.
That voice belonged to one from whom I had lately
parted. What his merits or demerits are, I know not. He
found me wandering in the forests of New-Jersey. He took
me to his home. When seized by a lingering malady, he
nursed me with fidelity, and tenderness. When somewhat
recovered, I speeded hither; but our ignorance of each others
character and views was mutual and profound.
I deemed it useful to assume a voice different from my
own. This was the last which I had heard, and this arbitrary
and casual circumstance decided my choice.
This imitation was too perfect, and had influenced my fears
too strongly, to be easily credited. I suspected Welbeck of
some new artifice to baffle my conclusions and mislead my
judgment. This suspicion, however, yielded to his earnest and
repeated declarations. If Colvill were not here, where had
he made his abode? How came friendship and intercourse
between Welbeck and him? By what miracle escaped the
former from the river, into which I had imagined him forever
sunk?
I will answer you, said he, with candour. You know
already too much for me to have any interest in concealing
any part of my life. You have discovered my existence,
and the causes that rescued me from destruction may be told
without detriment to my person or fame.
When I leaped into the river, I intended to perish. I
harboured no previous doubts of my ability to execute my
fatal purpose. In this respect I was deceived. Suffocation
would not come at my bidding. My muscles and limbs
rebelled against my will. There was a mechanical repugnance
struggles might thrust me below the surface, but my lips
were spontaneously shut and excluded the torrent from my
lungs. When my breath was exhausted, the efforts that
kept me at the bottom were involuntarily remitted, and I
rose to the surface.
I cursed my own pusillanimity. Thrice I plunged to the
bottom and as often rose again. My aversion to life swiftly
diminished, and at length, I consented to make use of my
skill in swimming, which has seldom been exceeded, to prelong
my existence. I landed in a few minutes on the Jersey
shore.
This scheme being frustrated, I sunk into dreariness and
inactivity. I felt as if no dependence could be placed upon
my courage, as if any effort I should make for self-destruction
would be fruitless; yet exiatence was as void as ever of
enjoyment and embellishment. My means of living were
annihilated. I saw no path before me. To shun the presence
of mankind was my sovereign wish. Since I could
not die, by my own hands. I must be content to crawl upon
the surface, till a superior fate should permit me to perish.
I wandered into the centre of the wood. I stretched myself
on the mossy verge of a brook, and gazed at the stars
till they disappeared. The next day was spent with little
variation. The cravings of hunger were felt, and the sensation
was a joyous one, since it afforded me the practicable
means of death. To refrain from food was easy, since some
efforts would be needful to procure it, and these efforts should
not be made. Thus was the sweet oblivion for which I so
earnestly panted, placed within my reach.
Three days of abstinence, and reverie, and solitude succeeded.
On the evening of the fourth, I was seated on a
rock, with my face buried in my hands. Some one laid his
hand upon my shoulder. I started and looked up. I beheld
a face, beaming with compassion and benignity. He endeavoured
I disregarded his intreaties, and was obstinately silent.
Finding me invincible in this respect, he invited me to
his college, which was hard by. I repelled him at first, with
impatience and anger, but he was not to be discouraged or
intimidated. To elude his persuasions I was obliged to comply.
My strength was gone and the vital fabric was crumbling
into pieces. A fever raged in my veins, and I was
consoled by reflecting that my life was at once assailed by
famine and disease.
Meanwhile, my gloomy meditations experienced no respite.
I incessantly ruminated on the events of my past life. The
long series of my crimes arose daily and afresh to my imagination.
The image of Lodi was recalled, his expiring looks
and the directions which were mutually given respecting his
sisters and his property.
As I perpetually revolved these incidents, they assumed
new forms, and were linked with new associations. The
volume written by his father, and transferred to me by tokens,
which were now remembered to be more emphatic than the
nature of the composition seemed to justify, was likewise
remembered. It came attended by recollections respecting
a volume which I filled, when a youth, with extracts from
the Roman and Greek poets. Besides this literary purpose
I likewise used to preserve the bank-bills, with the keeping
or carriage of which I chanced to be intrusted. This image
led me back to the leather-case containing Lodi's property,
which was put into my hands at the same time with the
volume.
These images now gave birth to a third conception, which
darted on my benighted understanding like an electrical flash.
Was it possible that part of Lodi's property might be inclosed
within the leaves of this volume? In hastily turning it over.
I recolleced to have noticed leaves whose edges by accident
or design adhered to each other. Lodi, in speaking of the
sale of his father's West-Indian property, mentioned that
only of this sum had been discovered by me. How had
the remainder been appropriated? Surely this volume contained
it.
The influence of this thought was like the infusion of a
new soul into my frame. From torpid and desperate, from
inflexible averson to medicine and food. I was changed in
a moment into vivacity and hope, into ravenous avidity for
whatever could contribute to my restoration to health.
I was not without pungent regrets and racking fears. That
this volume would be ravished away by creditors or plunderers,
was possible. Every hour might be that which
decided my fate. The first impulse was to seek my dwelling
and search for this precious deposit.
Meanwhile, my perturbations and impatience only exasperated
my disease. While chained to my bed, the rumour
of pestilence was spread abroad. This event, however, generally
calamitous, was propitious to me, and was hailed with
satisfaction. It multiplied the chances that my house and
its furniture would be unmolested.
My friend was assiduous and indefatigable in his kindness.
My deportment, before and subsequent to the revival of my
hopes, was incomprehensible, and argued nothing less than
insanity. My thoughts were carefully concealed from him,
and all that he witnessed was contradictory and unintelligible.
At length, my strength was sufficiently restored. I resisted
all my protector's importunities, to postpone my departure
till the perfect confirmation of my health. I designed
to enter the city at midnight, that prying eyes might be
eluded; to bear with me a candle and the means of lighting
it, to explore my way to my ancient study, and to ascertain
my future claim to existence and felicity.
I crossed the river this morning. My impatience would
not suffer me to wait till evening. Considering the desolation
of the city. I thought I might venture to approach
thus near, without hazard of detection. The house, at all
window-shutter proved to be unfastened. I entered, and
discovered closets and cabinets, unfastened and emptied of
all their contents. At this spectacle my heart sunk. My
books, doubtless, had shared the common destiny. My
blood throbbed with painful vehemence as I approached the
study and opened the door.
My hopes, that languished for a moment, were revived
by the sight of my shelves, furnished as formerly. I had
lighted my candle below, for I desired not to awaken observation
and suspicion, by unclosing the windows. My eye
eagerly sought the spot where I remembered to have left
the volume. Its place was empty. The object of all my
hopes had eluded my grasp, and disappeared forever.
To paint my confusion, to repeat my execrations on the
infatuation, which had rendered, during so long a time, that
it was in my possession, this treasure useless to me, and my
curses of the fatal interference which had snatched away this
prize, would be only aggravations of my disappointment and
my sorrow. You found me in this state, and know what
followed.
| CHAPTER XXI. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 | |