University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

To explore the house in this manner was so contrary
to ordinary rules, that the design was probably wholly
unsuspected by the women whom I had just left. My
silence, at parting, might have been ascribed by them to
the intimidating influence of invectives and threats.
Hence I proceeded in my search without interruption.

Presently I reached a front chamber in the third story.
The door was ajar. I entered it on tiptoe. Sitting on a
low chair by the fire, I beheld a female figure, dressed in
a negligent, but not indecent manner. Her face in the
posture in which she sat was only half seen. Its hues were
sickly and pale, and in mournful unison with a feeble
and emaciated form. Her eyes were fixed upon a babe,
that lay stretched upon a pillow at her feet. The
child, like its mother, for such she was readily imagined
to be, was meagre and cadaverous. Either it was
dead, or could not be very distant from death.

The features of Clemenza were easily recognized,
though no contrast could be greater, in habit and
shape, and complexion, than that which her present
bore to her former appearance. All her roses had faded,
and her brilliances vanished. Still, however, there
was somewhat fitted to awaken the tenderest emotions.
There were tokens of inconsolable distress.

Her attention was wholly absorbed by the child.
She lifted not her eyes, till I came close to her, and
stood before her. When she discovered me, a faint
start was perceived. She looked at me for a moment,
then putting one spread hand before her eyes, she
stretched out the other towards the door, and waving it
in silence, as if to admonish me to depart.

This motion, however emphatical, I could not obey.
I wished to obtain her attention, but knew not in what
words to claim it. I was silent. In a moment she
removed her hand from her eyes, and looked at me with
new eagerness. Her features bespoke emotions, which,
perhaps, flowed from my likeness to her brother, joined
with the memory of my connection with Welbeck.

My situation was full of embarrassment. I was by
no means certain that my language would be understood.
I knew not in what light the policy and dissimulation
of Welbeck might have taught her to regard
me. What proposal, conductive to her comfort and her
safety, could I make to her?

Once more she covered her eyes, and exclaimed in a
feeble voice, go away! be gone!

As if satisfied with this effort, she resumed her attention
to her child. She stooped and lifted it in her
arms, gazing, meanwhile, on its almost lifeless features
with intense anxiety. She crushed it to her bosom, and
again looking at me, repeated, go away! go away! be
gone!

There was somewhat in the lines of her face, in her
tones and gestures, that pierced to my heart. Added
to this, was my knowledge of her condition; her friendlessness;
her poverty; the pangs of unrequited love;
and her expiring infant. I felt my utterance choaked,
and my tears struggling for passage. I turned to the
window, and endeavored to regain my tranquillity.

What was it, said I, that brought me hither? The
perfidy of Welbeck must surely have long since been
discovered. What can I tell her of the Villars which
she does not already know, or of which the knowledge
will be useful? If their treatment has been just, why

should I detract from their merit? If it has been otherwise,
their own conduct will have disclosed their genuine
character. Though voluptuous themselves, it does
not follow that they have labored to debase this creature.
Though wanton, they may not be inhuman.

I can propose no change in her condition for the better.
Should she be willing to leave this house, whither
is it in my power to conduct her? O that I were rich
enough to provide food for the hungry, shelter for the
houseless, and raiment for the naked.

I was roused from these fruitless reflections by the
lady, whom some sudden thought induced to place the
child in its bed, and rising to come towards me. The
utter dejection which her features lately betrayed, was
now changed for an air of anxious curiosity. Where,
said she, in her broken English, where is Signior Welbeck?

Alas! returned I, I know not. That question might,
I thought, with more propriety be put to you than me.

I know where he be; I fear where he be.

So saying, the deepest sighs burst from her heart.
She turned from me, and going to the child, took it
again into her lap. Its pale and sunken cheek was
quickly wet with the mother's tears, which, as she silently
hung over it, dropped fast from her eyes.

This demeanor could not but awaken curiosity,
while it gave a new turn to my thoughts. I began to
suspect that in the tokens which I saw, there was not
only distress for her child, but concern for the fate of
Welbeck. Know you, said I, where Mr. Welbeck is?
Is he alive? Is he near? Is he in calamity?

I do not know if he be alive. He be sick. He
be in prison. They will not let me go to him. And—
Here her attention and mine was attracted by the infant,
whose frame, till now motionless, began to be
tremulous. Its features sunk into a more ghastly expression.
Its breathings were difficult, and every effort
to respire produced a convulsion harder than the last.

The mother easily interpreted these tokens. The
same mortal struggle seemed to take place in her feature

as in those of her child. At length her agony found
way in a piercing shriek. The struggle in the infant
was past. Hope looked in vain for a new motion in
its heart or its eyelids. The lips were closed, and its
breath was gone, forever!

The grief which overwhelmed the unhappy parent,
was of that outrageous and desperate kind which is
wholly incompatible with thinking. A few incoherent
motions and screams, that rent the soul, were followed
by a deep swoon. She sunk upon the floor, pale and
lifeless as her babe.

I need not describe the pangs which such a scene was
adapted to produce in me. These were rendered more
acute by the helpless and ambiguous situation in which
I was placed. I was eager to bestow consolation and
succour, but was destitute of all means. I was plunged
into uncertainties and doubts. I gazed alternately at
the infant and its mother. I sighed. I wept. I even
sobbed. I stooped down and took the lifeless hand of
the sufferer. I bathed it with my tears, and exclaimed,
Ill-fated woman! unhappy mother! what shall I
do for thy relief? How shall I blunt the edge of this
calamity, and rescue thee from new evils?

At this moment the door of the apartment was opened,
and the youngest of the women whom I had seen below,
entered. Her looks betrayed the deepest consternation
and anxiety. Her eyes in a moment were fixed by
the decayed form and the sad features of Clemenza. She
shuddered at this spectacle, but was silent. She stood
in the midst of the floor, fluctuating and bewildered. I
dropped the hand that I was holding, and approached
her.

You have come, said I, in good season. I know you
not, but will believe you to be good. You have an heart,
it may be, not free from corruption, but it is still capable
of pity for the miseries of others. You have an hand
that refuses not its aid to the unhappy. See; there is
an infant dead. There is a mother whom grief has, for
a time, deprived of life. She has been oppressed and betrayed;
been robbed of property and reputation—but

not of innocence. She is worthy of relief. Have you
arms to receive her? Have you sympathy, protection,
and a home to bestow upon a forlorn, betrayed and unhappy
stranger? I know not what this house is; I suspect
it to be no better than a brothel. I know not what
treatment this woman has received. If, when her situation
and wants are ascertained, will you supply lier
wants? Will you rescue her from evils that may attend
her continuance here?

She was disconcerted and bewildered by this address.
At length she said—All that has happened, all that I
have heard and seen is so unexpected, so strange, that I
am amazed and distracted. Your behaviour I cannot
comprehend, nor your motive for making this address to
me. I cannot answer you, except in one respect. If
this woman has suffered injury, I have had no part in it.
I knew not of her existence, nor her situation till this
moment; and whatever protection or assistance she may
justly claim, I am both able and willing to bestow. I
do not live here, but in the city. I am only an occasional
visitant in this house.

What then, I exclaimed, with sparkling eyes and a
rapturous accent, you are not profligate; are a stranger
to the manners of this house, and a detester of these
manners? Be not a deceiver, I entreat you. I depend
only on your looks and professions, and these may
be dissembled.

These questions, which indeed argued a childish simplicity,
excited her surprize. She looked at me, uncertain
whether I was in earnest or in jest. At length
she said, your language is so singular, that I am at a
loss how to answer it. I shall take no pains to find
out its meaning, but leave you to form conjectures at
leisure. Who is this woman, and how can I serve
her? After a pause, she continued—I cannot afford
her any immediate assistance, and shall not stay a
moment longer in this house. There (putting a card
in my hand) is my name and place of abode. If you
shall have any proposals to make, respecting this woman,
I shall be ready to receive them in my own house. So
saying, she withdrew.

I looked wistfully after her, but could not but assent
to her assertion, that her presence here would be
more injurious to her than beneficial to Clemenza. She
had scarcely gone, when the elder woman entered.
There was rage, sullenness, and disappointment in her
aspect. These, however, were suspended by the situation
in which she discovered the mother and child. It
was plain that all the sentiments of woman were not
extinguished in her heart. She summoned the servants
and seemed preparing to take such measures as the occasion
prescribed. I now saw the folly of supposing
that these measures would be neglected, and that my
presence could not essentially contribute to the benefit
of the sufferer. Still, however, I lingered in the
room, till the infant was covered with a cloth, and the
still senseless parent was conveyed into an adjoining
chamber. The woman then, as if she had not seen
me before, fixed scowling eyes upon me, and exclaimed,
thief! villiam! why do you stay here?

I mean to go, said I, but not till I express my gratitude
and pleasure, at the sight of your attention to
this sufferer. You deem me insolent and perverse, but
I am not such; and hope that the day will come when
I shall convince you of my good intentions.

Begone! interrupted she, in a more angry tone. Begone
this moment, or I will treat you as a thief. She
now drew forth her hand from under her gown, and
shewed a pistol. You shall see, she continued, that I
will not be insulted with impunity. If you do not vanish,
I will shoot you as a robber.

This woman was far from wanting a force and intrepidity
worthy of a different sex. Her gestures and
tones were full of energy. They denoted an haughty
and indignant spirit. It was plain that she conceived
herself deeply injured by my conduct; and was it absolutely
certain that her anger was without reason? I
had loaded her house with atrocious imputations, and
these imputations might be false. I had conceived
them upon such evidence as chance had provided, but
this evidence, intricate and dubious as human actions
and motives are, might be void of truth.

Perhaps, said I, in a sedate tone, I have injured
you; I have mistaken your character. You shall not
find me less ready to repair, than to perpetrate, this injury.
My error was without malice, and—

I had not time to finish the sentence, when this rash
and enraged woman thrust the pistol close to my head
and fired it. I was wholly unaware that her fury
would lead her to this excess. It was a sort of mechanical
impulse that made me raise my hand, and attempt
to turn aside the weapon. I did this deliberately and
tranquilly, and without conceiving that any thing more
was intended by her movement than to intimidate me.
To this precaution, however, I was indebted for life.
The bullet was diverted from my forehead to my left
ear, and made a slight wound upon the surface, from
which the blood gushed in a stream.

The loudness of this explosion, and the shock which
the ball produced in my brain, sunk me into a momentary
stupor. I reeled backward, and should have fallen
had not I supported myself against the wall. The
sight of my blood instantly restored her reason. Her
rage disappeared, and was succeeded by terror and remorse.
She clasped her hands, and exclaimed—Oh!
what, what have I done? My frantic passion has destroyed
me.

I needed no long time to shew me the full extent of
the injury which I had suffered and the conduct which
it became me to adopt. For a moment I was bewildened
and alarmed, but presently perceived that this was
an incident more productive of good than of evil. It
would teach me caution in contending with the passions
of another, and shewed me that there is a limit
which the impetuosities of anger will sometimes overstep.
Instead of reviling my companion, I addressed
myself to her thus:

Be not frighted. You have done me no injury, and
I hope will derive instruction from this event. You
rashness had like to have sacrificed the life of one who
is your friend, and to have exposed yourself to infamy
and death, or, at least, to the pangs of eternal remorse.

Learn, from hence, to curb your passions,
and especially to keep at a distance from every murderous
weapon, on occasions when rage is likely to take
place of reason.

I repeat that my motives in entering this house were
connected with your happiness as well as that of Clemenza
Lodi. If I have erred, in supposing you the
member of a vile and pernicious trade, that error was
worthy of being rectified, but violence and invective
tend only to confirm it. I am incapable of any purpose
that is not beneficent; but, in the means that I
use and in the evidence on which I proceed, I am liable
to a thousand mistakes. Point out to me the road
by which I can do you good, and I will cheerfully pursue
it.

Finding that her fears had been groundless, as to
the consequences of her rashness, she renewed, though
with less vehemence than before, her imprecations on
my intermeddling and audacious folly. I listened till
the storm was nearly exhausted, and then, declaring
my intention to re-visit the house, if the interest of
Clemenza should require it, I resumed my way to the
city.