University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

I am glad, my friend, thy nimble pen has got so far
upon its journey. What remains of my story may be
dispatched in a trice. I have just now some vacant
hours, which might possibly be more usefully employed,
but not in an easier manner or more pleasant. So,
let me carry on thy thread.

First, let me mention the resolutions I had formed
at the time I parted with my friend. I had several objects
in view. One was a conference with Mrs. Wentworth:
another was an interview with her whom I met
with at Villars's. My heart melted when I thought
upon the desolate condition of Clemenza, and determined
me to direct my first efforts for her relief. For
this end I was to visit the female who had given me a
direction to her house. The name of this person is
Achsa Fielding, and she lived, according to her own
direction, at No. 40, Walnut-street.

I went thither without delay. She was not at home-Having
gained information from the servant, as to
when she might be found, I proceeded to Mrs. Wentworth's.
In going thither my mind was deeply occupied
in meditation; and, with my usual carelessness of
forms, I entered the house and made my way to the

parlour, where an interview had formerly taken place
between us.

Having arrived, I began, though somewhat unseasonably,
to reflect upon the topics with which I should
introduce my conversation, and particularly the manner
in which I should introduce myself. I had opened
doors without warning, and traversed passages without
being noticed. This had arisen from my thoughtlessness.
There was no one within hearing or sight.
What was next to be done? Should I not return
softly to the outer door, and summon the servant by
knocking?

Preparing to do this, I heard a footstep in the entry
which suspended my design. I stood in the middle
of the floor, attentive to these movements, when
presently the door opened, and there entered the apartment
Mrs. Wentworth herself! She came, as it seemed,
without expectation of finding any one there.
When, therefore, the figure of a man caught her vagrant
attention, she started and cast an hasty look towards
me.

Pray! (in a peremptory tone) how came you here,
sir? and what is your business?

Neither arrogance, on the one hand; nor humility,
upon the other, had any part in modelling my deportment.
I came not to deprecate anger, or exult over
distress. I answered, therefore, distinctly, firmly, and
erectly.

I came to see you, madam, and converse with you;
but, being busy with other thoughts, I forgot to knock
at the door. No evil was intended by my negligence,
though propriety has certainly not been observed.
Will you pardon this intrusion, and condescend to
grant me your attention?

To what? What have you to say to me? I know
you only as the accomplice of a villain in an attempt to
deceive me. There is nothing to justify your coming
hither, and I desire you to leave the house with as little
ceremony as you entered it.

My eyes were lowered at this rebuke, yet I did not
obey the command. Your treatment of me, madam,
is such as I appear to you to deserve. Appearances
are unfavorable to me, but those appearances are false.
I have concurred in no plot against your reputation or
your fortune. I have told you nothing but the truth.
I came hither to promote no selfish or sinister purpose.
I have no favor to entreat, and no pecition to offer,
but that you will suffer me to clear up those mistakes
which you have harbored respecting me.

I am poor. I am destitute of fame and of kindred.
I have nothing to console me in obscurity and indigence,
but the approbation of my own heart and the
good opinion of those who know me as I am. The
good may be led to despise and condemn me. Their
aversion and scorn shall not make me unhappy; but it
is my interest and my duty to rectify their error if I
can. I regard your character with esteem. You
have been mistaken in condemning me as a liar and
impostor, and I came to remove this mistake. I came,
if not to procure your esteem, at least, to take away
hatred and suspicion.

But this is not all my purpose. You are in an error
in relation not only to my character, but to the situation
of your nephew Clavering. I formerly told you,
that I saw him die; that I assisted at his burial; but
my tale was incoherent and imperfect, and you have
since received intelligence to which you think proper
to trust, and which assures you that he is still living.
All I now ask is your attention, while I relate the particulars
of my knowledge.

Proof of my veracity or innocence may be of no value
in your eyes, but the fate of your nephew ought to
be known to you. Certainty, on this head, may be
of much importance to your happiness, and to the regulation
of your future conduct. To hear me patiently
can do you no injury, and may benefit you much.
Will you permit me to go on?

During this address, little abatement of resentment
and scorn was visible in my companion.

I will hear you, she replied. Your invention may
amuse if it does not edify. But, I pray you, let your
story be short.

I was obliged to be content with this ungraceful
concession, and proceeded to begin my narration. I
described the situation of my father's dwelling. I
mentioned the year, month, day, and hour of her nephew's
appearance among us. I expatiated minutely
on his form, features, dress, sound of his voice, and
repeated his words. His favorite gestures and attitudes
were faithfully described.

I had gone but a little way in my story, when the
effects were visible in her demeanor which I expected
from it. Her knowledge of the youth, and of the
time and manner of his disappearance, made it impossible
for me, with so minute a narrative, to impose
upon her credulity. Every word, every incident related,
attested my truth, by their agreement with
what she herself previously knew.

Her suspicions and angry watchfulness was quickly
exchanged for downcast looks, and stealing tears, and
sighs difficultly repressed. Meanwhile, I did not pause,
but described the treatment he received from my mother's
tenderness, his occupations, the freaks of his
insanity, and, finally, the circumstances of his death
and funeral.

Thence I hastened to the circumstances which
brought me to the city; which placed me in the service
of Welbeck, and obliged me to perform so ambiguous
a part in her presence. I left no difficulty to
be solved and no question unanticipated.

I have now finished my story, I continued, and accomplished
my design in coming hither. Whether I
have vindicated my integrity from your suspicions, I
know not. I have done what in me lay to remove
your error; and, in that, have done my duty.—
What more remains? Any enquiries you are pleased
to make, I am ready to answer. If there be none to
make, I will comply with your former commands, and
leave the house with as little ceremony as I entered it.

Your story, she replied, has been unexpected. I believe
it fully, and am sorry for the hard thoughts which
past appearances have made me entertain concerning
you.

Here she sunk into mournful silence. The information,
she at length resumed, which I have received from
another quarter respecting that unfortunate youth, astonishes
and perplexes me. It is inconsistent with your
story, but it must be founded on some mistake, which I
am, at present, unable to unravel. Welbeck, whose
connection has been so unfortunate to you—

Unfortunate! Dear Madam! How unfortunate?
It has done away a part of my ignorance of the world
in which I live. It has led me to the situation in which
I am now placed. It has introduced me to the knowledge
of many good people. It has made me the witness
and the subject of many acts of beneficence and
generosity. My knowledge of Welbeck has been useful
to me. It has enabled me to be useful to others. I
look back upon that allotment of my destiny which first
led me to his door, with gratitude and pleasure.

Would to Heaven, continued I, somewhat changing
my tone, intercourse with Welbeck had been as harmless
to all others as it has been to me: that no injury
to fortune and fame, and innocence and life, had been
incurred by others greater than has fallen upon my head.
There is one being, whose connection with him has not
been utterly dissimilar in its origin and circumstances
to mine, though the catastrophe has, indeed, been widely
and mournfully different.

And yet, within this moment, a thought has occurred
from which I derive some consolation and some
hope. You, dear madam, are rich. These spacious
apartments, this plentiful accommodation are yours.
You have enough for your own gratification and convenience,
and somewhat to spare. Will you take to your
protecting arms, to your hospitable roof, an unhappy
girl whom the arts of Welbeck have robbed of fortune,
reputation and honor, who is now languishing in poverty,
weeping over the lifeless remains of her babe,

surrounded by the agents of vice, and trembling on the
verge of infamy?

What can this mean? replied the lady. Of whom
do you speak?

You shall know her. You shall be apprized of her
claims to your compassion. Her story, as far as is
known to me, I will faithfully repeat to you. She is a
stranger; an Italian; her name is Clemenza Lodi.—

Clemenza Lodi! Good Heaven! exclaimed Mrs.
Wentworth; why, surely—it cannot be. And yet—
Is it possible that you are that person?

I do not comprehend you, madam.

A friend has related a transaction of a strange sort.
It is scarcely an hour since she told it me. The name
of Clemenza Lodi was mentioned in it, and a young man
of most singular deportment was described.—But tell
me how you were engaged on Thursday morning?

I was coming to this city from a distance. I stopped
ten minutes at the house of—

Mrs. Villars?

The same. Perhaps you know her and her character.
Perhaps you can confirm or rectify my present opinions
concerning her. It is there that the unfortunate Clemenza
abides. It is thence that I wish her to be speedily
removed.

I have heard of you; of your conduct upon that occasion.

Of me? answered I eagerly. Do you know that
woman? So saying, I produced the card which I had
received from her, and in which her name was written.

I know her well. She is my countrywoman and my
friend.

Your friend? Then she is good—she is innocent—
she is generous. Will she be a sister, a protectress to
Clemenza? Will you exhort her to a deed of charity?
Will you be, yourself, an example of beneficence? Direct
me to Miss Fielding, I beseech you. I have called
on her already, but in vain, and there is no time to be
lost.

Why are you so precipitate? What would you do?

Take her away from that house instantly—bring her
hither—place her under your protection—give her Mrs.
Wentworth for a counsellor—a friend—a mother.
Shall I do this? Shall I hie thither to-day, this very
hour—now? Give me your consent, and she shall be
with you before noon.

By no means, replied she, with earnestness. You
are too hasty. An affair of so much importance cannot
be dispatched in a moment. There are many difficulties
and doubts to be first removed.

Let them be reserved for the future. Withhold not
your helping hand till the struggler has disappeared forever.
Think on the gulph that is already gaping to
swallow her. This is no time to hesitate and faulter.
I will tell you her story, but not now; we will postpone
it till to-morrow; and first secure her from impending
evils. She shall tell it you herself. In an
hour I will bring her hither, and she herself shall recount
to you her sorrows. Will you let me?

Your behaviour is extraordinary. I can scarcely tell
whether this simplicity be real or affected. One would
think that your common sense would shew you the impropriety
of your request. To admit under my roof a
woman, notoriously dishonoured, and from an infamous
house—

My dearest madam! How can you reflect upon the
situation without irresistible pity? I see that you are
thoroughly aware of her past calamity and her present
danger. Do not these urge you to make haste to her
relief? Can any lot be more deplorable than hers? Can
any state be more perilous? Poverty is not the only evil
that oppresses, or that threatens her. The scorn of the
world, and her own compunction, the death of the fruit
of her error and the witness of her shame, are not the
worst. She is exposed to the temptations of the profligate;
while she remains with Mrs. Villars, her infamy
accumulates; her further debasement is facilitated;
her return to reputation and to virtue is obstructed by
new bars.

How know I that her debasement is not already complete
and irremidable? She is a mother but not a wife.

How came she thus? Is her being Welbeck's prostitute
no proof of her guilt?

Alas! I know not. I believe her not very culpable;
I know her to be unfortunate; to have been robbed
and betrayed. You are a stranger to her history. I
am myself imperfectly acquainted with it.

But let me tell you the little that I know. Perhaps
my narrative may cause you to think of her as I do.

She did not object to this proposal, and I immediately
recounted all that I had gained from my own observations,
or from Welbeck himself, respecting this forlorn
girl. Having finished my narrative, I proceeded
thus:—

Can you hesitate to employ that power which was given
you for good ends, to rescue this sufferer? Take
her to your home; to your bosom; to your confidence.
Keep aloof those temptations which beset her in her
present situation. Restore her to that purity which her
desolate condition, her ignorance; her misplaced gratitude
and the artifices of a skilful dissembler, have destroyed,
if it be destroyed; for how know we under
what circumstances her ruin was accomplished? With
what pretences or appearances, or promises she was won
to compliance?

True. I confess my ignorance; but ought not that
ignorance to be removed before she makes a part of my
family?

O no! It may be afterwards removed. It cannot be
removed before. By bringing her hither you shield
her, at least, from future and possible evils. Here you
can watch her conduct and sift her sentiments conveniently
and at leisure. Should she prove worthy of your
charity, how justly may you congratulate yourself on
your seasonable efforts in her cause? If she prove unworthy,
you may then demean yourself according to her
demerits.

I must reflect upon it.—To-morrow—

Let me prevail on you to admit her at once, and
without delay. This very moment may be the critical
one. To-day, we may exert ourselves with success,

but to-morrow, all our efforts may be fruitless. Why
fluctuate, why linger, when so much good may be done,
and no evil can possibly be incurred? It requires but a
word from you; you need not move a finger. Your
house is large. You have chambers vacant and convenient.
Consent only that your door shall not be barred
against her; that you will treat her with civility; to
carry your kindness into effect; to persuade her to attend
me hither and to place herself in your care, shall be
my province.

These, and many similar entreaties and reasonings,
were ineffectual. Her general disposition was kind,
but she was unaccustomed to strenuous or sudden
exertions. To admit the persuasions of such an advocate
to so uncommon a scheme as that of sharing her
house with a creature, thus previously unknown to her,
thus loaded with suspicion and with obloquy, was not
possible.

I at last forbore importunity, and requested her to
tell me when I might expect to meet with Miss Fielding
at her lodgings? Enquiry was made to what end I
sought an interview? I made no secret of my purpose.

Are you mad, young man? she exclaimed. Mrs.
Fielding has already been egregiously imprudent. On
the faith of an ancient slight acquaintance with Mrs.
Villars in Europe, she suffered herself to be decoyed
into a visit. Instead of taking warning by numerous
tokens of the real character of that woman, in her behaviour,
and in that of her visitants, she consented to
remain there one night. The next morning took place
that astonishing interview with you which she has since
described to me. She is now warned against the like indiscretion.
And pray, what benevolent scheme would
you propose to her?

Has she property? Is she rich?

She is. Unhappily, perhaps, for her, she is absolute
mistress of her fortune, and has neither guardian nor
parent to controul her in the use of it.

Has she virtue? Does she know the value of affluence
and a fair fame? And will not she devote a few dollars

to rescue a fellow-creature from indigence and infamy
and vice? Surely she will. She will hazard nothing by the
boon. I will be her almoner. I will provide the wretched
stranger with food and raiment and dwelling, I will
pay for all, if Miss Fielding, from her superfluity will supply
the means. Clemenza shall owe life and honor to
your friend, till I am able to supply the needful sum from
my own stock.

While thus speaking, my companion gazed at me
with steadfastness—I know not what to make of you.
Your language and ideas are those of a lunatic. Are
you acquainted with Mrs. Fielding?

Yes. I have seen her two days ago, and she has invited
me to see her again.

And on the strength of this acquaintance, you expect
to be her almoner? To be the medium of her charity?

I desire to save her trouble; to make charity as light
and easy as possible. 'Twill be better if she perform
those offices herself. 'Twill redound more to the credit
of her reason and her virtue. But I solicit her benignity
only in the cause of Clemenza. For her only do I
wish at present to call forth her generosity and pity.

And do you imagine she will entrust her money to
one of your age and sex, whom she knows so imperfectly,
to administer to the wants of one whom she found in
such an house as Mrs. Villars's? She never will. She
mentioned her imprudent engagement to meet you, but
she is now warned against the folly of such confidence.

You have told me plausible stories of yourself and of
this Clemenza. I cannot say that I disbelieve them,
but I know the ways of the world too well to bestow implicit
faith so easily. You are an extraordinary young
man. You may possibly be honest. Such an one as
you, with your education and address, may possibly
have passed all your life in an hovel; but it is scarcely
credible, let me tell you. I believe most of the facts
respecting my nephew, because my knowledge of him
before his flight, would enable me to detect your falsehood;
but there must be other proofs besides an

innocent brow and a voluble tongue, to make me give
full credit to your pretensions.

I have no claim upon Welbeck which can embarrass
you. On that score, you are free from any molestation
from me or my friends. I have suspected you of being an
accomplice in some vile plot, and am now inclined to
acquit you, but that is all that you must expect from me,
till your character be established by other means than
your own assertions. I am egaged at present, and must
therefore request you to put an end to your visit.

This strain was much unlike the strain which preceded
it. I imagined, by the mildness of her tone and
manners, that her unfavorable prepossessions were removed,
but they seemed to have suddenly regained their
pristine force. I was somewhat disconcerted by this
unexpected change. I stood for a minute silent and irresolute.

Just then a knock was heard at the door, and presently
entered that very female whom I had met with at
Villars's. I caught her figure as I glanced through
the window. Mrs. Wentworth darted at me many
significant glances, which commanded me to withdraw;
but with this object in view, it was impossible.

As soon as she entered, her eyes were fixed upon me.
Certain recollections naturally occurred at that moment,
and made her cheeks glow. Some confusion
regined for a moment, but was quickly dissipated. She
did not notice me, but exchanged salutations with her
friend.

All this while I stood near the window, in a situation
not a little painful. Certain tremors which I had not
been accustomed to feel, and which seemed to possess a
mystical relation to the visitant, disabled me at once
from taking my leave, or from performing any useful
purpose by staying. At length, struggling for composure,
I approached her, and shewing her the card she
had given me, said:—

Agreeably to this direction, I called, an hour ago, at
your lodgings. I found you not. I hope you will permit

me to call once more. When shall I expect to
meet you at home?

Her eyes were cast on the floor. A kind of indirect
attention was fixed on Mrs. Wentworth, serving to intimidate
and check her. At length she said, in an irresolute
voice, I shall be at home this evening.

And this evening, replied I, I will call to see you.
So saying, I left the house.

This interval was tedious; but was to be endured
with equanimity. I was impatient to be gone to Baltimore,
and hoped to be able to set out by the dawn of next
day. Meanwhile, I was necessarily to perform something
with respect to Clemenza.

After dinner I accompanied Mrs. Stevens to visit
Miss Carlton. I was eager to see a woman who could
bear adversity in the manner which my friend had described.

She met us at the door of her apartment. Her seriousness
was not abated by her smiles of affability and
welcome.—“My friend!” whispered I, “How truly
lovely is this Miss Carlton! Are the heart and the intelligence
within worthy of these features?”

“Yes, they are. Your account of her employments;
of her resignation to the ill fate of the brother whom
she loves, proves that they are.”

My eyes were rivetted to her countenance and person,
I felt uncontroulable eagerness to speak to her, and to
gain her good opinion.

You must know this young man, my dear Miss Carlton,
said my friend, looking at me: He is my husband's
friend, and professes a great desire to be yours. You
must not treat him as a mere stranger, for he knows
your character and situation already, as well as that of
your brother.

She looked at me with benignity.—I accept his friendship
willingly and gratefully, and shall endeavor to
convince him that his good opinion is not misplaced.

There now ensued a conversation somewhat general,
in which this young woman shewed a mind vigorous
from exercise and unembarrassed by care. She affected

no concealment of her own condition, of her wants, or
her comforts. She laid no stress upon misfortunes, but
contrived to deduce some beneficial consequence to herself,
and some motive for gratitude to Heaven, from
every way ward incident that had befallen her.

This demeanor emboldened me, at length, to enquire
into the cause of her brother's imprisonment, and the
nature of his debt.

She answered frankly and without hesitation. It is
a debt of his father's, for which he made himself responsible
during his father's life. The act was generous
but imprudent, as the event has shewn; though,
at the time, the unhappy effects could not be foreseen.

My father, continued she, was arrested by his creditor,
at a time when the calmness and comforts of his
own dwelling were necessary to his health. The creditor
was obdurate, and would release him upon no
condition but that of receiving a bond from my brother,
by which he engaged to pay the debt at several
successive times and in small portions. All these instalments
were discharged with great difficulty indeed,
but with sufficient punctuality, except the last, to which
my brother's earnings were not adequate.

How much is the debt?

Four hundred dollars.

And is the state of the creditor such as to make the
loss of four hundred dollars of more importance to him
than the loss of liberty to your brother?

She answered, smiling, that is a very abstract view
of things. On such a question, you and I might, perhaps,
easily decide in favor of my brother; but would
there not be some danger of deciding partially? His
conduct is a proof of his decision, and there is no power
to change it.

Will not argument change it? Methinks in so
plain a case I should be able to convince him. You
say he is rich and childless. His annual income is ten
times more than this sum. Your brother cannot pay
the debt while in prison; whereas, if at liberty, he

might slowly and finally discharge it. If his humanity
would not yield, his avarice might be brought to acquiesce.

But there is another passion which you would find it
somewhat harder to subdue, and that is his vengenance.
He thinks himself wronged, and imprisons my brother,
not to enforce payment, but to inflict misery. If you
could persuade him, that there is no hardship in imprisonment,
you would speedily gain the victory; but
that could not be attempted consistently with truth.
In proportion to my brother's suffering is his gratification.

You draw an odious and almost incredible portrait.

And yet such an one as would serve for the likeness
of almost every second man we meet.

And is such your opinion of mankind? Your experience
must surely have been of a rueful tenor to justify
such hard thoughts of the rest of your species.

By no means. It has been what those whose situation
disables them from looking further than the sun-face
of things, would regard as unfortunate; but if
my goods and evils were equitably balanced, the former
would be the weightiest. I have found kindness
and goodness in great numbers, but have likewise met
prejudice and rancor in many. My opinion of Farquhar
is not lightly taken up. I have seen him yesterday,
and the nature of his motives in the treatment of
my brother was plain enough.

Here this topic was succeeded by others, and the
conversation ceased not till the hour had arrived on
which I had preconcerted to visit Mrs. Fielding. I
left my two friends for this purpose.

I was admitted to Mrs. Fielding's presence without
scruple or difficulty. There were two females in her
company, and one of the other sex, well dressed, elderly,
and sedate persons. Their discourse turned upon
political topics, with which, as you know, I have
but slight acquaintance. They talked of fleets and armies,
of Robespierre and Pitt, of whom I had only a
paper knowledge.

In a short time the women rose, and, huddling on
their cloaks, disappeared, in company with the gentleman.
Being thus left alone with Mrs. Fielding, some
embarrassment was mutually betrayed. With much
hesitation, which, however, gradually disappeared, my
companion, at length, began the conversation.

You met me lately, in a situation, sir, on which I
look back with trembling and shame, but not with any
self-condemnation. I was led into it without any
fault, unless a too hasty confidence may be stiled a
fault. I had known Mrs. Villars in England, where
she lived with an untainted reputation, at least; and
the sight of my countrywoman, in a foreign land, awakened
emotions, in the indulgence of which I did not
imagine there was either any guilt or any danger. She
invited me to see her at her house with so much urgency
and warmth, and solicited me to take a place immediately
in a chaise in which she had come to the city,
that I too incautiously complied.

You are a stranger to me, and I am unacqainted with
your character. What little I have seen of your deportment,
and what little I have lately heard concerning you
from Mrs. Wentworth, do not produce unfavorable
impressions; but the apology I have made was due to
my own reputation, and should have been offered to
you whatever your character had been. There she
stopped.

I came not hither, said I, to receive an apology.
Your demeanor, on our first interview, shielded you
sufficiently from any suspicions or surmises that I could
form. What you have now mentioned was likewise
mentioned by your friend, and was fully believed upon
her authority. My purpose, in coming, related not
to you but to another. I desired merely to interest
your generosity and justice on behalf of one, whose
destitute and dangerous condition may lay claim to
your compassion and your succour.

I comprehend you, said she, with an air of some
perplexity. I know the claims of that person.

And will you comply with them?

In what manner can I serve her?

By giving her the means of living.

Does she not possess them already?

She is destitute. Her dependence was wholly placed
upon one that is dead, by whom her person was dishonored
and her fortune embezzled.

But she still lives. She is not turned into the street.
She is not destitute of home.

But what an home?

Such as she may chuse to remain in.

She cannot chuse it. She must not chuse it. She
remains through ignorance, or through the incapacity
of leaving it.

But how shall she be persuaded to a change?

I will persuade her. I will fully explain her situation.
I will supply her with a new home.

You would persuade her to go with you, and to live
at a home of your providing, and on your bounty?

Certainly.

Would that change be worthy of a cautious person?
Would it benefit her reputation? Would it prove her
love of independence?

My purposes are good. I know not why she should
suspect them. But I am only anxious to be the instrument.
Let her be indebted to one of her own sex,
of unquestionable reputation. Admit her into this
house. Invite her to your arms. Cherish and console
her as your sister.

Before I am convinced that she deserves it? And
even then, what regard shall I, young, unmarried, independent,
affuent, pay to my own reputation in harboring
a woman in these circumstances?

But you need not act yourself. Make me your agent
and almoner. Only supply her with the means of subsistence
through me.

Would you have me act a clandestine part? Hold
meetings with one of your sex, and give him money
for a purpose which I must hide from the world? Is
it worth while to be a dissembler and impostor? And
will not such conduct incur more dangerous surmises

and suspicions, than would arise from acting openly
and directly? You will forgive me for reminding you
like wise, that it is particularly incumbent upon those
in my situation, to be circumspect in their intercourse
with men and with strangers. This is the second time
that I have seen you. My knowledge of you is extremely
dubious and imperfect, and such as would make
the conduct you prescribe to me, in an high degree,
rash and culpable. You must not, therefore, expect
me to pursue it.

These words were delivered with an air of firmness
and dignity. I was not insensible to the truth of her
representations. I confess, said I, what you have
said makes me doubt the propriety of my proposal:
yet I would fain be of service to her. Cannot you
point out some practicable method?

She was silent and thoughtful, and seemed indisposed
to answer my question.

I had set my heart upon success in this negociation,
continued I, and could not imagine any obstacle to its
success; but I find my ignorance of the world's ways
much greater than I had previously expected. You defraud
yourself of all the happiness redounding from the
act of making others happy. You sacrifice substance to
shew, and are more anxious to prevent unjust aspersions
from lighting on yourself, than to rescue a fellow-creature
from guilt and infamy.

You are rich, and abound in all the conveniences and
luxuries of life. A small portion of your superfluity
would obviate the wants of a being not less worthy
than yourself. It is not avarice or aversion to labor
that makes you withhold your hand. It is dread of the
sneers and surmises of malevolence and ignorance.

I will not urge you further at present. Your determination
to be wise should not be hasty. Think upon
the subject calmly and sedately, and form your resolution
in the course of three days. At the end of
that period I will visit you again. So saying, and
without waiting for comment or answer, I withdrew.