University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

This unexpected and agreeable decision was accompanied
by an invitation to supper, at which we were
treated by our host with much affability and kindness.
Finding me the author of Williams's good fortune, as
well as Mrs. Maurice's, and being assured by the former
of his entire conviction of the rectitude of my
conduct, he laid aside all reserve and distance with regard
to me. He enquired into my prospects and wishes,
and professed his willingness to serve me.

I dealt with equal unreserve and frankness. I am
poor, said I. Money for my very expences hither, I
have borrowed from a friend, to whom I am, in other
respects, much indebted, and whom I expect to compensate
only by gratitude and future services.

In coming hither, I expected only an increase of my
debts; to sink still deeper into poverty; but happily the
issue has made me rich. This hour has given me competence,
at least.

What! call you a thousand dollars competence?

More than competence. I call it an abundance.
My own ingenuity, while I enjoy health, will enable
me to live. This I regard as a fund, first to pay my
debts, and next to supply deficiencies occasioned by untoward
accidents or ill health, during the ensuing three
or four years, at least.

We parted with this new acquaintance at a late hour,
and I accepted Williams's invitation to pass the time I
should spend at Baltimore, under his sister's roof.
There were several motives for prolonging this stay.
What I had heard of Miss Fanny Maurice, excited
strong wishes to be personally acquainted with her.
This young lady was affectionately attached to Mrs.
Watson, by whose means my wishes were easily accomplished.

I never was in habits of reserve, even with those
whom I had no reason to esteem. With those who
claimed my admiration and affection, it was impossible
to be incommunicative. Before the end of my second
interview, both these women were mistresses of every
momentous incident of my life, and of the whole chain
of my feelings and opinions, in relation to every subject,
and particularly in relation to themselves. Every
topic disconnected with these, is comparatively lifeless
and inert.

I found it easy to win their attention, and to render
them communicative in their turn. As full disclosures
as I had made without condition or request, my enquiries
and example easily obtained from Mrs. Watson and
Miss Maurice. The former related every event of her
youth, and the circumstances leading to her marriage.
She depicted the character of her husband, and the
whole train of suspences and inquietudes occasioned by
his disappearance. The latter did not hide from me her
opinions upon any important subject, and made me
thoroughly acquainted with her actual situation.

This intercourse was strangely fascinating. My heart
was buoyed up by a kind of intoxication. I now found
myself exalted to my genial element, and began to
taste the delights of existence. In the intercourse of
ingenious and sympathetic minds, I found a pleasure
which I had not previously conceived.

The time flew swiftly away, and a fortnight passed
almost before I was aware that a day had gone by. I
did not forget the friends whom I had left behind, but
maintained a punctual correspondence with Stevens, to
whom I imparted all occurrences.

The recovery of my friend's kinsman, allowed him in
a few days to return home. His first object was the
consolation and relief of Carlton, whom, with much
difficulty, he persuaded to take advantage of the laws
in favor of insolvent debtors. Carlton's only debt was
owing to his uncle, and by rendering up every species
of property, except his clothes and the implements of
his trade, he obtained a full discharge. In conjunction
with his sister, he once more assumed the pen, and being
no longer burthened with debts he was unable to
discharge, he resumed, together with his pen, his
cheerfulness. Their mutual industry was sufficient for
their decent and moderate subsistence.

The chief reason for my hasty return, was my anxiety
respecting Clemenza Lodi. This reason was removed
by the activity and benevolence of my friend. He
paid this unfortunate stranger a visit at Mrs. Villars's.
Access was easily obtained, and he found her sunk into
the deepest melancholy. The recent loss of her
child, the death of Welbeck, of which she was soon
apprized, her total dependence upon those with whom
she was placed, who, however, had always treated her
without barbarity or indecorum, were the calamities
that weighed down her spirit.

My friend easily engaged her confidence and gratitude,
and prevailed upon her to take refuge under his
own roof. Mrs. Wentworth's scruples, as well as
those of Mrs. Fielding, were removed by his arguments
and entreaties, and they consented to take upon
themselves, and divide between them, the care of her
subsistence and happiness. They condescended to express
much curiosity respecting me, and some interest
in my welfare, and promised to receive me on my return,
on the footing of a friend.

With some reluctance, I at length bade my new
friends farewel, and returned to Philadelphia. Nothing
remained, before I should enter on my projected
scheme of study and employment, under the guidance
of Stephens, but to examine the situation of Eliza
Hadwin with my own eyes, and if possible, to extricate
my father from his unfortunate situation.

My father's state had given me the deepest concern.
I figured to myself his condition, besotted by brutal appetites,
reduced to beggary, shut up in a noisome prison,
and condemned to that society which must foster all his
depraved propensities. I revolved various schemes for
his relief. A few hundreds would take him from prison,
but how should he be afterwards disposed of? How
should he be cured of his indolent habits? How should
he be screened from the contagion of vicious society?
By what means, consistently with my own wants, and
the claims of others, should I secure to him an acceptable
subsistence?

Exhortation and example were vain. Nothing but
restraint would keep him at a distance from the haunts
of brawling and debauchery. The want of money
would be no obstacle to prodigality and waste. Credit
would be resorted to as long as it would answer his demand.
When that failed, he would once more be
thrown into a prison; the same means to extricate him
would be to be repeated, and money be thus put into
the pockets of the most worthless of mankind, the
agents of drunkenness and blasphemy, without any
permanent advantage to my father, the principal object of my charity.

Though unable to fix on any plausible mode of proceeding,
I determined, at least, to discover his present
condition. Perhaps, something might suggest itself,
upon the spot, suited to my purpose. Without delay I
proceeded to the village of Newtown, and alighting at
the door of the prison, enquired for my father.

Sawny Mervyn you want, I suppose, said the keeper.
Poor fellow! He came into limbo in a crazy condition,
and has been a burthen on my hands ever since. After lingering along for some time, he was at last kind
enough to give us the slip. It is just a week since he
drank his last pint—and died.

I was greatly shocked at this intelligence. It was
some time before my reason came to my aid, and shewed
me that this was an event, on the whole, and on a
disinterested and dispassionate view, not unfortunate.

The keeper knew not my relation to the deceased, and
readily recounted the behaviour of the prisoner and the
circumstances of his last hours.

I shall not repeat the narrative. It is useless to keep
alive the sad remembrance. He was now beyond the
reach of my charity or pity; and since reflection could
answer no beneficial end to him, it was my duty to divert
my thoughts into different channels, and live henceforth
for my own happiness and that of those who were
within the sphere of my influence.

I was now alone in the world, so far as the total want
of kindred creates solitude. Not one of my blood, nor
even of my name, were to be found in this quarter of the
world. Of my mother's kindred I knew nothing. So
far as friendship or service might be claimed from them,
to me they had no existence. I was destitute of all
those benefits which flow from kindred, in relation to
protection, advice or property. My inheritance was
nothing. Not a single relique or trinket in my possession
constituted a memorial of my family. The scenes
of my childish and juvenile days were dreary and desolate.
The fields which I was wont to traverse, the room
in which I was born, retained no traces of the past.
They were the property and residence of strangers, who
knew nothing of the former tenants, and who, as I was
now told, had hastened to new-model and transform
every thing within and without the habitation.

These images filled me with melancholy, which, however,
disappeared in proportion as I approached the abode
of my beloved girl. Absence had endeared the image
of my Bess—I loved to call her so—to my soul. I
could not think of her without a melting softness at my
heart, and tears in which pain and pleasure were unaccountably
mingled. As I approached Curling's house,
I strained my sight, in hopes of distinguishing her form
through the evening dusk.

I had told her of my purpose, by letter. She expected
my approach at this hour, and was stationed, with a
heart throbbing with impatience, at the road side, near
the gate. As soon as I alighted, she rushed into my
arms.

I found my sweet friend less blithsome and contented
than I wished. Her situation, in spite of the parental
and sisterly regards which she received from the Curlings,
was mournful and dreary to her imagination. Rural
business was irk some, and insufficient to fill up her
time. Her life was tiresome, and uniform and heavy.

I ventured to blame her discontent, and pointed out
the advantages of her situation. Whence, said I, can
these dissatisfactions and repinings arise?

I cannot tell, said she; I don't know how it is with
me. I am always sorrowful and thoughtful. Perhaps,
I think too much of my poor father and of Susan, and
yet that can't be it neither, for I think of them but seldom;
not half as much as I ought, perhaps. I think
of nobody almost, but you. Instead of minding my
business, or chatting and laughing with Peggy Curling,
I love to get by myself—to read, over and over, your
letters, or to think how you are employed just then, and
how happy I should be if I were in Fanny Maurice's
place.

But it is all over now; this visit rewards me for every
thing. I wonder how I could ever be sullen or mopeful.
I will behave better, indeed I will, and be always, as
now, a most happy girl.

The greater part of three days was spent in the society
of my friend, in listening to her relation of all
that had happened during my absence, and in ommunicating,
in my turn, every incident which had befallen
myself. After this I once more returned to the city.