University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Here was new light thrown upon the character of
Welbeck, and new food administered to my suspicions.
No conclusion could be more plausible than that which
Williams had drawn; but how should it be rendered
certain? Walter Thetford, or some of his family, had
possibly been witnesses of something, which, added to
our previous knowledge, might strengthen or prolong
that clue, one end of which seemed now to be put into
our hands; but Thetford's father-in-law was the only
one of his family who, by seasonable flight from the city,
had escaped the pestilence. To him, who still resided
in the country, I repaired with all speed, accompanied
by Williams.

The old man being reminded, by a variety of circumstances,
of the incidents of that eventful period, was, at
length, enabled to relate that he had been present at
the meeting which took place between Watson and
his son Walter, when certain packets were delivered by
the former, relative, as he quickly understood, to the
condemnation of a ship in which Thomas Thetford had
gone supercargo. He had noticed some emotion of the
stranger, occasioned by his son's mentioning the concern
which Welbeck had in the vessel. He likewise
remembered the stranger's declaring his intention of

visiting Welbeck, and requesting Walter to afford him
directions to his house.

“Next morning at the breakfast table, continued the
old man, I adverted to yesterday's incidents, and asked
my son how Welbeck had borne the news of the loss of
his ship. He bore it, says Walter, as a man of his
wealth ought to bear so trivial a loss. But there was
something very strange in his behaviour, says my son,
when I mentioned the name of the captain who brought
the papers; and when I mentioned the captain's design
of paying him a visit, he stared upon me, for a moment,
as if he were frighted out of his wits, and then, snatching
up his hat, ran furiously out of the house. This
was all my son said upon that occasion; but, as I have
since heard, it was on that very night, that Welbeck
absconded from his creditors.”

I have this moment returned from this interview
with old Thetford. I come to you, because I thought
it possible that Mervyn, agreeably to your expectations,
had returned, and I wanted to see the lad once more.
My suspicions with regard to him have been confirmed,
and a warrant was this day issued for apprehending him
as Welbeck's accomplice.

I was startled by this news. My friend, said I, be cantious
how you act, I beseech you. You know not in
what evils you may involve the innocent. Mervyn I know
to be blameless; but Welbeck is indeed, a villain. The
latter I shall not be sorry to see brought to justice, but
the former, instead of meriting punishment is entitled
forewards.

So you believe, on the mere assertion of the boy,
perhaps, his plausible lies might produce the same effect
upon me, but I must stay till he thinks proper to
exert his skill. The suspicions to which he is exposed
will not easily be obviated; but if he has any thing to
say in his defence, his judicial examination will afford
him the suitable opportunity. Why are you so much
afraid to subject his innocence to this test? It was
not till you heard his tale, that your own suspicions
were removed. Allow me the same privilege of unbelief.

But you do me wrong, in deeming me the cause of
his apprehension. It is Jamieson and Thetford's work,
and they have not proceeded on shadowy surmises and
the impulses of mere revenge. Facts have come to
light of which you are wholly unaware, and which,
when known to you, will conquer even your incredulity
as to the guilt of Mervyn.

Facts? Let me know them, I beseech you. If Mervyn
has deceived me, there is an end to my confidence
in human nature. All limits to dissimulation, and all
distinctions between vice and virtue will be effaced.
No man's word, no force of collateral evidence shall
weigh with me an hair.

It was time, replied my friend, that your confidence
in smooth features and fluent accents should have ended
long ago. Till I gained from my present profession, some
knowledge of the world, a knowledge which was not
gained in a moment, and has not cost a trifle, I was
equally wise in my own conceit; and, in order to decide
upon the truth of any one's pretensions, needed only a
clear view of his face and a distinct hearing of his words.
My folly, in that respect, was only to be cured, however,
by my own experience, and I suppose your credulity
will yield to no other remedy. These are the
facts.

Mrs. Wentworth, the proprietor of the house in
which Welbeck lived, has furnished some intelligence
respecting Mervyn, whose truth cannot be doubted,
and which furnishes the strongest evidence of a conspiracy
between this lad and his employer. It seems,
that, some years since, a nephew of this lady left his
father's family clandestinely, and has not been heard of
since. This nephew was intended to inherit her fortunes,
and her anxieties and enquiries respecting him
have been endless and incessant. These, however,
have been fruitless. Welbeck, knowing these circumstances,
and being desirous of substituting a girl whom
he had moulded for his purpose, in place of the lost
youth, in the affections of the lady while living, and
in her testament when dead, endeavored to persuade

her that the youth had died in some foreign country.
For this end, Mervyn was to personate a kinsman of
Welbeck who had just arrived from Europe, and who
had been a witness of her nephew's death. A story
was, no doubt, to be contrived, where truth should be
copied with the most exquisite dexterity, and the lady,
being prevailed upon to believe the story, the way was
cleared for accomplishing the remainder of the plot.

In due time, and after the lady's mind had been artfully
prepared by Welbeck, the pupil made his appearance;
and, in a conversation full of studied ambiguities, assured
the lady, that her nephew was dead. For the
present he declined relating the particulars of his death,
and displayed a constancy and intrepidity in resisting
her intreaties, that would have been admirable in a
better cause. Before she had time to fathom this
painful mystery, Welbeck's frauds were in danger of
detection, and he and his pupil suddenly disappeared.

While the plot was going forward, there occurred an
incident which the plotters had not foreseen or precluded,
and which possibly might have created some confusion
or impediment in their designs. A bundle was
found one night in the street, consisting of some coarse
clothes, and containing, in the midst of it, the miniature
portrait of Mrs. Wentworth's nephew. It fell
into the hands of one of that lady's friends, who immediately
dispatched the bundle to her. Mervyn, in
his interview with this lady, spied the portrait on the
mantle-piece. Led by some freak of fancy, or some
web of artifice, he introduced the talk respecting her
nephew, by boldly claiming it as his; but, when the
mode in which it had been found was mentioned, he
was disconcented and confounded, and precipitately
withdrew.

This conduct, and the subsequent flight of the lad,
afforded ground enough to question the truth of his
intelligence respecting her nephew; but it has since
been confuted, in a letter just received from her brother
in England. In this letter she is informed, that her
nephew had been seen by one who knew him well, in

charleston; that some intercourse took place between
the youth and the bearer of the news, in the course of
which the latter had persuaded the nephew to return to
his family, and that the youth had given some tokens
of compliance. The letter-writer, who was father to
the fugitive, had written to certain friends at Charleston,
intreating them to use their influence with the
runaway to the same end, and, at any rate, to cherish
and protect him. Thus, I hope you will admit that
the duplicity of Mervyn is demonstrated.

The facts which you have mentioned, said I, after
some pause, partly correspond with Mervyn's story;
but the last particular is irreconcileably repugnant to
it. Now, for the first time, I begin to feel that my
confidence is shaken. I feel my mind bewildered and
distracted by the multitude of new discoveries which
have just taken place. I want time to revolve them
slowly, to weigh them accurately, and to estimate their
consequences fully. I am afraid to speak; fearing,
that, in the present trouble of my thoughts, I may
say something which I may afterwards regret. I
want a counsellor; but you, Wortley, are unfit for
the office. Your judgment is unfurnished with the
same materials; your sufferings have soured your humanity
and biassed your candor. The only one qualified
to divide with me these cares, and aid in selecting
the best mode of action, is my wife. She is mistress of
Mervyn's history; an observer of his conduct during
his abode with us; and is hindered, by her education
and temper, from deviating into rigor and malevolence.
Will you pardon me, therefore, if I defer commenting
on your narrative till I have had an opportunity of reviewing
it and comparing it with my knowledge of the
lad, collected from himself and from my own observation.

Wortley could not but admit the justice of my request,
and after some desultory conversation we parted.
I hastened to communicate to my wife the various intelligence
which I had lately received. Mrs. Althorpe's
portrait of the mervyns contained lineaments which

the summary detail of Arthur did not enable us fully
to comprehend. The treatment which the youth is said
to have given to his father; the illicit commerce that
subsisted between him and his father's wife; the pillage
of money and his father's horse, but ill accorded
with the tale which we had heard, and disquieted our
minds with doubts, though far from dictating our belief.

What, however, more deeply absorbed our attention,
was the testimony of Williams and of Mrs. Wentworth.
That which was mysterious and inscrutable to
Wortley and the friends of Watson, was luminous to
us. The coincidence between the vague hints, labcriously
collected by these enquirers, and the narrative
of Mervyn, afforded the most cogent attestation of the
truth of that narrative.

Watson had vanished from all eyes, but the spot
where rested his remains was known to us. The girdie
spoken of by Williams, would not be suspected to exist
by his murderer. It was unmolested, and was doubtless
buried with him. That which was so earnestly
sought, and which constituted the subsistence of the
Maurices, would probably be found adhering to his
body. What conduct was incumbent upon me who
possessed this knowledge?

It was just to restore these bills to their true owner;
but how could this be done without bazardous processes
and tedious disclosures? To whom ought these disclosures
to be made? By what authority or agency
could these half-decayed limbs be dug up, and the lost
treasure be taken from amidst the horrible corruption
in which it was immersed?

This ought not to be the act of a single individual.
This act would entangle him in a maze of perils and
suspicions, of concealments and evasions, from which
he could not hope to escape with his reputation inviolate.
The proper method was through the agency of
the law. It is to this that Mervyn must submit his conduct.
The story which he told to me he must tell to
the world. Suspicions have fixed themselves upon

him, which allow him not the privilege of silence and
obscurity. While he continued unknown and unthought
of, the publication of his story would only
give unnecessary birth to dangers; but now dangers
are incurred which it may probably contribute to lessen,
if not to remove.

Meanwhile the return of Mervyn to the city was
anxiously expected. Day after day passed and no tidings
were received. I had business of an urgent nature
which required my presence in Jersey, but which,
in the daily expectation of the return of my young
friend, I postponed a week longer than rigid discretion
allowed. At length I was obliged to comply with the
exigence, and left the city, but made such arrangements
that I should be apprized by my wife of Mervyn's
return with all practicable expedition.

These arrangements were superfluous, for my business
was dispatched, and my absence at an end, before
the youth had given us any tokens of his approach. I
now remembered the warnings of Wortley, and his assertions
that Mervyn had withdrawn himself forever
from our view. The event had hitherto unwelcomely
coincided with these predictions, and a thousand doubts
and misgivings were awakened.

One evening, while preparing to shake off gloomy
thoughts by a visit to a friend, some one knocked at
my door, and left a billet containing these words:

This billet was without signature. The hand writing
was unknown, and the precipitate departure of the bearer,
left me wholly at a loss with respect to the person
of the writer, or the end for which my presence was
required. This uncertainty only hastened my compliance
with the summons.

The evening was approaching—a time when the prison
doors are accustomed to be shut and strangers to
be excluded. This furnished an additional reason for

dispatch. As I walked swiftly along, I revolved the
possible motives that might have prompted this message.
A conjecture was soon formed, which led to
apprehension and inquietude.

One of my friends, by name Carlton, was embarrassed
with debts which he was unable to discharge.
He had lately been menaced with arrest, by a creditor
not accustomed to remit any of his claims. I dreaded
that this catastrophe had now happened, and called to
mind the anguish with which this untoward incident
would overwhelm his family. I knew his incapacity
to take away the claim of his creditor by payment, or
to soothe him into clemency by supplication.

So prone is the human mind to create for itself distress,
that I was not aware of the uncertainty of this
evil till I arrived at the prison. I checked myself at
the moment when I opened my lips to utter the name of
my friend, and was admitted without particular enquiries.
I supposed that he by whom I had been summoned
hither would meet me in the common room.

The apartment was filled with pale faces and withered
forms. The marks of negligence and poverty were
visible in all; but few betrayed, in their features or
gestures, any symptoms of concern on account of their
condition. Ferocious gaiety, or stupid indifference,
seemed to sit upon every brow. The vapour from an
heated stove, mingled with the fumes of beer and tallow
that were spilled upon it, and with the tainted
breath of so promiscuous a crowd, loaded the stagnant
atmosphere. At my first transition from the cold and
pure air without, to this noxious element, I found it
difficult to breathe. A moment, however, reconciled
me to my situation, and I looked anxiously round to
discover some face which I knew.

Almost every mouth was furnished with a segar, and
every hand with a glass of porter. Conversation, carried
on with much emphasis of tone and gesture, was
not wanting. Sundry groupes, in different corners,
were beguiling the tedious hours at whist. Others,
unemployed, were strolling to and fro, and testified

their vacancy of thought and care by humming or
whistling a tune.

I fostered the hope, that my prognostics had deceived
me. This hope was strengthened by reflecting that
the billet received was written in a different hand from
that of my friend. Meanwhile I continued my search.
Seated on a bench, silent and aloof from the crowd,
his eyes fixed upon the floor, and his face half concealed
by his hand, a form was at length discovered which
verified all my conjectures and fears. Carlton was he.

My heart drooped, and my tongue faultered, at this
sight. I surveyed him for some minutes in silence.
At length, approaching the bench on which he sat, I
touched his hand and awakened him from his reverie.
He looked up. A momentary gleam of joy and surprize
was succeeded by a gloom deeper than before.

It was plain that my friend needed consolation. He
was governed by an exquisite sensibility to disgrace.
He was impatient of constraint. He shrunk, with
fastidious abhorrence, from the contact of the vulgar
and the profligate. His constitution was declicate and
feeble. Impure airs, restraint from exercise, unusual
aliment, unwholesome or incommodious accommodations,
and perturbed thoughts, were, at any time, sufficient
to generate disease and to deprive him of life.

To these evils he was now subjected. He had no
money wherewith to purchase food. He had been
dragged hither in the morning. He had not tasted a
a morsel since his entrance. He had not provided a
bed on which to lie; or enquired in what room, or with
what companions, the night was to be spent.

Fortitude was not among my friend's qualities. He
was more prone to shrink from danger than encounter
it, and to yield to the flood rather than sustain it; but
it is just to observe, that his anguish, on the present
occasion, arose not wholly from selfish considerations.
His parents were dead, and two sisters were dependent
on him for support. One of these was nearly of his own age. The other was starcely emerged from
childhood. There was an intellectual as well as a personal

resemblance between my friend and his sisters.
They possessed his physical infirmities, his vehement
passions, and refinements of taste; and the misery of
his condition was tenfold increased, by reflecting on
the feelings which would be awakened in them by the
knowledge of his state, and the hardships to which the
loss of his succour would expose them.