University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XIV.

I came hither with a heart desponding of success. Adversity
had weakened my faith in the promises of the future,
and I was prepared to receive just such tidings as you have
communicated. Unacquainted with the secret motives of
Waldegrave and his sister, it is impossible for me to weigh the
probabilities of their rectitude. I have only my own assertion
to produce in support of my claim. All other evidence,
all vouchers and papers, which might attest my veracity, or
sanction my claim in a court of law, are buried in the ocean.
The bill was transmitted just before my departure from

Maderia, and the letters by which it was accompanied,
informed Waldegrave of my design to follow it immediately.
Hence he did not, it is probable, acknowledge the receipt
of my letters. The vessels in which they were sent, arrived
in due season. I was assured that all letters were duly
deposited in the post-office, where, at present, mine are not
to be found.

You assure me that nothing has been found among his
papers, hinting at any pecuniary transaction between him
and me. Some correspondence passed between us previous
to that event. Have no letters, with my signature, been
found? Are you qualified, by your knowledge of his
papers, to answer me explicitly? Is it not possible for
some letters to have been mislaid?

I am qualified, said I, to answer your inquiries beyond
any other person in the world. Waldegrave maintained
only general intercourse with the rest of mankind. With
me his correspondence was copious, and his confidence, as
I imagined, without bounds. His books and papers were
contained in a single chest, at his lodgings, the keys of
which he had about him when he died. These keys I
carried to his sister, and was authorised by her to open and
examine the contents of this chest. This was done with
the utmost care. These papers are now in my possession.
Among them no paper, of the tenor you mention, was
found, and no letter with your signature. Neither Mary
Waldegrave nor I are capable of disguising the truth or
committing an injustice. The moment she receives conviction
of your right, she will restore this money to you. The
moment I imbibe this conviction, I will exert all my influence,
and it is not small, to induce her to restore it. Permit
me, however, to question you in your turn. Who was
the merchant on whom your bill was drawn, what was
the date of it, and when did the bill and its counterparts
arrive?

I do not exactly remember the date of the bills. They
were made out, however, six days before I myself embarked,
which happened on the tenth of August, 1784.
They were sent by three vessels, one of which was
bound to Charleston and the others to New York. The
last arrived within two days of each other, and about the

middle of November in the same year. The name of the
payer was Monteith.

After a pause of recollection, I answered, I will not hesitate
to apprise you of every thing which may throw light
upon this transaction, and whether favorable or otherwise to
your claim. I have told you among my friend's papers
your name is not to be found. I must likewise repeat that
the possession of this money by Waldegrave was wholly
unknown to us till his death. We are likewise unacquainted
with any means by which he could get possession of so large
a sum in his own right. He spent no more than his scanty
stipend as a teacher, though this stipend was insufficient to
supply his wants. This bank-receipt is dated in December,
1784, a fortnight, perhaps, after the date that you have
mentioned. You will perceive how much this coincidence,
which could scarcely have taken place by chance, is favorable
to your claim.

Mary Waldegrave resides, at present, at Abingdon. She
will rejoice, as I do, to see one who, as her brother's friend,
is entitled to her affection. Doubt not but that she will
listen with impartiality and candor to all that you can urge
in defence of your title to this money. Her decision will
not be precipitate, but it will be generous and just, and
founded on such reasons, that, even if it be adverse to your
wishes, you will be compelled to approve it.

I can entertain no doubt, he answered, as to the equity
of my claim. The coincidences you mention are sufficient
to convince me that this sum was received upon my bill,
but this conviction must necessarily be confined to myself.
No one but I can be conscious to the truth of my own
story. The evidence on which I build my faith, in this case,
is that of my own memory and senses; but this evidence
cannot make itself conspicuous to you. You have nothing
but my bare assertion, in addition to some probabilities
flowing from the conduct of Waldegrave. What facts may
exist to corroborate my claim, which you have forgotten, or
which you may think proper to conceal, I cannot judge. I
know not what is passing in the secret of your hearts; I am
unacquainted with the character of this lady and with yours.
I have nothing on which to build surmises and suspicions of
your integrity, and nothing to generate unusual confidence.

The frailty of your virtue, and the strength of your temptations
I know not. However she decides in this case, and
whatever opinion I shall form as to the reasonableness of
her decision, it will not become me either to upbraid her, or
to nourish discontentment and repinings.

I know that my claim has no legal support; that, if this
money be resigned to me, it will be the impulse of spontaneous
justice, and not the coercion of law, to which I am
indebted for it. Since, therefore, the justice of my claim is
to be measured not by law, but by simple equity, I will candidly
acknowledge, that, as yet, it is uncertain whether I
ought to receive, even should Miss Waldegrave be willing to
give it. I know my own necessities and schemes, and in
what degree this money would be subservient to these; but
I know not the views and wants of others, and cannot estimate
the usefulness of this money to them. However I
decide upon your conduct in withholding or retaining it, I
shall make suitable allowance for my imperfect knowledge of
your motives and wants, as well as for your unavoidable
ignorance of mine.

I have related my sufferings from shipwreck and poverty,
not to bias your judgment or engage your pity, but merely
because the impulse to relate them chanced to awake; because
my heart is softened by the remembrance of Waldegrave,
who has been my only friend, and by the sight of one
whom he loved.

I told you that my father lived in Chetasco. He is now
aged, and I am his only child. I should have rejoiced in
being able to relieve his grey hairs from labor, to which his
failing strength cannot be equal. This was one of my inducements
in coming to America. Another was, to prepare
the way for a woman whom I married in Europe and who
is now awaiting intelligence from me in London. Her
poverty is not less than my own, and by marrying against
the wishes of her kindred, she has bereaved herself of all
support but that of her husband. Whether I shall he able
to rescue her from indigence, whether I shall alleviate the
poverty of my father, or increase it by burthening his scanty
friends by my own maintenance as well as his, the future
alone can determine.

I confess that my stock of patience and hope has never

been large, and that my misfortunes have nearly exhausted
it. The flower of my years has been consumed in struggling
with adversity, and my constitution has received a
shock, from sickness and mistreatment in Portugal, which I
cannot expect long to survive. But I make you sad (he
continued.) I have said all that I meant to say in this interview.
I am impatient to see my father, and night has already
come. I have some miles yet to ride to his cottage, and
over a rough road. I will shortly visit you again, and talk
to you at greater leisure on these and other topics. At
present I leave you.

I was unwilling to part so abruptly with this guest, and entreated
him to prolong his visit, but he would not be prevailed
upon. Repeating his promise of shortly seeing me
again, he mounted his horse and disappeared. I looked
after him with affecting and complex emotions. I reviewed
the incidents of this unexpected and extraordinary interview,
as if it had existed in a dream. An hour had passed, and
this stranger had alighted among us as from the clouds, to
draw the veil from those obscurities which had bewildered
us so long, to make visible a new train of disastrous consequences
flowing from the untimely death of thy brother, and
to blast that scheme of happiness on which thou and I had
so fondly meditated.

But what wilt thou think of this new born claim? The
story, hadst thou observed the features and guise of the
relater, would have won thy implicit credit. His countenance
exhibited deep traces of the afflictions he had endured,
and the fortitude which he had exercised. He was sallow
and emaciated, but his countenance was full of seriousness
and dignity. A sort of ruggedness of brow, the token of
great mental exertion and varied experience, argued a premature
old age.

What a mournful tale! Is such the lot of those who
wander from their rustic homes in search of fortune. Our
countrymen are prone to enterprise, and are scattered over
every sea and every land in pursuit of that wealth which will
not screen them from disease and infirmity, which is missed
much oftener than found, and which, when gained, by no
means compensates them for the hardships and vicissitudes
endured in the pursuit.

But what if the truth of these pretensions be admitted?
The money must be restored to its right owner. I know
that whatever inconveniences may follow the deed, thou wilt
not hesitate to act justly. Affluence and dignity, however
valuable, may be purchased too dear. Honesty will not
take away its keenness from the winter-blast, its ignominy
and unwholesomeness from servile labor, or strip of its charms
the life of elegance and leisure; but these, unaccompanied
with self-reproach, are less deplorable than wealth and honor,
the possession of which is marred by our own disapprobation.

I know the bitterness of this sacrifice. I know the impatience
with which your poverty has formerly been borne,
how much your early education is at war with that degradation
and obscurity to which your youth has been condemned.
How earnestly your wishes panted after a state, which might
exempt you from dependence upon daily labor and on the
caprices of others, and might secure to you leisure to cultivate
and indulge your love of knowledge and your social
and beneficent affections.

Your motive for desiring a change of fortune has been
greatly enforced since we have become known to each other.
Thou hast honored me with thy affection, but that union,
on which we rely for happiness, could not take place while
both of us were poor. My habits, indeed, have made labor
and rustic obscurity less painful than they would prove to
my friend, but my present condition is wholly inconsistent
with marriage. As long as my exertions are insufficient to
maintain us both, it would be unjustifiable to burthen you
with new cares and duties. Of this you are more thoroughly
convinced than I am. The love of independence and ease,
and impatience of drudgery, are woven into your constitution.
Perhaps they are carried to an erroneous extreme,
and derogate from that uncommon excellence by which
your character is, in other respects, distinguished, but they
cannot be removed.

This obstacle was unexpectedly removed by the death of
your brother. However justly to be deplored was this
catastrophe, yet like every other event, some of its consequences
were good. By giving you possession of the means
of independence and leisure, by enabling us to complete a

contract which poverty alone had thus long delayed, this
event has been, at the same time, the most disastrous and
propitious which could have happened.

Why thy brother should have concealed from us the possession
of this money; why, with such copious means of
indulgence and leisure, he should still pursue his irksome
trade, and live in so penurious a manner, has been a topic
of endless and unsatisfactory conjecture between us. It was
not difficult to suppose that this money was held in trust for
another, but in that case it was unavoidable that some document
or memorandum, or at least some claimant would
appear. Much time has since elapsed, and you have thought
yourself at length justified in appropriating this money to
your own use.

Our flattering prospects are now shut in. You must return
to your original poverty, and once more depend for
precarious subsistence on your needle. You cannot restore
the whole, for unavoidable expenses and the change of your
mode of living, has consumed some part of it. For so much
you must consider yourself as Weymouth's debtor.

Repine not, my friend, at this unlooked for reverse.
Think upon the merits and misfortunes of your brother's
friend, think upon his aged father whom we shall enable him
to rescue from poverty; think upon his desolate wife, whose
merits are, probably, at least equal to your own, and whose
helplessness is likely to be greater. I am not insensible to
the evils which have returned upon us with augmented force,
after having, for a moment, taken their flight. I know the
precariousness of my condition and that of my sisters, that
our subsistence hangs upon the life of an old man. My
uncle's death will transfer this property to his son, who is a
stranger and an enemy to us, and the first act of whose
authority will unquestionably be to turn us forth from these
doors. Marriage with thee was anticipated with joyous
emotions, not merely on my own account or on thine, but
likewise for the sake of those beloved girls, to whom that
event would enable me to furnish an asylum.

But wedlock is now more distant than ever. My heart
bleeds to think of the sufferings which my beloved Mary is
again fated to endure, but regrets are only aggravations of

calamity. They are pernicious, and it is our duty to shake
them off.

I can entertain no doubts as to the equity of Weymouth's
claim. So many coincidences could not have happened by
chance. The nonappearance of any letters or papers connected
with it is indeed a mysterious circumstance, but why
should Waldegrave be studious of preserving these? They
were useless paper, and might, without impropriety, be cast
away or made to serve any temporary purpose. Perhaps,
indeed, they still lurk in some unsuspected corner. To
wish that time may explain this mystery in a different manner,
and so as to permit our retention of this money, is,
perhaps, the dictate of selfishness. The transfer to Weymouth
will not be productive of less benefit to him and to
his family, than we should derive from the use of it.

These considerations, however, will be weighed when we
meet. Meanwhile I will return to my narrative.