Arthur Mervyn; or, Memoirs of the year 1793...

1. Arthur Mervyn; or, Memoirs of the year 1793...

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Arthur Mervyn; or, Memoirs of the year 1793...

Brown, Charles Brockden, 1771-1810

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PREFACE.

The evils of pestilence by which this city has lately been afflicted will probably form an xra in its history. The schemes of reformation and improvement to which they will give birth, or, if no efforts of human wisdom can avail to avert the periodical visitations of this calamity, the change in manners and population which they will produce, will be, in the highest "degree, memorable. They have already supplied new and copious materials for reflection to the physician and the political economist. They have not been less fertile of instruction to the moral observer, to who* they have furnished new displays of the influence of human passions and motives.

Amidst the medical and political discussions which are now afloat in the community relative to this topic, the author of these remarks has ventured to methodize his own reflections, and to weave into an humble narrative, such incidents as appeared to him most instructive and remarkable among those which came within the sphere of his own observation. It is every one's duty to profit by all opportunities of inculcating on mankind the lessons of justice and humanity. The influences of hope and fear, the trials of fortitude and constancy, which took place in this city, in the autumn of 1793, have, perhaps, never been exceeded in any age. It is but

275447

[ vi ] •

just to snatch some of these from oblivion, and to deliver to posterity a br ef but faithful sketch of the condition of this metropolis during that calamitous^eriod. Men only rt quire to be made acquainted with distress for their compiiss'on and their chanty to be awakened. H| that depicts, in lively colours, the evils of disease and poverty, performs an eminent service to the sufferers, by (Tailing forth,fegnevolcnce in tl.ose ■who are able to afford relief, and he who pourtrays examples of disinterestedness and intrepidity, confers on virtue the notoriety and homage that are due to it, and rouses in the spectators, the spirit of salutary emulation.

In the fjJJowing tale a particular feries of adventures Is brought to a clofc; but thefe are neceffurily connected with the events which happened fubfequent to the period here defcribed. Thefe events are i^ot lefs memorable than thofe •which form the fubjeftof the preftrat-volume, and may hereafter be publiftied either feparately or in addition to this.

C. B. B.

MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793.

CHAPTER I.

i WAS resident in this city during the year i793« Many motives contributed to detain me, though departure was easy and commodious, and my friends were generally solicitous for me to go. It is not my purpose to enumerate these motives, or to dwell on my present concerns and transactions, but merely to compose a narrative of some incidents with which my situation made me acquainted.

Returning one evening, somewhat later than usual, to my own house, my attention was attracted, just as I entered the porch, by the figure of a man, reclining against the wall at a few paces distant. My sight was imperfectly assisted by a far-off lamp; but the posture in which he sat, the hour, and the place immediately suggested the idea of one disabled by sickness. It was obvious to conclude that his disease was pestilential. This did not deter me from approaching and examining him more closely.

He leaned his head against the wall, his eyes were shut, his hands clasped in each other, and his body seemed to be sustained in an upright position merely by the cellar door,

275447

a ARTHUR MERVVN.

against which he rested his left shoulder.^Pic lethargy iiua which he was sunk, seemed scarcely interrupted by my feeling his hand and his forehead. His throbbing temples and burning-skin indicated a fever, and his form, already emaciated, seemed to prove that it had not been of short duration.

There was only one circumstance that hindered me from forming an immediate determination in what manner this person should be treated. My family consisted of my wife and a young child. Our servant maid had been seized three days before by the reigning malady, and, at her own request, had been conveyed to the hospital. We ourselves enjoyed good health, and were hopeful of escaping with our lives. Our measures for this end had been cautiously taken and carefully adhered to. They did not consist in avoiding the receptacles of infection, for my office required me to go daily into the midst of them; nor in illlkig the house with the exhalations of gun-powder, Ainegar, or tar. They consisted in cleanliness, reasonabl^excrcisc, and wholesome diet. Custom had likewise blunted the edge of our apprehensions. To takfc this person into my house, and bestow ujxm h.im the requisite attendance, v/as the scheme that first eccurred to mc. Jn this, however the advice of my wife was to govern me.

I mentioned the incidt nt to her, I pointed out the danger which was to be dreaded from sucli an inmate. I desire^ her to decide v/ith caution, and mentioned my reso^utioii ■^^ conform myself implicitly to her decision. Should we refuse to harbour him, we must not forget that there was aw hos])ital to which he would, periraps, consent to be carried, and where he would be acconunodatcd in the best manner the times would admit.

" Nkv." ; ;i;d she, " talk not of hospitals. At least let liim i iioice. I have no fear about me, for my part,

in a ca^cj^^iific the injunctions of duty are so obvious. Let us take the poo^' unfortunate wretch into our protection and care, and leave the consc.qucnctii to Heaven."

^ARTHUR MERVYN. I expected anc^as pleased with this proposal. I returned to the sick man, and, on rousing him from his stupor, found him still in possession of his reason. With a candle near, I had opportunity of viewing him more accurately.

His garb was plain, careless, and denoted rusticity: His aspect was simple and ingenuous, and his decayed visage still retained traces of uncommon, but manlike beauty. He had all the appearances of mere youtli, unspoiled by luxury and uninnured to misfortune. I scarcely evei; beheld an object which laid so powerful and sudden a claim tomy afi^ection and succour.

*^ You are sick," said I, In as cheerful a tone as I could assume. " Cold bricks and night airs are comfortless attendants for one in your condition. Rise, I pray you, and conic into the house. We will try to supply you with accommodations a little moresiiXable."

At this address he £xe#Mfi languid eyes upon me. " What would you have," said he.^^1 am very well as I am. While J breathe, which will not be long, I shall breathe with more freedom here than elsewhere. Let me alone—I am very well as I am."

" Nay," said I, " this situation is unsuitable to a sick m.an. I only ask yon to come into my house and rec^cive all the kindness that it is in our power to bestow. Pliick up courage and I will answer for your recovery, provided you submit to directions, and do as we would have you. Rise, and come along v;ith me. We will find you a physician and a nurse, r.nd all we ask in return is rood spirits and compliance."

" Do you not know," he replied, •' what niv disease is? Wliy should you risk your safety for the sake of one, whom your kindness cannot benefit, and who has nothing to give in

return?"

f

There was something In the style of this remark, that heightened my prepossession in liis favour, and made rac pursue my purpose with more zeal. " Let us try what wc can d©

ARTHUR MER\a'N. for y<u," I answered. " If we save your^R, we shall have don:^ you some service, and as for recompence, we will Igok to that."

It was with considerable dlfHculty that he was persuaded to accept our invitation. He was conducted to a chamber, and the criticalness of his case requiring unusual attention, I spent the night at his bcJ-side.

My wife was encumbsred with the care both of her infant and her family. The charming babe v/as in perfc^ct health, but her mother's constitution was frail and delicate. We limplified the household duties as muih as possible, but still these duties were considerably burthensome to one not used to the ptrforniance, and luxuriously educated. The addition of a sick man, was likely to be productive of much fatigue. My engagements would not allow me to be always at home, and the state of my patient and the remedies necessary to be prescribed were attended with nmipy tioxious and disgustful circumstances. My fortune wouWliot allow nife to hire assistance. My wife, with a feeble frame and a mind shrinking, on ordinary occasions, from such offices with fastidious scrupulousness, was to be his only or principal nurse.

My neighbours were fervent in their well-meant zeal, and loud in their remonstrances on the im.prudcnce and rashness «f my conduct. They called me presumptuous and cruel in exposing my wife and child, as well as myself, to sach imminent hazard, for the sake of one too who most probably was worthless, and whose disease had doubtless been, by negligence or mistreatment, rendered incurable.

I did not turn a deaf ear to these censurers. I was aware of all the inconveniencies and perils to which I thus spontaneously exposed myself. No one knew better the value of that woman whom 1 called mine, or set an higher price upon her life, her health, and her ease. The virulence and activity of this contagion, the dangerous condition of my patient, knd the dubiousn.ss of his character, were not forgotten by me ; but still my conduct m this aiViiir received my own entire

•ARTHUR MERVYN. 5

approbation. All objections on the score of my friend were removed by her own willingness and even solicitude to undertake the province. I had more confidence than others in the vincibility of this disease, and in the success of those measures which we had used for our defence against it. But^ whatever were the evils to accrue to us, we were sure of one thing; namely, that the consciousness of having neglected this unfortunate person, would be a source of more unhappiness than could possibly redound from the attendance aijid care that he would claim.

The more we saw of him, indeed, the more did we congratulate ourselves on our proceeding. His torments were acute and tedious, but in the midst even of delirium, his heart seemed to overflow with gratitude, and to be actuated by no wish but to alleviate our toil and our danger. He made prodigious exertions to perform necessary offices for himself. He supjli-essed • his feelings and struggled to maintain a cheerful tone and countenance, that he might prevent that anxiety which the sight of his sufferings produced in us. He was perpetually furnishing reasons why his nurse should leave him alone, and betrayed dissatisfaction whenever she entered his apartment.

In a few days, there were reasons to conclude him out of danger; and in a fortnight, nothing but exercise and nourishment v/ere v/anting to complete his restoratien. Meanwhile nothing was obtained from him but general information, that his place of abode was Chester County, and that som.e momentous engagement induced him to hazard his safety by coming to the city in the height of the ep.denjic.

He was far from being tali^ative. His Silence seemed to be the joint result of modesty and unpieasing remcmbranres. His features were characterised by pathetic seriousness, and his depoitment by a gr.wity very unusual at his ^^e, Aq* cording to his own representation, he was no more than eighl' teen jears old, but the depth of ft;s remarks .nd.cated a much greater advance. His name was Artnur Mcrvyn. Ht des^

B2

6 ARTHUR MERVYN. ■>

cribed himself as having passed his life at the plough-tail and the threshing--floor: as being destitute of all sdiRlastic instruction ; and as being long since bereft of the affectionate regards of parents and kinsmen.

When questioned as to the course of life which he meant to pursue, upon his recovery, he professed himself without anyprecise object. He was willing to be guided by the advice of others, and by the lights which experience should furnish. The country was open to him, and he supposed that there was no part of it in which food could not be purchased by his labour. He was unqualified, by his education, for any liberal profession. His poverty was likewise an insuperable impediment. He could afford to spend no time in the acquisition of a trade. He must labour, not for future emolument, but for immediate subsistence. The only pursuit whxh his present circumstances would allow him to adopt was that ■which, he was inclined to believe, was likewise the most eligible. Without doubt, his experience was slender, and it seemtd absurd to pronounce concerning that of which he had no direct knowledge; but so it was, he could not outroot from his mind the persuasion that to plough, to sow, and to reap were employments most befitting a reasonable creature, and from which the truest pleasure and the least pollution would flow. ?Ie contemplated no other scheme than to return, as soon as his health should permit, into" the country, seek employment where it was to be had, and acquit himself in Lis enp;ageiT!ents with ficlel^y and diligence.

I pointed out to him various ways in which the city might furnish employment to one w'tb his qualifications. He had said that he v/as somewhat accus'.omcd to the pen. There were st.;t'ons in which the possess on of a legible hand was all tliut was requisite. He mi);ht add to this a knowledge of actompts, xncl tJKTi by proc ire hiuiself a post in some mercantile or public ctli. e.

To this he objecled, that rxperirnce had shewn him unfit ^'>r t' t-life of a p'.nuran. 'i"hls had been lus chief occupation

for a little while, and he found it wholly incompatible with his health. He must not sacrifice the end for the means. Starving was a disease preferable to consumption. Besides, he laboured merely for the sake of living, and he lived mereIv for the sake of pleasure. If his tasks should enable him to live, but at the same time, bereave him of all satisfaction, they inflicted injury and were to be shuaned as worse evils than death.

I asked to what species of pleasure he alluded, with which the business of a clerk was inconsistent.

He answered, that he scarcely knew how to describe it. He read books when they came in his way. He had lighted upon few, and, perhaps, the pleasure they afTord him was owing to their fewness; yet, he confessed that, a mode of life which entirely forbade him to read, was by no means to his taste. But this was crivial. He knew how to value the thoughts of other people, but he could not part with the privilege of observing and thinking for himself. He wanted business which would suffer at least nine tenths of his attention to go free. If it afforded agreeable employment to that part of his attention which it applied to its own use, so much the better; but if it did not, he should not repine. He should be content with a life whose pleasures were to its pains as nine are to one. He had tried th? trade of a copyist, and in circumstances more favourable than it was likely he should ever again have an opportunity of trying it, and he haa found that it did not fulfil the requisite conditions. Whereas the trade of ploughman was friendly to health, liberty, and pleasure.

The pestilence, if it mny so be called, was now declining. The health of my youncf friend allowed him to breathe the fresh air and to walk—A friend of mine, byname Wcrtley, who had spsnt two months from the city, and to whom, in the course of a familar correspondence, I had mentioned the foregoln ,• particulars, returned from his rural excursion. He was posting, on the evening of the day of his arriv?il, with

a friendly expedition, to my house, when he overtook Mcrv)m going in the same direction. He was surprised to find him go before him into my dwelling, and to discover, which he speedily did, that this was the youth whom I had so fre« quently mentioned to him. I was present at their meeting. There was a strange mixture in the countenance of Wortley, when they were presented to each other. His satisfaction was mingled with surprise, and his surprise with anger. Mervyn, in his turn, betrayed considerable embarrassment. Wortley's thoughts were too earnest on some topic to allovr him to converse. He shortly made some excuse for taking leave, and, rising, addressed himself to the youth with a request that he would walk home with him. This invitation, delivered in a tone which left it doubtful whether u compliment or menace were meant, augmented Mervyn's confusion. He complied without speaking, and they went out together j —my wife and I were loft to comment upon the scene.

It could not fail to excite uneas-nc^ss. They vvere evidently no strangers to each other. The indirnatlon that flashed from the eyes of Wortlcy, and the treinblirig consciousness of Mervyn were unwelcome tokens. The former was my dearest friend, and venerable for his uiscernnient and integrity : The latter appeared to have drawn upon himself the anger and disdain of this man. We alreaily anticpated the shock which the discovery of his un worthiness would produce. In an half hour Mervyn returned. His embarrassment had given place to dcjectton. He was always serious, but his features were now overcast by the deepest gloom. I'he anxiety which I felt would riot aliow ine to hesitate long.

" Arthur./' said 1, ** so;i;ethinj.r is the matter with you. Will you not disclose it tc us.-" P'jrlia:;s you have brou(,ht yourself into some dilemma out of which wc inay help you to escape. Hus any tii:nk'^ of an unpleasant nature passed between you and Wort!.*y i" '

The youtM d.d not rca'lily answer. lie sceiricu :it a loss for a suitujic fwpiy. At length he skid, Thkt souictliiig disa

ARTHUR MERVYN. 9

greeable had indeed passed between him and Wortle}-. Ke had had the misfortune to be connected with a man by whom Wortley conceived himself to be injured. He had borne no part in inflicting this injuiy, but had nevertheless been threatened with ill treatment if he did not make disclosures which indeed it was in his power to make, but which lie was bciuiG, by every sanction, to withhold. This disclosure would be of no benefit to Wortley. It would rather operate injuriously than otherwise; yet it was endeavoured to be v/rested from him by the heaviest menaces.—There he paused.

We were naturally inquisitive as to the scope of these menaces ; but Mervyn intreated us to forbear any further discussion of this topic. He foresaw the difficulties to which his silence would subject him. One of its most fearful consequences would be the loss of our good opinion. He knew not what he had to dread from the enniity of Wortley. Mr. Wortley's violence was not without excuse. It was his mishap to be exposed to suspicions which could only be obviated by breaking his faith. But, indeed, he knew not w'hether any degree of explicitness would confute the charges thrt were made against him; whether, by trampling on his sacred promise, he should not multiply his perils instead of lessening their number. A difficult part had been assigned to him: by m.uch too difficult for one, young, improvident, and inexperienced as he was.

Sincerity, perhaps, was the best course. Perhaps, after having had an opportunity for deliberation, he should conclude to adopt it ; meanwhile he intreated permission to retire to his chamber. He was unable to exclude from his mind ideas which yet could, with no propriety, at least at present, be made the theme of conversation.

These words were accompanied with simplicity and pathos, and with tokens of unaffi:cted distress.

" Arthur," said I, " you are master of your actions and time in this house. Retire when you please ; but you will

^i. ARTHUR MERVYK.

naturally suppose us anxious to dispel this mystery. Whatever shall tend to obscure or malign your character will of course excite our solicitude. Wortley is not short-sighted or hasty to condemn. So great is my confidence in his integrity that I will not promise my esteem to one who has irrecoverably lost that of Wortley. I am not acquainted with your motives to concealment, or what it is you conceal, but take the word of one who possesses that experience which you complain of wanting, that sincerity is always safest."

As soon as he had retired, my curiosity prompted me to pay an immediate visit to Wortley. I found him at home. He was no less desirous of an interview, and answered my inquiries with as much eagerness as they were made.

" You know," Said he, " my disastrous coBnection with Thomas Welbeck. You recollect his sudden disappearance last July, by which I was reduced to the brink of runi. Nay, I am, even now, far from certain that I shall survive tliat event. I spoke to you about the youth who lived with him, and by what means that youth was d'scovered to have crossed the river in his company on the night of his departure. This is that very youth.

" This will account for my emotion at meeting him at your house: 1 brought him out with me. His confusion sufficiently indicated his knowledge of transactions between Welbeck and me. I questioned hjm as to the fate of that man. To own the truth, I expected some well digested lie ; but he merely said, that he had promised secrecy on that subject, arid must therefore be excused from giving me any information. I asked him if lie knew, that his master, or accomplice, or whatever was his relation lo him, absconded 1n my debt i He answered that he knew it well ; but still pleaded a promise of inviolable secrecy as to his hiding place. I'his conduct justly exasperated me, and I treated him with the severity which he deserved. I am half ashamed to confess the excesses ©f my passion ; I even went so far as to strike him. He bore my insults with the utmost patience. No

doubt the young villain is well instructed in his lesson. He knows that he may safely defy my power—From threats I descended to entreaties. I even endeavoured to wind the truth from hi.n by artifice. I promised him a part of the debt if he would enable me to recover the whole. I offered him a considerable reward if he would merely afford me a clue by which I might trace him to his retreat; but all was insufHcient. He merely put on an air of perplexity and shook his head in token of non-compliance."

Such was my friend's account of this interview. His suspicions were unquestionably plausible ; but I was disposed to put a more favourable construction on Mervyn's behaviour. I recollected the desolate and pennyless condition in which I found him, and the uniform complacency and rectitude of his deportment for the period during which we had witnessed it. These ideas had considerable influence on my judgment, and indisposed me to follow the advice of my friend, which was to turn him forth from my doors that very night.

My wife's prepossessions were still n.ore powerful advocates of this youth. She v/ould vcuvh, she said, before any tribunal, for his innocence ; but she willingly concurred with me in allowing him the continuance of our friendship on no other condition than that of a disclosure of the truth. To entitle ourselves to this confidence we were willing to engage, in our turn, for the observance of secrecy, so far, that no detriment should accrue from tlr.s disclosure to himself or his friend.

Next morning at breakfast, our guest appeared with a countenance less expressive of eir^barrassment than on the last evening. His attention was chielly engaged by his own thoughts, and little was said till the breakfast was removed, I then reminded him of the incidents of the former day, and mentioned that the uneasiness which thence arose to us had rather been increased than diminished by time.

" It is in yonr power, my young friend," continued I, •' to zdd still more to this imcasinffs, or to take it entirclr

away. I had no personal acquaintance with Thomas Welbeck. I have been informed by otliers that his character, for a certain period, was respectable, but that, at length, he contracted large debts and, instead of paying* them, absconded. You, it s^ems, lived with him. On the night of his departure you are known to liave occompanied him accross the river, and this, it seems, is the lirst of your re-appearance on the stage. Welbeck's conduct was dishonest. He ought doubtless to be pursued to his asylum and be compelled to refund his winnings. You confess yourself to know his place of I'cfuge, but urge a promise of secrecy. Know you not that to assist, or connive at the escape of this man was wrong? To have promised to favour his concealment and impunity by silence was only an aggravation of this wrong. That, however, is past. Your youth, and circumstances, hitherto unexplained, may apologize for that misconduct, but it is certainly your duty to repair it to the utmost of your power. Think whether by disclosing what you know, you will not repair it."

" I have spent most of last night," said the youth, " in reflecting on this subject. I had come to a resolution, be* fore you spoke, of confiding to you my simple tale. I perceive in what circumstances I am placed, and that I can keep my hold of your good opinion only by a candid deportment. I have indeed given a promise which it was wrong, or rather absurd, in another to exact and in me to give; yet none but considerations of the highest importance would persuade me to break my promise. No injury will accrue from my disclosure to Welbeck. If there should, dishonest as he was, that would be a sufficient reason for my silence. Wortley will not, in any degree, be benefited by any. communication that I can make. Whether I grant or withhold information, my conduct will have influence only on my own happiness, and that influence will justify me in grantln;.v it.

" I received your protection when I was friendless and forh)rn. You have a right to know whom it Is that you protected.

ARTHUR MERVYN. ij

My own fate is connected with the fate of Welbeck, and tliat connection, together with the interest you are pleased to take in my concerns, because they are mine, will render a tale worthy of attention which will not be recommended by variety of facts or skill in the display of them.

" Wortley, though passionate, and, with regard to me, unjust, may yet be a good man; but I have no desire to make him one of my auditors. You, Sir, may, if you think proper, relate to him afterwards what particulars concerning Welbeck it may be of importance for him to know; but at present, it will be well if your induj^ence shall support me to the end of a tedious but humble tale."

The eyes of my Eliza sparkled with delight at this proposal. She regarded this youth with a sisterly affection and considered his candour, in this respect, as an unerring test of his rectitude. She was prepared to hear and to forgive the errors of inexperience and precipitation. I did not fully participate in her satisfaction, but was nevertheless most zealously disposed to listen to his narrative.

My engagements obliged me to postpone this rehearsal till late in the evening. Collected then round a cheerful hearth, exempt from all likelihood of interruption from without, and our babe's unpractised senses, shut up in the sweetest and profoundest sleep, Mervyn, after a pause of recollection, began.

[ 14 ]

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER II. \

JMy natal soil is Chester Count)^ My father had a small farm on which he has been able, by industiy, to maintain himself and a numerous family. He has had ^nany children, but some defect in the constitution of our mother has been fatal to all of them but me. They died successively as they attained the age of nineteen or twenty, and, since I have not yet reached that age, I may reasonably look for the same premature fate. In the spring of last year my motlier followed her fifth child to the grave, and three months afterwards died herself.

My constitutum has always been frail, and, till the death of my mother, I enjoyed unlimited indulgence. I cheerfully sustained my portion of labour, for that necessity prescribed; but the intervals were always at my own disposal, and in •whatever manner I thought proper to employ them, my plans were encouraged and assisted. Fond appellations, tones of mildness, solicitous attendance when I was sick, deference to my opinions, and veneration for my talents'con pose the image which I still retain of my mother. I had the thoughtlessness and presumption of youth, and now that she is gone my compunction is awakened by a thousand recollections of my treatment of her. I was indeed guilty of no flagrant acts of contempt or rebellion. Perhaps her deportment was inevitably calculated to instil into me a froward and refractoi-y spirit. My faults, however, were speedily followed by

ARTHUR MERVYN. iMk

repentance, and in the midst of impatience and passion, il look of tender upbraidin^i; from her was always sufficient to melt me into tears and make me ductile to her will. If sorrow for her loss be an atonement for the offences which I committed during her life, ample atonement has been made.

My father is a man of slender capacity, but of a temper easy and flexible. He was sober and industrious by habit. He was content to be guided by the superior intelligence of his wife. Under this guidance he prospered; but when that was withdrawn, his affairs soon began to betray marks of unskilfulness and negligence. My understanding, perhaps, qualified me to counsel and assist my fatlier, but I was wholly unaccustomed to the task of superintendence. Besides, gentleness and fortitude did not descend to me from my mother, and these were indispensable attributes in a boy who desires to dictate to his grey-headed parent. Time, perhaps, might have conferred dexterity on me, or prudence on him, had not a most unexpected event given a different direction to my views.

Betty Lawrence was a wild girl from the pine forests of New-Jersey. At the age of ten years she became a bound servant in this city, and, after the ex^yiration of her time, came into my father's neighbourhood in searcli of employment. She was hired in our family as milk-maid and market woman. Her features v/ere coarse, her frame robust, her mind totally unlettered, and her morals defective in that point in which female excellence is supposed chiefly to consist. She possessed superabundant health and good humour, and was quite a supportable companion in the hay-field or • the barn-yard.

On the death of my mother, she was exalted to a somewhat higher station. The same tasks fell to her lot; but the time and manner of performing them were, in some degree, submitted to her own choice. The cows and the dairy v/ere still her province j but in this no one interfered with her, cr

J 6 ARTHUR MERVYN.

pretsnded to prescribe her measures. For this provhice slie seemed net unqualified, and as long as my father was pleased •\^'ith her management, I had nothing to object.

This state of things continued, without material variation, for several months. There were appearances in my father's deportment to Betty, v.'hlch excited my reflections, but not my fears. The deference which was occasionally paid to the advice or the ckims of this girl, was accounted for by that feebleness of mind which degraded my father, in whatever scene he should be placed, to be the tool of others. I had no conception that her claims extended beyond a temporary or superficial gratification.

At length, however, a visible change took place in her manners. A scornful affectation and awkward dignity began tobe assumed. A greater attention was paid to dress, which was of gayer hues and more fashionable texture. I rallied her on these tokens of a sweetheart, and amused myself with expatiating to her on the qualifications of her lover. A clownish fellow was frequently her visitant. His attentions did not appear to be discouraged. He therefore was readily supposed to be the man. When pointed out as the favourite, great resentment was expressed, and obscure insinuations were made that her aim was not quite so low as that. These denials I supposed to be customary on such occasions, and considered the continuance of his visits as a sufficient confutation of them.

I frequently spoke of Betty, her newly acquired dignity, and of the probable cause of her change of manners to my father. When tills theme was started, a certain coldness and reserve overspread his features. He dealt in monosyllables and either laboured to change the subject or made some excuse for leaving me. This behaviour, though it occasioned surprise, was never very deeply reflected on. My father was old, and the mournful impressions which were made upon him by the death of his wife, the lapse of .almost half a year seemed scarcely to have weakened. Betty had chosen

her partner, and I was in daily expectation of receiving a summons to the wedding.

One afternoon this gril dressed herself in the gayest manner and seemed making preparations for some momentous ceremony. My father had directed me to put the horse to the chaise. On my inquiring whither he was going, he answered me, in general terms, that he had som.e business at a fe\Y miles distance. I offered to go in his stead, but he said that ■was impossible. I was proceeding to ascertain the possibility of this when he left me to go to a field where his workmen •were busy, directing me to inform him when the chaise was ready, to supply his place, while absent, in overlooking the workmen.

This office was performed; but before I called him from the field I exchanged a few words with the milk-maid, who sat on a bench, in all the primness of expectation and decked with the most gaudy plumage. I rated her imaginary lover for his tardiness, and vowed eternal hatred to them both for not making me a bride's atcendant. She listened to nie with an air in which embarrassment was mingled sometimes with exultation, and sometimes with malice. I left her at length, and returned to the house not till a late hour. As soon as I entered, my father presented Betty to me as his wife, and desired she might receive that treatment from me which was due to a mother.

It was not till after repeated and solemn declarations from both of them that I was prevailed upon to credit this event. Its effect up«n my feelings may be easily conceived. I knew the woman to be rude, ignorant, and licentious. Had I suspected this event I might have fortified my father's weakness and enabled him to shun the gulf to which he was tending; but my presumption had been careless of the danger. To think that such an one should take the place of my revered mother was intolerable.

To treat her in any way not squaring with her real merits; to hinder anger and scorn from rising at the sight of her in

C2

her new condition, was not in my power. To be degraded to the rank of her servant, to become the sffort of her malice and her artifices was not to be endured. I had no independent provision; but I was the only child of my father, and had reasonably hoped to succeed to his patrimony. On this hope I had built a thousand agreeable visions. I had meditated innumerable projects which the possession of this estate •would enable me to execute. I had no wish beyond the trade of agj-iculture, and beyond the opulence which an hundred acres would give.

These visions were now at an end. No doubt her own interest would be, to this woman, the supreme law, and this would be considered as irreconcilably hostile to mine. My father would easily be moulded to her purpose, and that act easily extorted from him which should reduce me to beggary. She had a gross and preverse taste. She had a numerous kin. dred, indigent and hungry. On these his substance would speedily be lavished. Me she hated, because she was conscious of having injured me, because she knew that I held her in contempt, and because I had detected her in an illicit intercourse with the son of a neighbour.

The house in which I lived was no longer my own, nor even my father's. Hitherto I had thought and acted in it with the freedom of a master, but now I was become, in my own conceptions, an alien and an enemy to the roof under "which I was born. Every tie which had bound me to it was dissolved or converted into something which repelled me to a distance from it. I was a guest whose presence was borne with anger and impatience.

I was fully impressed with the necessity of removal, but I knew not whither to go, or what kind of subsistence to seek. My father had been a Scottish emigrant, and had no kindred on this side of the ocean. My mother's family lived in New-Hampshire, and long separation had extinguished all the rights of relationship in her ofispring. Tilling the earth was my only profession, and to profit by my skill in it,

it would be necessary to become a daylabourer in the senncc of strangers; but this was a destiny to which I, who had so long enjoyed the pleasures of independence and command, could not suddenly reconcile myself. It occurred to me that the city might afford me an asylum. A short day's journey would transport me into it. I had been there twice or thrice in my life, but only for a few hours each time. I knew not an human face, and was a stranger to its modes and dangers. I was qualified for no employment, compatible with a townlife, but that of the pen. This, indeed, had ever been a favourite tool with me, and though it may appear somewhat strange, it is no less ti-ue that I had had nearly as much practice at the quill as at the mattock. But the sum of my skill lay in tracing distinct characters. I had used it merly to transcribe what others had written, or to give form to my own conceptions. Whether the city would afford me employment, as si mere copyist, sufficiently lucrative, was a point on which I possessed no m.eans of information.

My determination was hastened by the conduct of my netv mother. My conjectures as to the course she would pursue with regard to me had not been erroneous. My father's deportment, in a short time, grew sullen and austere. Directions were given in a magisterial tone, and any remissness in the execution of his orders, was rebuked with an air of authority. At length thefe rebukes were followed by certain intimations that I was now old enough to provide for myself; that it was time to think of some employment by which I might secure a livelihood; that it was a shame for me to spend my youth in idleness ; that what he had gained was by his own labour; and I must be indebted for my living to the same source.

These hints were easily understood. At first, they excited indignatloD and grief. I knew the source whence they sprung, and was merely able to suppress the utterance of my feelings in her presence. My looks, however, were abundantly significant, and my company became hourly more in*

supportable. Abstracted from these considerations, my father's remonstrances were not destitute of weight. He gave me being, but sustenance ought surely to be my own gift. In the use of that for which lie had been Indebted to his own exertims, he might reasonably consult his own choice. He assumed no control over me : he merely did what he would tv'ith his own, and so far from fettering my liberty, he exhorted me to use it for my own benefit, and to make provision for myself.

I now reflected that there were other manual occupations besides that of the plough. Among these none had fewer disadvantages than that of carpenter or cabinet-maker. I had no knowledge of this art ; but neither custom, nor law, nor the impenetrableness of the mistery required me to serve a seven years' apprenticeship to it. A master in this trade might possibly be persuaded to take me under his tuition: two or three years would sufEce to give me the requiste skill. Meanwhile my father would, perhaps, consent to bear the cost of my maintenance. Nobody could live upon less than I was willing to do.

I mentioned these ideas to my father; but he merely commeniled my intentions without offering to assist me in the execution of them. He had full employment, he said, for all the profits of his ground. No doubt if I would bind myself to serve four or five years, my master would be at the expence of my subsistence. Be that as it would, I must look for nothing from him. I had shewn very little regard for his happiness : I had refused all marks of respect to a woman who was entitled to it from her relation to him. He did not see why he should treat as a son one who refused what was due to him as a father. He thou^lit it right that I should henceforth maintain myself. He did not want my services on the farm, and the sooner 1 quitted his house the better.

I retired from this conference with a resolution to follow the advice that was given. I saw that iienceforth I must be

ARTHUR MERVYN. 21

my own protector, and wondereci at the folly that detained me so long under his roof. To leave it was nov/ become indispensable, and there could be no reason for delaying my departure for a single hour. I determined to bend my course to the city. The scheme foremost in my mind was to apprentice myself to some mechanical trade. I did not overlook the evils of constraint and the dubiousness as to the character of the mafter I should choose. I was not without hopes that accident would suggests a different expedient, and enable me to procure an immediate subsistence without forfeiting my liberty.

I determined to commence my journey the next morning* No wonder the prospect of so considerable a change in my condition should deprive me of sleep. I spent the night ruminating on the future, and in painting to my fancy the adventures which 1 should be likely to meet. The foresight of man is in proportion to his knowledge. No wonder that in my state of profound ignorance, not the faintest preconception should be formed of the events that really befel me. My temper was inquisitive, but there was nothing in the fcenc to which I was going from which my curiosty expected to derive gratification. Discords and evil smells, unsavouryfood, unwholesome labour, and irksome companions, were, in my opinion, the unavoidable attendants of a city.

My best clothes were of the homeliest texture and shape. My whole stock of linen consisted of three check shirts. Part of m.y winter evenlng*s employment, since the death of my mother, consisted in knitting my own stockings. Of these I had three pair, one of which I put on, and the rest I formed, together with two shins, into a bundle. Three quarterdollar pieces composed my whole fortune in money.

[ 2^- ]

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER III.

1 ROSE at the dawn, and without asking or bestowing a blessing, sallied forth into the high road to the city which passed near the house. I left nothing behind, the lofs of which I regretted. I had purchased most of my own books with the product of my own separate industry, and their number being, ©f course, small, I had, by incessant application, gotten the whole of them by rote. They had ceased, therefore, to be ofany further use. I left them, without reluctance, to the fate for which I knew them to be reserved, that of affording food and habitation to mice.

I trod this unwonted path with all the fearlessness of youth. In spite of the motives to despondency and apprehension, incident to my state, my heels were light and my heart joyous. " Now," said I, " I am mounted into man. I must build a name and a fortune for myself. Strange if this intellect and these hands will not supply me with an honest livelihood. I will try the city in the first place ; but if that should fail, resources are still left to me. I will resume my post in the corn-field and threshing-floor, to which I shall always have access, and where I shall always be happy."

I l-.ad proceeded sonie miles on my journey, wl^n I began to ftel the inroads of hunger. I might have stopped at any farm-house, and have breakfasted for nothing. It was prudent to husband, with the utmost care, my slender stock; but 1 felt reluctance to beg as long as I had tlie means of

ARTHUR MER\'TN. ' 23

buying, and I imagined, that coarse bread and a little milk would cost little even at a tavern, when any farmer was willing to bestow them for nothing. My resolution was farther influenced by the appearance of a si^n-post. What excuse could I make for begging a breakfast with an inn at hand and silver in my pocket ?

I stopped, accordingly, and breakfasted. The landlord wa» remarkably attentive and obliging, but his bread was stale, his milk sour, and his cheese th^greenest imaginable. I disdained to animadvert on these defects^ naturally supposing that his house could furnish no better.

Having finished my meal, I put, without soeaking, one of my pieces into his hand. This deportment I conceived to be highly becoming, and to indicate a liberal and manly spirit. I always reg arded with contempt a scrupulous maker of bargains. He received the money with a complaisant obeisance. "Right," said he. "j^'u^f the money. Sir. You are on foot. Sir. A pleasant way of travelling, Sir. I wish you a good day. Sir."—So saying he walked away.

This proceeding was wholly unexpected. I conceived myself intitled to at least three-fourths of it in change. The first impulse was to call him back, and contest the equity of his demand, but a moment's reflection shewed me the absurdity of such conduct. I resumed my journey with spirits somewhat depressed. I have heard of voyagers and wanderers in deserts, vvho were willing to give a casket of gems for a cup of cold vv'ater. I had not supposed my own condition to be, in any respect, similar; yet 1 had just given one third of my estate for a breakfast.

I stopped at noon at another inn. I counte ^ on purchasing a dinner for the same price, since I meant to content myself with the same fare. A large company was 'ust sitting dow^n to a smoking banquet. The land'ord nvited me to join them. I took my place at the table, but was furnished with bread and milk. Bein^* prepared to depar I took him aside. "What is to pay?" said I.—" Did you drink any

24 ARTHUR MER\'YN.

thing, Sir?"—" Certanily. I drank the milk -which was fur*

rished."—" But any liquors, Sir?"—"No.**

He deliberated a moment and then assuming an air of disinterestedness, " 'Tis our custom to charge dinner and club, but as you drank nothing, we'll let the club go. A mere dinner is half-a-dollar, Sir."

He had no leisure to attend to my fluctuations. After debating with myself on what was to be done, I concluded that compliance was best, and leaving the money at the bar resumed my way.

I had not performed more than half my journey, yet my purse was entirely exhausted. This was a specimen of the cost incurred by living at an inn. If I entered the city, a tavern must, at least for some time, be my abode, but I had not a farthing remaining to defray my charges. My father had formerly entertained a boarder for a dollar per week, and, in a case of need, I was willing to subsist upon coarser fare, and lie on an harder bed than those with which our guest had been supplied. These facts had been the . foundation of my negligence on this occasion.

What was now to be done ? To return to my paternal mansion was impossible. To relinquish my design of entering the city and to seek a temporary asylum, if not i>ermanent employment, at some one of the plantations, within view, was the most obvious expedient. These deliberations did not slacken my pace. I was ajmost unmindful of my Avay, •when I found I had passed Schuylkill at the upper bridge, I was now within the precincts of the city and night was hastening. It behoved me to come to a speedy decision.

Suddenly I recollected that I had not paid the customary toll at the bridge : neither had I money wherewith to pay it. A demand of payment would have suddenly arrested my progress ; and so slight an incident would have precluded that wonderful destiny to which 1 was reserved, Tl-e obstacle that would have hindered my advance, uow prevented my return. Scrupulous honesty did not require me to turn back

ARTHUR JfERVYN. 25

and awaken the vigilance of the toll gatherer. I had nothing to pay, and by returning I should only double my debt. *^ Let it stand," said 1, " where it does. All that honour enjoins is to pay when I am able."

I adhered to the cross ways, till I reached Market-street. Night had fallen, and a triple row of lamps presented a spectacle enchanting and new. My personal cares were, for a time, lost in the tumultuous sensations with which I was now engrossed. I had never visited the city at this hour. "When my last visit was paid I was a mere child. The novelty which environed every object was, therefore, nearly absolute. I proceeded with more cautious steps, but was still absorbed in attention to passing objects. 1 reached the markethouse, and, entering it, indulged myself in new delight and new wonder.

I need not remark that our ideas of magnificence and splendour are merely comparative; yet you may be prompted to 9mile when I tell you that, in walking through tliis avenue, I, for a moment, conceived myself transported to the hall *' pendent with many a row of starry lamps and blazing crescents fed by naptha and asphaltos." That this transition from my homely aud quiet retreat, had been affected in so few hours, wore the aspect of miracle or magic.

I proceeded from one of these buildings to another, till I reached their termination in Front-street. Here my progress was checked, and 1 sought repose to my weary limbs by seating myself on a stall. No wonder some fatigue was felt by me, accustomed as I was to strenuous exertions, since, exclusive of the minutes spent at breakfast and dinner, 1 had travelled fifteen hours and forty-five miles.

I began now to reflect, with some earnestness, on my condition. I was a stranger, friendless, and moneyless. I was unable to purchase food and shelter, and was wholly unused to the business of begging. Hunger was the only serious inconvenience to which I* was immediately exposed. I had no •bjection to spend the night in the spot v^herc I then sat*

D

i6 ARTHUR MERVYN.

I had no fear that my visions would be troubled b^ the officers of police. Jt was no crime to be without a home; but how should I supply my present cravings and the cravings of tomorrow ?

At length it occurred to me that one of our country neighbours was probably at this time in the city. He kept a store as well as cultivated a farm. He was a plain and well meaning man, and should I be so fortunate as to meet him, his superior knowledge of the city might be of essential benefit to me in my present forlorn circumstances. His generosity might likewise induce him to lend me so much as would purchase one meal. I had formed the resolution to leave the city next day and was astonished at the folly that had led me into it; but, meanwhile, my physical wants must be sup. plied.

Where should I look for this man? In the course of conversation I recollected hiai to have referred to the place of his temporary abode. It was an inn, but the sign, or the name of the keeper, for some time withstood all my efforts to recall them.

At length I lighted on the last. It was Lesher's tavern* 1 immediat-^ly set out in search of it. After many inquirie* I at last arrived at the door. I was preparing to enter the house when I perceived that my bundle was ggne. I had left it on the stall where I had been sitting. People were pei-petually passing to and fro. It was scarcely possible not to have been noticed. No one that observed it would fail to make it bis prey. Yet It was of too much value to me, to allow mc to be governed by a bare probability. 1 resolved to lose not a moment in returning.

With some difllculty I retraced my steps, but the bundle bad disappeared. The clothes were, in themselves, of small value, but they constituted the whole of my wardrobe; and I now reflected that they were capable of being transmuted, by the pawn or sale of them, into food. There were other >vretches as indigent as I was, and I consoled myself by think

ARTHUR MERVYIf. 27

ing that my shirts and stockings might furnish a seasonable covering to their nakedness; but there was a relique concealed within this bundle, the loss of which could scarcely be endured by me. It was the portrait of a young man who died three years ago at my father's house, drawn by his own hand.

He was discovered one morning in the orchard with many marks of insanity upon him. His air and dress bespoke some elevation of rai^k and fortune. My mother's compassion was excited, and, as his singularities were h:irmless, an asylum was afforded him, though he was unable to pay for it. He was constantly declaiming, in an incoherent manner, about some mistress who had proved faithless. His speeches seemed, however, like the rantings of an actor, to be rehearsed by rote or for the sake of exercise. He was totally careless of his person and health, and by repeated negligences of this kind, at last contracted a fever of which he speedily died. The name which he assumed was Clavering.

He gave no distinct account of his family, but stated in loose terms that they were residents in England, high born and wealthy. That they had denied him the woman whom he loved and banished him to America, under penalty of death if he should dare to return, and that they had refused him all means of subsistence in a foreign land. He predicted, in his wild and declamator}' way, his own death. He was very skilful at the pencil, and drew this portrait a short time before his dissolution, presented it to me, and charged me to preserve it in remembrance of him. My mother loved the youth because he was amiable and unfortunate, and chiefly because she fancied a very powerful resemblance between his countenance and mine. I was too young to build affection on any rational foundation. I loved him, for whatever reason, with an ardour unusual at my age, and which this portrait had contributed to prolong and to cherish.

In thus finally leaving my home, I was careful not to leave this picture behind. I wrapt it in paper in which a fe"VT C-legiac stiiuzas were inscribed in my ONvn hand and with

38 ARTHUR MERVYN.

my utmost elegance of penmanship. 1 then placed it in a leathern case, which, for greater security, was deposited in the centre of my bundle. It will occur to you, perhaps, that it would be safer in some fold or pocket of the clothes which I wore. I was of a diiferent opinion and was now to endure the penalty of my error.

It was in vain to heap execrations on my negligence, or to consume the little strength left to me in regre±s. I returned once more to the tavern and made inquiries for Mr. Capper^ the person Avhom I have just mentioned as my father's neighbc-ur. I was informed that Capper was now in town; that J^e had lodged, on the last-night, at this house; that he had expected to do the same to-night, but a gentleman had called ten minutes ago, whose invitation to lodge with him to-night had been accepted. They had just gone out together. Who, I asked, was the gentleman? The landlord had no knowledge of him: he knew neither his place of abode nor his name... Was Mr. Capper expected to return hither in the morning? —No, he had heard the stranger propose to Mr. Capper to go with him into the country tomorrow, and Mr. Capper, he Relieved, had assented.

This disappointment was peculiarly severe. I had lost, by my own negligence, the only opportunity that would offer of meeting my friend. Had even the recollection of my loss been postponed for three minutes, I should have entered the house, and a meeting would have been secured. I could discover no otlier expedient to obviate the present evil. JVTy heart began now, for the first time, to droop. I looked back, with nameless emotions, on tlie days of my infancy. I called up the image of my mother. 1 reiitcted on the infatuation of my surviving parent, and the usurpation-of the detestable Betty with horror. 1 viewed myself as the most . calamitous and desolate of human beings.

At this time I was sitting in the common room. Thcr« were others in the same apartment, lounging, or whistling, •r singing. I noticed them not, but leaning my head upon

,^8n

ARTHUR MERVYX. 29

my hand, I delivered myself up to painful and intense meditation. From this I was roused by some one placing himself on the bench near me and addressing me thus: " Pray Sir, if you will excuse me, v;ho was the person whom you were looking for just now? Perhaps I can give you the information you want. If I can, you will be very welcome to it."—I fixed my eyes with some eagerness on the person that spoke. He was a young man, expensively and fashionably dressed, whose mien was considerably prepossessing, and whose countenance bespoke some portion of discernment. I described to him the man whom I sought. " I am in search of the same man myself," said he, " but I expect to meet hi^i here. He may lodge elsewhere, but he promised to meet me here at half after nine. I have no doubt he will fulfil his promise, so that you will meet the gentleman."

I was highly gratified by this information, and thanked my informant with some degree of warmth. My gratitude he did not notice, but continued: " In order to baguile expectation, I have ordered supper: Will you do me the favour to partake with me, unless indeed you have supped already?" I was obliged, someVhat awkwardly, to decline his invitation, conscious as I wiis that the means of payment were not in my power. He continued however to urge my compliance, till at length it was, though reluctantly, yielded. My chief motive was the crtainty of seeing Capper.

My new acquaintance was exceedingly conversible, but his Tonversation was chiefly characterized by frankness and good humour. My reserves gradually diminished, and I ventured to inform him, in general terms, of my former condition and present views. He listened to my details with iseeming attention, and commented on them with some judiciousness. His statements, however, tended to discourage me from remaining in the city.

Meanv^hile the hour passed and Capper did not appear. I n-^ticed this circumstance to him with no little solicltudeJ' He said that possibly he might have forgotten or neglected.

Da

3<» ARTHUR MERVVN.

his engagement. His aifalr was not of the highest importance, and m'vyht be readily postponed to a future opportunity* He perceived that my vivacity was greatly damped by this intelligence. He importuned me to disclose the cause. H« made himself very merry with my distress, when it was at length discovered. As to the expence of supper, I had partaken of it at his invitation, he therefore should of course be charged with it. As to lodging, he had a chamber and a bed which he would insist upon my sharing with him.

My faculties were thus kept upon the stretch of wonder. Every new act of kindness in this man surpassed the fondest expectation that I had formed. I saw no reason why I should be treated with benevolence. I should have acted m the same manner if placed in the same circumstances; yet it appeared incongruous and inexplicable. I know whence my ideas of human nature were derived. They certainly were not the offspring of my own feelings. These would have taught me that interest and duty were blended in every act of generosliy.

I did not come into the world without my scruples and suspicions. I v.'as more apt to impute kindnesses to sinister and hidden than to obvious and laudable motives. I paused to Reflect upon the possible designs of this person. What end could be served by this behaviour? I was no subject of violence or fraud. I had neither trinket nor coin to stimulate-j the treacliery of others. What was offered was merely lodging for the night. Was this an act of such transcendent disinterestedness as to be incredible? My garb was meaner t'.nn that of my companion, but my intellectual accomplishments were at least upon a level with his. Why should he })e supposed to be InsensllJle to my claims upon his kindness. I was a youth destitute of ex'j:u;ricnce, money, and friends; Ijut I was not devoid of all mcntaLand personal endowments* That my merit should be discovered, even on such slender ' intercourse, had surely nothing in it that shocked belief.

ARTHUR MERVYN. -j.

While I was thus deliberating', my new friend was earnest in his solicitations for my company. He remarked my hesitation, but ascribed it to a wrong cause. " Come," said he, " I can guess your objections and can obviate them. You are afraid of being ushered into company; and people who have passed their lives like you have a wonderful antipathy to strange faces; but this is bed-time with our family, so that we can defer your introduction to them till to-m.orrow. We may go to our chamber without being seen by any but servants."

I had not been aware of this circumstance. My reluctance flowed from a different cause, but now that the inconveniences of ceremony were mentioned, they appeared to m© of considerable weight. I was well pleased that they should thus be avoided, and consented to go along with him.

We passed several streets and turned several corners. At last we turned into a kind of court which seem.ed to be chiefly occupied by stables. " We will go," said he, " by the back way into the house. We shall thus save ourselves the neces^ sity of entering the parlour, where some of the family maystill be."

My companion was as talkative as ever, but said nothing from which I could gather any knowledge of tke number, character, and condition of his family.

£ 3» 1

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER IV.

W E arrived at a brck wall through which we passed by a gate into an extensive court or yard. I'he darkness would allow me to see nothin'>" but outlines. Compared with the p gmy dimensions of my f^ither's wooden hovel, the buildin,cis before me were of gigantic loftiness. The horses were here fir more magnificently accommodated than I had been. By a large door we entered an elevated hall. " Stay here," said he, " just while I fetch a light."

He returned, bearing a candle, before I had time to ponder on my present situation.

We now ascended a staircase, covered with painted canvas. No one whose inexper'.ence is less than mine, can imagine to himself the impressions made upon me by surrounding objects. The height to which this stair ascended, its dimensions, and its ornaments, appeared to me a combination of all that was pomp'^us and superb.

W^ stopped not till we had reached the third story. Here jny co.npai;i')n unlocked and led the w:iy into a chamber. ** TiVis," said he, " is my room: Permit me to welcome you into it."

1 had no time to examine this room before, by some accident, the can lie was extinguished. " Curse upon my carelessntss," sad lie. ' 1 must ^o down again and light the iaudle 1 wiu ictuvn in a twinkling. Meanwhile you may

ARTHUR MER\^N. 35

ondress ^^onrself and go to bed." He -went out, and, as I I afterwards recollected, locked the door behind him.

I was not indisposed to follow his advice, but my curiosity would first be gratified by a survey of the room. Its height and spaciousness were imperfectly discernible by star-light, and by gleams from a street lamp. The floor was covered with a carpet, the walls with brilliant hangings; the bed and v/indows were shrouded by curtains of a rich texturo and glossy hues. Hitherto I had merely read of these things. I knew them to be the decorations of opulence, and yet as I viewed them, and remembered whei-e and what I was on the same hour the preceding day, I could scarcely believe myself awake or that my senses were not beguiled by sorKC spell.

" "Where," faid I, " v/ill this adventure terminate. I rise on the morrow with the dawn and speed into tha couhtiy. When this night is remembered, how like a vision will it appear 1 If I tell the tale by a kitchen fire, my veracity will be disputed. I shall be ranked y»^ith the story tellers of Shi,* rauz and Bagdad."

Though busied in these reflections, I was not inattentive to the progress of time, Methought my companion was remarkably dilatory. He went merely to re-light his candle, but certainly he might, during this time, have performed the operation ten tim«s over. Some unforeseen accident might occasion his delay.

Another interval passed and no tokens of his coming. I began now to grow uneasy. I was unable to account for his detention. Was not some treacl|fry designed? I went to the door and found that it was locked. This heightened my suspicions. I was alone, a stranger, in an upper room of the house. Should my conductor have disappeared, by design or by accident, and some one of the family should find me here, what would be the consequence ? Should I not be arrested as a thief and conveyed to prison? My transition from the street to this chamber would not be more rapid than^ my passage hence to a gaol.

J«

54 ARTHUR JIERV\T^.

These ideas struck me with panick. I revolved them anew, but they only acquired greater plausibility. No doubt 1 had been the victim of malicious artifice. Inclination, however, coxnjured up opposite sentim>?nts and my fears began to subside. What motive, I asked, could induce an human being to inflict wanton injury? I could not account for his delay, but how numberless were the contiiij^encies, that might occaeion it?

I was somev/hat comforted by these reflections, but the consolation they afforded was short-lived. I was listening ■with the utmost eagerntss to catch the sound of a foot, when a noise was indeed heard, but totally unlike a step. It was human breath struggling, as it were, for passage. On the first effort of attention it appeared like a groan. Whence it arofe I could not tell. He that uttered it was near; perhape in the room.

Presently the same noise was again heard, and now I perceived that it came from the bed. It was accompanied with z. ir.otion like some one changing his posture. What I at first conceived to be a groan, appeared now to be nothing more than the expiration of a sieep ng man. What should I infv^r from this incident? My companion did not apprise me that the apartment was inhabited. Was his imposture a jestful or a wicked one?

There was no need to deliberate. There were no means of concealment or escape. The person would sometime awaken and detect lue. The interval would only be fraught with agony and it was wise to shorten it. Should I not withdraw the curtain, awake the person, and eni ountcr at once all the consequences of my situation? I glided softly to the bed, "when the thought occurred, May nottlic sleeper be a female?

I cannot dtscr.be the mixture of dread and of shame which glowed in my veins. The light in which such a visitant l^'ould be probably regarded by a woman's fears, the precipitate alarn.s that might be giv n, the injury which I might HBkcovvingly inflict or uude*ervedly suffer, thret/ my thoughtjj

ARTHUR MERVYN. S5

into painful confusion. My presence might pollute a spotless reputation or furnisli fuel to jealousy.

Still, though it were a female, would not least injurybe done by gently interrupting her slumber? But the question of sex still remained to be decided. For this end I once more approached the bed and drew aside the silk. The sleeper

was a babe. This I discovered by the glimmer of a street lamp.

Part of my solicitudes were now removed. It was plain that this chamber belonged to a nurse or a mother. She had not yet come to bed. Perhaps it was a married pair and their approach might be momently expected. I pictured to myself their entrance and my own detection. I could imagine no consequence that was not disastrous and horrible, and from which 1 would not, at any price, escape. I again examined the door, and found that exit by this avenue was impossible. There were other doors in this room. Any practicable expedient in this extremity was to be pursued. One of these waf bolted. I unfastened it and found a considerable space within* Should I immure myself in this closet? I saw no benefit that ^vould finally result from it. I discovered that there was a bolt on the inside which would somewhat contribute to security. This being drawn no one could enter without breaking the door.

I had scarcely paused when the long expected sound ot footsteps were heard in the entry. Was it my companion or a stranger? If it were the latter, I had not )'^^|||}stcred'cQu-' rage sufficient to meet him. I cannot applaud the magnanimity of my proceeding, but no one can expect intrepid or judicious measures from one in my circumstanced. I stepped into the closet and closed the door. Some one immediatelyafter, unlocked the chamber door. He was unattended with a light, The footsteps, as they moved along the carpet, could scarcely be heard.

I waited impatiently for some token by which I might be governed. I put my ear to the key-hole, and at length heard

S6 ARTHUR MERVriT.

X voice, but not that of my companion, excklm, somewhat above a whisper, " Smiling cherub 1 safe and sound, I see. Would to God my experiment may succeed and that thou mayest find a mother where I have found a "wife!" There he stopped. He appeared to kiss the babe and presently retiring locked the door after him.

These words were capable of no consistent meaning. They served, at least, to assure me that I had been treacherously dealt with. This chamber, it was manifest, did not belong to my companion. I put up prayers to my deity that ho ■would deliver me from these toils. What a condition was mine? Immersed in palpable darkness 1 shut up in this unknown recess! lurking like a robber 1

My meditations were disturbed by new sounds. The door •was unlocked, more than one person entered the apartment, and light streamed through the key-hole. I looked; but the aperture was too small and the figures passed too quickly to permit me the sight of them. I bent my ear and thii imparted some more authentic information.

The man, as I judged by the voice, was the same who had just departed. Rustling of silk denoted his companion to be female. Some words being uttered by the man, in too low a key to be overheard, the lady burst into a passion of tears. He strove to comfort her by soothing tones and tender appellations. " How can it be helped," said be. " It is time to resume your courage. Your duty to yourself and to me requires you to subdue this unreasonable grief."

He spoke frequently in this strain, but all he said seemed to have little influence in pacifying the lady. At length, however, her sobs began to lessen in vehemence and frequency. He cxhoried her to seek for some repose. Apparently she prepared to comply, and conversation was, for a few minutes, intermitted.

I could not but advert to the possibility that some occasion to examine the closet in which I was immured, might occur. 1 knew DOt in what manner to demean myself if this should

take place. I had no option at present. By withdrawing my^elf from view I had lost the privilege of an upright deportment. Yet the thought of spending the night in this spot was not to be endured.

Gradually I began to view the project of bursting from the closet, and trusting to the energy of truth and of an artless tale, with more complacency. More than once my hand was placed upon the bolt, but withdrawn by a sudden faltering of resolution. When one attempt failed, I recurred once more to such reflections -jls were adapted to renew my purpose.

I preconcerted the address which I should use. I resolved to be perfectly explicit: To withhold no particular of my adventures from the moment of my arrival. My description must necessarily suit some person within their knowledge. All I should want was liberty to depart; but if this were not allowed, I might at least hope to escape any ill treatment, and to be confronted with ray betrayer. In that case I did not fear to make him the attester of my innocence. Influenced by these considerationc, I once more touched the lock. At that moment the lady shrieked, and exclaimed " Good God! What is here?" An interesting conversation ensued. The object that excited her astcn'shment was the • child. I collected from what passed that the discovery was wholly unexpected by her. Her husband acted as if equally unaware of this event. He joined in all her exclamations o£ wonder and all her wild conjectures. When these were somewhat exhausted he artfully insinuated the propriety of bestowing care upon the little foundling. I nqrw found that her grief had been occasioned by the recent loss of her own oflfspring. She was, for some time, averse to her husband's proposal, but at length was persuaded to take the babe to her bosom and give it nourishment.

This incident had diverted nr.y mind from its favourite project, and filled me with speculations on the nature ■.!" the sceue. One explication was ob\ ious, that the husband was

the parent of this child, and had used this singular expedient to procure for it the maternal protection of his wife. It •would soon claim from her all the fondness which she entertained for her own progeny. No suspicion probably had yet, ©r would hereafter, occur with regard to its true parent. If her character be distinguished by the usual attributes of women, the knowledge of this truth may convert her love into hatred. I reflected with amazement on the slightness of that thread by which human passions are led from their tme direction. With no less amazement did I remark the complexity of incidents by which I had been impowered to communicate to her this truth. How baseless are the structures of falsehood, which we build in opposition to the system of eternal nature. If I should escape undetected from this recess, it will be true that I never saw the face of either of these persons, and yet 1 am acquainted with the most secret transaction of their lives.

My own situation was now more critical than before. The lights were extinguished and the parties had sought repose. To issue from the closet now would be eminently dangerous. My councils were again at a stand and my designs frusirated. Meanwhile tlie persons did not drop their discourse, and I thought myself justified in listening. Many facts of the most secret and momentous nature were alluded to. Some allusions were unintelligible. To others I was able to affix a plausible meaning, and some were palpable enough. Every word that was uttered on that occasion is indelibly imprinted on my mf^mojy. Perhaps the singularity of my circumstance* and my prcij^ous ignorance of what was passing in the world, contributed to render me a greedy listener. Most that was said I shall overlook, but one part of the conversation it will be necessary to repeat.

A large company had assembled that evening at their house. They criticised the character and manners of several. At last the husband said, " What think you of the Nabob? Especially when he talked jibout riches? How artfully he

Incouragrs the notion of his poverty 1 Yet not a soul believes him. I cannot for my part account for that scheme of his. I half suspect that his wealth flows from a bad source, since h<5 is so studious of concealing it."

" Perhaps, after all," said the lady, " you are mistaken as to his wealth."

" Impossible," exclaimed the other. '' Mark how he lives. Have I not seen his bank account. His deposits, since he hafi' been here, amount to not less than half a milpon."

" Heaven grant that it be so," said the lady with a sigh. " I shall think with less aversion of your scheme. If poor Tom's fortune be made, and he not the worse, or but little the v.'orse on that account, I shall think it on the whole best."

" That," replied he, " is what reconciles me to the scheme. To him thirty thousand are nothing."

*' But will he not suspect you of some hand in it?"

" How can he? Will I not appear to lose as well as himself? Tom is my brother, but who can be supposed to answer for a brother's integrity: but he cannot suspect either of us. Kothing less than a miracle can bring our plot to light. Besides, this man is not what he ought to be. He will, some time or other, come out to be a grand impostor. He makes money by other arts than bargain and sale. He has found his way, by some means, to the Portuguese treasury."

Here the conversation took a new direction, and after some time, the silence of sleep ensued.

Who, thoughr I, is this nabob who counts his dollars by half millions, and on whom, it seems as if some fraud v.as intended to be practised. Amidst their warynesiand subtlety how little are they aware that their conversation has been overheard 1 By means as inscrutable as those which conducted me hither, I may her^^fter be enabled to profit by this detection of a plot. But, meanwhile, what was I to do? How vras I to effect my escape from this perilous asylum?

After much reflection it occurred to me that to gain the street without exciting their notice was not utterly impossi

tie. Sleep does not commonly end of itself, unless at a certain period. What impediments were there between me and liberty which I could not remove, and remo\e ^vith so much caution as to escape notice. Motion and sound inevitably go together, but every sound is not attended to. The doors of the closet and the chamber did not creak upon their hinges. The latter might be locked. This I was able to ascertain only by experiment. If it were so, yet the key was probably in the lock and might be used without much noise.

I waited till their slow and hoarser inspirations shewed them to be both asleep. Just then, on changing my position, jny head struck against some things which depended from the ceiling of the closet. They were implements of some kind which rattled against each other in consequence of this unlucky blow. I was fearful lest this noise should alarm, as the closet was little distant from the bed. The breathing of one instantly ceased, and a motion was made as if the head w^re lifted from the pillow. This motion, Avhich was made by the husband, awaked his companion, who exclaimed, " What is the matter?"

*' Something, 1 believe," replied he, " in the closet. If i was not dreaming, I heard the pistols strike against each ether tis if some one was taking them down."

This intimation was well suited to alarm the lady. She besought him to ascertain the matter. This to my utter dismay he at first consented to do, but presently observed that probably his cars had misinformed him. It was hardly possible that the sound proceeded from them. It might be a rat, or his own fa«cy might have fashioned it.—It is not easy to describe my trepidations while this conference was holding. I saw how easily their slumber was disturbed. The obstacle* to my escape were less surmount^iblc than I had imagined..

In a little time all was again still. I waited till the usual tokens of sleep were distinguishable. I once more resumed jny attempt. The bolt was withdrawn with all possible slowness i but I could by no means prevent all sound. My stat«

ARTHUR MERVYN. 4^

"was full of Irrquietude and suspense ; my attention being painfully divided between the bolt and the condition of the sleepers. The difficulty lay in giving that degree of force -which "was barely sufficient. Perhaps not less than fifteen minutes ■were consumed in this operation. At last it was happily effected and the door was cautiously opened.

Emerging as I did from utter darkness, the light admitted into three windows, produced, to my eyes, a considerable illumination. Objects which, on my first entrance into this apartment, were invisible, were now clearly discerned. The bed was shrowded by curtains, yet I shrunk back into my covert, fearful of being seen. To facilitate my escape I put off my shoes. My mind was so full of objects of more urgent moment that the propriety of taking them along with me never occurred. I left them in the closet.

I now glided across the apartment to the door. I was not a little discouraged by observing that the key was wanting. My whole hope depended on the omission to lock it. In my haste to ascertain this point, I made some noise which again roused one of the sleepers. He started and cried "Who is there?"

I now regarded my case as desperate and detection as inevitable. My apprehensions, rather than my caution, kept me mute. I shrunk to the wall, and waited in a kind of agony for the moment that should decide my fate.

The lady was again roused. Iri answer to her inquiries, her husband said that some one he believed was at the door, but there was no danger of their entering, for he had locked it and the key was in his pocket.

My courage was completely annihilated by this piece of intelligence. My resources were now at an end. I could only remain in this spot, till the morning light, which could be at no great distance, should discover me. My inexperience disabled me from estimating all the perils of my situation. Perhaps I had no more than temporaiy inconveniences to dread. My intention was innocent, and I had been betraved into my

E2

41 ARTHUR MERVVN.

present situation, not by my own wickedness but the wickedness of others.

I was deeply impressed • with the ambiguousness which would necessarily rest upon my motives, and the scrutiny to "which they would be subjected. I shuddered at the bare possibility of being ranked with thieves. These reflections again gave edge to my ingenuity In search of the means of escape. I had carefully attended to the circumstances of their entrance. Possibly the act of locking had been unnoticed; but, ■was it not likewise possible that this person had been mistaken ? The key was gone. Would this have been the case if the door were unlocked?

My fears, rather tlian my hopes, impelled me to make the experiment. I drew back the latch and, to my unspeakable joy, the door opened.

I passed through and explored my way to the staircase. I descended till I reached the bottom. I could not recollect with Accuracy the position of the door leading into the court, but by carefully feeling along the wall with my hands, 1 at length discovered it. It was fastened by several bolts and a lock. The bolts were easily withdrawn, but the key was removed. I knew not where it was deposited. I thought I had reached the threshold of liberty, but here was an impediment that threatened to be insurmountable.

But if doors could not be passed, windows might be unbarred. I remembered that my companion had gone into a door on the left himd, in search of a light. I searched for this door. Fortunately it was fastened only by a bolt. It admitted me into a room which I carefully explored till I reached a window. I will not dwell on my efforts to unbar this entrance. SufRce it to say that, after much exertion and frequent mistakes, I at length found my way into the yard, and thence passed into the court.

[■ 43 1

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER V.

Now I vras once more on public ground. By So many anxious efforts had I disengaged myself from the perilous precincts of private property. As many stratagems as arc usually made to enter an house, had been employed by me to get out of it. I was urged to the use of them by my fears; yet so far from carrying off spoil, I had escaped with the loss of an essential part of my dress.

I had now leisure to reflect. I seated myself on the ground and reviewed the scenes through which I had just passed. I began to think that my industry had been misemployed. Suppose I had met the person on his first entrance into his chamber? Was the truth so utterly wild as not to have found credit? Since the door was locked, and there was no other avenue ; what other statement but the true one would account for my being found there ? This deportment had been worthy of an honest puqaose. My betrayer probably expected that this would be the issue of his jest. My rustic simplicity, he might think, would suggest no more ambiguous or elaborate expedient. He might likewise have predetermined to interfere if my safety had been really endangered.

On the morrow the two doors of the chamber and the "window below would be found unclosed. They will suspect a design to pillage, but their searches will terminate in nothing but in the discovery of a pair of clumsy and dusty shoes io the closet. Now that I was safe I could iiot

44 ARTHUR MERVYN.

help smiling at the picture which my fancy drew of their anxiety and wonder. These thoughts, however, gave place to more momentous considerations.

I could not image to myself a more perfect example of indigence than I now exhibited. There was no being in the v'lty on whose kindness I had any claim. Money I had none, and what I then wore comprised my whole stock of moveables. I had just lost my shoes, and this loss rendered my stockings of no use. My dignity remonstrated against a barefoot pilgrimage, but to this, necessity now reconciled me. I threw my stockings between the bars of a stable window, belonging, as I thought, to the mansion I had just left. These, together with my shoes, I left to pay the cost of my entertainment.

I saw that the city was no place for me. The end that I had had in view, of procuring some mechanical employment, could only be obtained by the use of means, but what means to pursue I knew not. This night's perils and deceptions gave me a distaste to a city life, and my ancient occupations rose to my view enhanced by a thousand imaginary charms. I resolved forthwith to strike into the country.

The day began now to dawn. It was Sunday, and I was desirous of eluding observation. I was somewhat recruited by rest though the languors of sleeplessness oppressed me. I meant to throw myself on the first lap of verdure I should meet, and indulge in sleep that I so much wanted. I knew not the direction of the streets; but followed that which I first entered from the court, trusting that, by adheri.ng steadily to one course, I should sometime reach the fields. This street, as I afterwards found, tended to Schuylkill, and soon extricated me from houses. I could not cross this river without payment of toll. It was requisite to cross it in order to reach that jiart of the country whither I was desirous of going, but how should I effect my passage? I knewof no ford, jlnd the smallest cxpence exceeded my capacity. Ten thousand guineas and a farthing were equally remote from nothing, and nothing was the portion allotted to me.

ARTHUR MERV\'N. 45

While my mind was thus occupied, I turned up one of the streets which tend northward. It was, for some length, uninhabited and unpavcd. Presently I reached a pavement, and a painted fence, along which a row of poplars was planted. It bounded a garden into which a knot-hole permitted me to pr)'. The inclosure was a charming green, which I saw appended to an house of the loftiest and most stately order. It seemed like a recent erection, had all the gloss of novelty, and exhibited, to my unpractised eyes, the magnificence of palaces. My father's dwelling did not equal the height of one stor}-, and might be easily comprised in one fourth of those builddings which here were designed to accommodate the menials. My heart dictated the comparison between my own condition and that uf the proprietors of this domain. How wide and how impassible was the gulf by which we were separated! This fair inheritance had fallen to one who, perhaps, would only abuse it to the purposes of luxur)', whde I, with inte«tions worthy of the friend of mankind, was doomed to wield the fiail and the mattock.

I ha4 been intirely unaccustomed to this strain of reflection. My books had taught me the dignity and safety of the middle path, and my darling writer abounded with encomiums on rural life. At a distance from luxury and pomp I viewed them, perhaps, in a just light. A nearer scrutiny confirm.cd my early prepossessions, but at the distance at which I novr stood, the lefty edifices, the splendid furniture, and the copious accommodations of the rich, excited my admiratioa and my envy.

I relinquished my station and proceeded, in an heartless mood, along the fence. I now came to the mansion itself. The principal door was entered by a staircase of marble. I had never seen the stone of Carrara, and wildly supposed this to have been dug from Italian quarries. The beauty of the poplars, the coolness exhaled froj^the dew-besprent bricks, the commodiousness of the seat which these steps afforded, an^ the uncertainty into which I was plunged respecting mj

46 ARTHUR MERVYN.

future conduct^ all combined to make me pause. I sat dowi

on the lower step and began to meditate.

By some transition it occurred to me that the supply of my most urgent wants might be found in some inhabitant of this house. I needed at present a few cents; and what were a few cents to the tenant of a mansion like this. I had an invincible aversion to the calling of a beggar, but I regarded ■with still more antipathy the vocation of a thief; to this alternative, however, I was now reduced. I must either steal or beg; unless, indeed, assistance could be procured under the notion of a loan. Would a stranger refuse to lend the pittance that I wanted? Surely not, when the urgency of my wants were explained.

I recollected other obstacles. To summon the master of the house from his bed, perhaps, for the sake of such an application, would be preposterous. I should be in more danger of provoking his anger than exciting his benevolence. This request might, surely, with more propriety be preferred to a passenger. I should, probably, meet several before I should arrive at Schuylkill.

A servant just then appeared at the door, with bucket and brush. This obliged me, much sooner than I intended, to decamp. With some reluctance I rose and proceeded.—This house occupied the corner of the street, and I now turned this corner towards the country. A person, at some distance before me, was approaching in an opposite direction.

" Why," said I, " may I not make my demand of the first man I meet? This person exhibits tokens of ability to lend. There is nothing chilling or austere in his demeanour."

'J'he resolution to address this passenger was almost formed; but the nearer he advanced, my resolves grew less firm. He noticed me not till he came within a few paces. He seemed busy in reflection, and had not my figure caught his eye; or had he merely bestowed a passing glance upon me, I should not have been sufficiently courageous to have detahied him. The event however was widely differe^it.

ARTHUR JrERVYN. 47

He looked at me and started. For an instant, as it were, and till he had time to dart at me a second glance, he checked his pace. This behaviour decided mine, and he stopped on perceiving tokens of a desire to address him. I spoke, but my accents and air sufficiently denoted my embarrassments.

*' I am going to solicit a favour, which my situation makes of tlie highest importance to me, and which I hope it will be easy for you, Sir, to grant. It is not an ahus but a loan that I seek; a loan ihat I will repay the moment I am able to do It. I am going to the country, but have not wherewith to pay my passage over Schuyikiil, or to buy a morsel of bread. May I venture to request of you. Sir, the loan of six pence? As I told you, it is my intention to repay it."

I delivered this address, not without some faltering, but with great earnestness. I laid particular stress upon my intention to refund the money. He listened with a most inquisitive air. His eye perused me from head to foot.

After some pause, he said, in a very emphatic manner. " Why into tlie country? Have you family? Kindred? Friends?"

" No," answered I, " I have neither. I go in search of the m.eans ol subsistence. I have passed my life upon a farm, and propose to die in the same condition.'^

" Whence have you come ?"

*' I came yesterday from the country, with a view to earn my bread in some way, but have changed my plan and propose now to return."

" Why have you changed it? In what way are you capable of earning your bread?"

" I hardly know," said I. <' I can, as yet, manage no tool, that can be managed in the city, but the pen. My habits have, in some small degree, qualified me for a writer. I would willingly accept employment of that kind."

He fixed his eyes upon the earth, and was silent for some miiiutes. At length, recovering himself, he said, " Follovr

me to my house. Perhaps something may be done for you.

If not, 1 will lend you six-pence."

It may be supposed that I eagerly complied with the invitation. My companion said no more, his air bespeaking him to be absorbed by his own thoughts, till he reached his house, which proved to be that at the door of which I had been seated. We entered a parlour together.

Uniess you can assume my ignorance and my simplicity, you will be unable to conceive the impressions that were xiade by the size and ornaments of this apartment. I shall omit these impressions, which, indeed, no descriptions could adequately convey, and dwell on incidents of greater moment. He asked me to give him a specimen of my penmanship. I told you that I had bestowed very great attention upon this art. Implements were brought and I sat down to the task. By some inexplicable connection a line in Shakspeare occurred to me, and I wrote

" My poverty, but not my will consents." The sentiment conveyed in this line powerfully affected him, but in a way which I could not then comprehend. I collected from subsequent events that the inference was not unfavourable to my understanding or my morals. He questioned me as to my history. I related my origin and my inducements to desert my father's house. With respect to hist night's adventures I was silent. I saw no useful purpose that could be answered by disclosure, and I half suspected that my companion would refuse credit to my talc.

There were frequent intervals of abstraction and reflection between his questions. My examination lasted not much less than an hour. At length he said, " I want an amanuensis or copyist: On what terms will you live with me?"

I answered that I knew not how to estimate the value of my services. I knew not whether these services were agreeabfle or healthful. My life liial hitlierto been active. My coriStitution was predisposed to discai»cs of ilic lungs and the

change might be hurtful. I was willing, however, to tr}-and to content myself for a month or a year, ulth so much as would furnish me with food, clothing, and lodging.

" 'Tis well," said he, " You remain with me as long and no longer than both of us please. You shall lodge and eat in this house. I will supply you with clothing, and your task will be to write what I dictate. Your person, I see, has not shared much of your attention. It is in my power to equip you instantly in the manner which becomes a resident in this house. Come with me."

He led the way into the court behind and thence into a neat building, which contained large wooden vessels and a pump: " There," said he, " you may wash yourself, and when that is done, I will conduct you to your chamber and your wardrobe."

This was speedily performed, and he accordingly led the way to the chamber. It was an apartment in the third story, finished and furnished in the same costly and superb style with the rest of the house. He opened closets and drawers which overflowed with clothes and linen of all and of the best kinds. " These are yours," said he, " as long as you stay with me. Dress yourself as likes you best. Here is every thing your nakedness requires. When dressed you may descend t« breakfast." With these words he left me.

The clothes were all in the French style, as I afterwards, by comparing my garb with that of others, discovered. They were fitted to my shape with the nicest precision. I bedecked myself with all my care. I remembered the style of dress used by my beloved Clavcring. My locks were of shining auburn, flowing and suiooth like his. Having wrung the wet from them, and combed, I tied them carelessly in a black riband. Thus equipped I surveyed myself in a mirror.

You may imagine, if you can, the sensations which this instantaneous transformation produced. Appearances arc wonderfully influenced by dress. Check shirt, buttoned at tiie neck, an awkward fustian coat, check trowsers and bare

feet were now supplanted by linen and muslin, nankeen coat striped with green, a white silk waistcoat elegantly needlewrought, casimer pantaloons, stockings of variegated silk, and shoes that in their softness, pliancy, and polished surface vied with sattin. I could scarcely forbear looking back to see whether the image in the glass, so well proportioned, so galant, and so graceful, did not belong to another. I could scarcely recognize any lineaments of my own. I walked to the Window. " Twenty minutes ago," said I, " I was traversing that path a barefoot beggar; now I am thus." Again I surveyed mvself. " Surely some insanity has fastened on my understanding. My senses are the sport of dreams. Some magic that disdains the cumbrousness of nature's progress, has v/rought this change." 1 was roused froiu these doubts by a summons to breakfast, obsequiously delivered by a black servant.

I found Welbeck, (for I shall henceforth call him by his true name) at the breakfast table. A superb equipage of silver and china was before him. He was startled at my entrance. The change in my dress seemed for a moment to have deceived him. His eye was frequently fixed upon me with unusual steadfastness. At these times there was inquietude and wonder in his features.

I had now an opportunity of examining my host. There was nicety but no ornament in his dress. His form was of the middle height, spare, but vigorous and grac^^ful. His face was cast, I lliought, in a foreign mould. His forehead receded beyond the usual degree in visages which I had seen. His eyes large and prominent,but imparting no marks of bewignity and habitual joy. The rest of his face forcibly suggested the idea of a convex edge. His whole figure impressed me with emotions of veneration and awe. A gravity that ahuost amounted to saunccs invariably attended liim when we were alone together.

He whisper:d the servant that v/aited, wlio immediately retired. He t'.icn iaid, turning to me, ^' A lady will enter

ARTHUR MERVYN. 51

presently, whom you are to treat with the respect due to me daughter. You must not notice any emotion she may betray at the sightof you, nor expect her to converse with you; for she does not understand your language." He had scarcely spoken when she entered. I was seized with certain misgivings and flutterings which a clownish education may account for. I so far conquered my timidity, however, as to snatch a look at her. I was not born to execute her portrait. Perhaps the turban that wreathed her head, the brilliant texture and inimitable folds of her drapery, and nymphlikc port, more than the essential attributes of her person, gave splendour to the celestial vision. Perhaps it was her snowy hues and the cast, rather than the position of her features, that were so proline of enchantment: or perhaps the wonder originated only in my own ignorance.

She did not immediately notice me. When she did she almost shrieked with surprise. She held up her hands, and gazing upon me, uttered various exclamations which I could not understand. I could only remark that her accents wer« thrillingly musical. Her perturbations refused to be stilled. It was with difficulty that she withdrew her regards from me. Much conversation passed between her and Welbeck, but I could com.prehend no part of it. 1 was at liberty to animadvert on the visible part of their intercourse. I diverted some part of my attention from my own embarrassments, and fixed it on their looks.

In this art, as in most others, I was an unpractised simpleton. In the countenance of Welbeck, there was somewhat else than sympathy with the astonishment and distress of th« lady; but I could not interpret these additional tokens. When Ijer attention was engrossed by Welbeck, her eyex were frequently vagrant or downcast; her cheeks contracted a deeper hue; and her breathing was almost prolonged int® a sigh. These were marks on which 1 made no comment! at the time. !My own situation was calculated to breed coniusion in my thoughts and awkwardness in my gestures^

5 a ARTHUR ^^ERVYN.

Breakfast being finished, the lady, apparently at the request

of Welbcck, sat down to a piano forte.

Here again I must be silent. I was not wholly destitute ,pf musical practice and musical taste. I had that degree of Jcnowledge which enabled me to estimate the transcendent pkill of this performer. As if the pathos of her touch were insufficient, I found after some time that the lawless jarrings of the keys were chastened by her own more liquid notes. She played without a book, and though her base might be preconcerted, it was plain that her right-hand notes were momentary and spontaneous inspirations. Meanwhile Welbeck stood, leaning his arms on the back of a chair near her, •with his eyes fixed on her face. His features were fraught with a meaning which I was eager to interpret but unable.

I have read of transitions effected by magic: I have read of palaces and deserts which were subject to the dominion of spells: Poets may sport with their power, but I am certain that no transition was ever conceived more marvellous and more beyond the reach of foresight, than that which I had just experienced. Heaths vexed by a midnight storm may be changed into an hall of choral nymphs and regal banqueting; forest glades may give sudden place to colonnades and carnivals, but he whose senses are deluded finds himself still on his natal earth. These miracles are conteminible when compared with that which placed me under this roof and gave me to partake in this audience. I know that my emotions are in danger of being regarded as ludicrous by those who cannot figure to themselves the consequences of a limitted and rustic education.

[ 53 J

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER VI.

In a short time the lady reilred. I naturally expected t.hat some comments would be made on her behaviour, and that the cause of her surprise and distress on seeing me, would be explained, but Welbeck said nothing on that subject. When she had gone, he went to the window and stood for some time occupied, as it seemed, with his own thoughts. Then he turned to me and, calling me by my name, desired me to accompany him up stairs. There was neither cheerfulness nor mildness in his address, but neither was there any thing domineering or arrogant.

We entered an apartment on the same floor with my chamber, but separated from it by a spacious entry. It was supplied with bureaus, cabinets, and book-cases. " This," said he, " is your room and mine; but we must enter it and leave it together. I mean to act not as your master but your friend. My maimed hand" so saying he shewed me his right hand, the forefinger of which was wanting, " will not allow me to write accurately or copiously. For this reason I have required your aid, in a work of some moment. Much haste will not be requisite, and as to the hours and duration of employment, these will be seasonable and sliort.

" Your present situation is new to you and we w'll therefore defer entering on our business. Meanwhile you may amuse yourself in what manner you please. ConslJtir this house as your home and make yourself familiar with it. Stay

within or go out, be busy or be idle, as your fancy shall prompt: Only you will conform to our domestic system as to eating and sleep: the servants will inform you of this. Next week we will enter on the task for which I designed you. You may now withdraw."

I obeyed this mandate with some awkwardness and hesitation. I went into my own chamber not displeased with an opportunity of loneliness. I threw myself on a chair and resigned myself to those thoughts which would naturally arise in this situation. I speculated on the character and ■views of Welbeck. I saw that he was embosomed in tranquility and grandeur. Riches, therefore, were his; but in what did his opulence consist, and whence did it arise ? What were the limits by which it was confined, and what its degree of permanence? I was unhabituated to ideas of floating or transferable wealth. The rent of houses and lands was the only species of property which was, as yet, perfectly intelligible: My previous ideas led me to regard Welbeck as the proprietor of this dwelling and of numerous houses and farVns. By the same cause 1 was fain to suppose him enriched by inheritance, and that his life had been uniform.

I next adverted to his social condition. This mansion appeared to have but two inhabitants beside servants. Who was the nymph who had hovered for a moment in my sight? Had he not called her his daughter? The apparent difference in their ages would justify this relation; but her guise, her features, and her accents were foreign. Her language I suspected strongly to be that of Italy. How should he be the father of an Italian? But were there not some foreign lineaments in his countenance ?

This idea seemed to open a new world to my view. I had gained from my books, confused ideas of European governments and manners. I knew that the present was a period of revolution and hostility. Might not these be illustrious fugitives from Provence or the Milanese? Their portable wealth, which may reasonably be supposed to be ^reat, they

ARTHUR MERVYN. 55

fiave transported hither. Thus may be explained the sorrow that veils their countenance. The loss of estates and honours ; the untimely death of kindred, and perhaps of his wife, may furnish eternal food for regrets. Welbeck's utterance, though rapid and distinct, partook, as I conceived, in som» very slight degree of a foreign idiom.

Such was the dream that haunted my undisciplined and unenlightened imagination. The more I revolved it the more plausible it seemed. On this supposition every appearance that I had witnessed was easily solved—unless it were their treatment of me. This, at first, was a source of hopeless perplexity. Gradually, however, a clue seemed to be afforded. Welbeck had betrayed astonishment on my first appearance. The lady's wonder was mingled with distress. Perhaps they discovered a remarkable resemblance between me and one who stood in the relation of son to Welbeck and ef brother to the lady. This youth might have perished on the scaffold or in war. These, no doubt, were his clothes. This chamber might have been reserved for him, but his death left it to be appropriated to another.

I had hitherto been unable to guess at the reason why all this kindness had been lavished on me. Will not this conjecture sufficiently account for it? No wonder that this resemblance was enhanced by assuming his dress.

Taking all circumstances into view, these ideas were not, perhaps, destitute of probability. Appearances naturally suggested them to me. They Avere, also, powerfully enforced by inclination. They threw me into transports of wonder and hope. When I dwelt upon the incidents of my past life, and traced the chain of events, from the death of my mother to the present moment, I almost acquiesced in the notion that some beneficent and ruling genius had prepared my path for me. Events which, when foreseen, would most ardently have been deprecated, and when they happened were accounted in the highest degree luckless, were now seen to be propiti

5^ ARTHtTR MERVTN.

ous. Hence I inferred the infatuation of despair and the

folly of precipitate coHchisions.

But what was the fate reserved for me ? Perhaps Welbeck ■would adopt me for his own son. Wealth has ever been capriciously distributed. The mere physical relation of birth is all that intitles us to manors and thrones. Identity itself frequently depends upon a casual likeness or an old nurse's imposture. Nations have risen in arms, as in the case of the Stewarts, in the cause of one, the genuineness of wiiose birth has been denied and can never be proved. But if the cause be trivial and falacious, the effects are momentous and solid* It ascertains our portion of felicity and usefulness, and fixes our lot among peasants or princes.

Something may depend upon my own department. Will it not behove me to cultivate all my virtues and eradicate all my defects? I see that the abilities of this man are venerable. Perhaps he will not lightly or hastily decide in my favour. He will be governed by the proofs that I shall give of discernment and integrity. I had always been exempt from temptation and was therefore undepraved, but this view of things had ^ wonderful tendency to invigorate my virtuous resolutions. All within me was exhilaration and joy.

There was but one thing wanting to exalt me to a dizzy lieight and give me place among the stars of heaven. My resemblance to her brother had forcibly affected this lady: but I was not her brother: I was raised to a level with her and made a tenant of the same mansion. Some intercourse yrould take place between us: Time would lay level impediments and establish familiarity, and this intercourse might foster love and terminate in—marriage.'

These images were of a nature too glowing and expansive to allow me to be longer inactive. I sallied forth into the open air. This tumult of delicious thoughts in some time subsided and gave way to images reh'tive to my present situation. My curlos.ty was awake. As yet I had seen little of the city, and this opportunity for observation was not to be

ARTHUR JIERVYN. 57

neglected. I therefore coursed through several streets, atteivtively examining the objects that successively presented themselves.

At length, it occurred to me to search out the house in which I had lately been immured. I vvas not without hopes that at some future period I should be able to comprehend the allusions and brighten the obscurities that hung about the dialogue of last night.

The house was easily discovered. I reconnoitred the court and gate through which I had passed. The mansion was of the first order in magnitude and decoration. This was not the bound of my present discovery, for I was gifted with that confidence which would make me set on foot inquiries in the neighbourhood. I looked around for a suitable medium of intelligence. The opposite and adjoining houses were small and apparently occupied by persons of an indigent class. At one of these was a sign denoting it to be the residence of a taylor. Seated on a bench at the door was a young man, with coarse uncombed locks, breeches knee-unbuttoned,stockings ungartered, shoes slip-shod and unbuckled, and a face unwashed, gazing stupidly from hollow eyes. His aspect was embellished with good nature though indicative of ignorance.

This was the only person in sight. He might be able to say something concerning his opulent neighbour. To him, therefore, I resolved to apply. I went up to him and, pointing to the house in question, asked him who lived there?

He answered, " Mr. Mathews."

" What is his profession: his way of life-''

" A gentleman. He does nothing but walk about."

" How long has he been married?"

" Married! He is not married as I know on. He never has been married. He is a batchelor."

This intelligence was unexpected. It made me pause to reflect whether I had not mistaken the house. This, however, seemed impossible. I renewed my questions.

" A batchelor, say you? Are you not mistaken?"

5S ARTHUR MERVYN.

" No. It would be an odd thing if he was married. An old fellow, with one foot in the grave—Comical enough for him to git a vift',"^

" An old man? Does he live alone? what is his family?"

" No he does not live alone. He has a niece that lives with him. She is married and her husband lives there too."

" What is his name?"

" 1 don't know: I never heard it as I know on."

« What is his trade?"

*' He's a marchant: he keeps a store somewhere or other; but I don't no where."

" How long has he been married?"

" About two years. They lost a child lately. The young woman was in a huge taking about it. They says she was quite crazy some days for the death of the child: And she is not quite out of tbe dumps yet. To be sure the child was a iweet little thing; but they need not make such a rout about it. I'll warn they'll have enough of them before they die."

" What is the character of the young man? Where was he born and educated? Has he parents or brothers?"

My companion was incapable of answering these questions, and I left him with little essential addition to the knowledge I already possessed.

f 59 ]

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER VII.

- /VFTER viewing various parts of the city; intruding into ciiurches; and diving into alleys, I returned. The rest of the day I spent chietly in my chamber, reflecting on my new condition ; surveying ftiy apartment, its presses and closets; and conjecturing the causes of appearances.

At dinner and supper I was alone. Venturing to inquire of the servant where his master and mistress were, I was answered that they were engaged. I did not qu.'stion him as to the nature of their engagement, though it was a fertile lource of curiosity.

. Next morning, at breakfast, I again met Welbeck and the lady. The incidents were nearly those of the preceding morning, if it were not that the lady exhibited tokens of somewhat greater uneasiness. AVhen she left us Welbeck sank into apparent meditation. I was at a loss whether to retire or remain where I was. At last, however, I was on the point of leaving the room, when he broke iilence and began a conversation with me.

He put questions to me, the obvious scope of which was to know my sentiments on moral topics. I had no motives to conceal my opinions, and therefore delivered them with frankness. At length he introduced allusions to my own history, and made more particular inquiries on that head. Here I was not equally frank: yet I did not fiiin any thing, but merely dealt in generals. I had ac(^uired notions of propriety

M<

«o AP.THUR MERVYN.

on this head, perhaps somewhat fastidious. Minute details, respecting our own concerns, are apt to weary all but the narrator himself. I said thus much and the truth of my remark was eagerly assented to.

With some marks of hesitation and after various preliminaries, my companion hinted that my own interest, as well as his, enjoined upon me silence to all but himself, on the subject of my birth and early adventures. It was not likely, that while in his service, my circle of acquaintance would be large or my intercourse^with the world frequent; but in my communication with others he requested me to speak rather of others than of myself. This request, he said, might appear •ingular to me, but he had his reasons for making it, which it was not necessary, at present, to disclose, though, when I should know them, I should readily acknowledge their validity.

I scarcely knew what answer to make. I was willing to oblige him. I was far from expecting that any exigence would occur, making disclosure my duty. The employment was productive of pain more than of pleasure, and the curiosity that would uselessly seek a knowledge of my past life, was no less impertinent than the loquacity that would uselessly communicate that knowledge. I readily promised, therefore, to adhere to his advice.

This assurance afforded him evident satisfaction; yet it did not seem to amount to quite as much as he wished. He repeated in stronger terms, the necessity there was for caution. He wJis far from suspecting me to possess an impertinent and talkative disposition, or that in my eagerness to expatiate on my own concerns, I should overstep the limit* of politeness: But this was not enough. I was to govern myself by a persuasion that the interests of my friend and myself would be materially uffected by my conduct.

Perhaps I ought to liave allowed these insinuations to breed suspicion in my mind: but conscious as 1 was of the benefits which 1 had received from this man; prone, from my inex

ARTHUR MERVYN. . (Tr

pcrlencc, to rely upon professions and conSde in appearances ; and unaware that I could be placed in any condition, in which mere silence respecting myself could be injurious or criminal, I made no scruple to promise compliance with his Avishes. Nay, I went farther than this: I desired to be accurately informed as to what it was proper to conceal. He nnswered that my silence might extend to every thing anterior to my arrival in the city, and my being incorporated ■with his family. Here our conversation ended and I retired to ruminate on \vhat had passed.

I derived little satisfaction from my reflections. I began now to perceive inconveniencics that might arise from this precipitate promise. Whatever should happen in consequence of my being immured in the chamber, and of the loss of my clothes and of the portrait of my friend, I had bound myself to silence. These inquietudes, however, were transient. I trusted that these events would operate auspiciqpsly; but my curiosity was now avvakened as to the motives which Welbeck could have for exacting from me this conceahnent ? To act under the guidance of another, and to wander in the dark, ignorant whither my path tended, and what effects might flov/ from my agency, was a new and irksome situation. From these thoughts I was recalled by a message from Welbeck. He gave me a folded paper which he requested

me to carry to No South Fourth Street, " Inquire," said

he, " for T^Irs. Wentworth, in order merely to ascertain the house, for you need not ask to see her: merely give the letter to the servant and retire. Excuse me for imposing this service upon you. It is of too great moment to be trusted to a common messenger: I usually perform it myself, but am at present otherwise engaged."

I took the letter and set out to deliver it. This was a trifling circumstance, yet my mind was full of reflections on the consequences that might flow from it. I remembered the directions that were given, but construed them in a manner diffeP^nt, perhaps, from Welbeck's e:ipcctailcns or wishes:*

62 • ARTHUR MERVYN.

He had charged me to leave the billet with the servant who happened to answer my summons; but had he not said that the message was Important, Insomuch that it could not be intrusted to commoii hands? He had permitted, rather than enjoined, me to dispense with seeing the lady, and this permission I conceived to be dictated merely by regard to my convenience. It was incumibcnt on me, therefore, to take some pains to deliver the script into her own hands.

I arrived at the house and knocked. A female servant appeared. " Her mistress was up stairs: she would tell her if I wished to see her," and meanwhile invited me to enter the parlour: I did so; and the girl retired to inform her mistress that one waited for her.—I ought to mention that my departure from the directions which I had received was, in some degree, owing to an inquisitive temper: I w^as eager after knowledge, and was disposed to profit by every opportunity to-survey the interior of dwellings and converse with their inhabitants.

I scanned the walls, the furniture, the. pictures. Over the fire-place was a ix>rtralt in oil of a female. She was elderly and matron-like. Perhaps she was the mistress of this habitation, and the person to whom I should immediately be introduced. Was it a casual suggestion, or was there an actual resemblance between the strokes of the pencil which executed this portrait and that of Claverlng? However that be, the eight of this picture revived the memory of my friend and called up a fugitive suspicicn that this was ti.e production of his skill.

. I was busily revolving this idea when the lady herself entered. It was the same whose portrait I had been examining. She fixed scrutinizing and pov/erful eyes upon me. She looked at the superscription of tlie letter which I presented, and immediately resumed her examination of me. I was somewhat abashed by the closeness of her observation and gave tokens of this state of mind which did not pass Unobserved. They seemed instantly to remind her that she

behaved with too little regard to civility. She recovered herself and began to peruse the letter. Having done this, her attention was once more fixed upon me. She was evidently desirous of entering into some conversation, but seemed at a loss in what manner to begin. This situation ■was new to me and was productive of no small embarrassment. 1 was preparing to take my leave when she spoke, though not without considerable hesitation.

" This letter is from j\Ir. Welbeck—you are his friend— 1 presume—perhaps—a relation?"

I was conscious that I had no claim to either of these titles, and that I was no more than his servant. My pride would not allow me to acknowledge this, and I merely said— '^ I live with him at present Madam."

I imagined that this answer did not perfectly satisfy her; yet she received it with a certain ^ir of acquiescence. She was silent for a few minutes, and then, rising, said—-^' Excuse me, Sir, for a few minutes. I will write a few words to Mr. Welbeck."—So sayings he withdrew.

I returned to the contemplation of the picture. From this, however, my attention was quickly diverted by a paper that lay on the mantle. A single glance was sufficient to put my blooi into motion. I started and laid my hand upon the well-known pacquet. . It v/as that which inclosed the portrait of Claverhigl

I unfolded and examined it with eagerness. By v.-hat miracle came it hither? It was found, together with my bundle, two nights before. I had despaired of ever seeinr it again, and yet, here was the same portrait inclosed in the self-same paper 1 I have forborne to dwell upon the regret, amounting to grief, v/ith which I was affected in consequence of the loss of this precious relique. My joy on thus speedily and unexpectedly regaining it, is not easil/ described.

For a time I did not reflect that to hold it thns in my band was not sulTicient to intitle me to repossession. I

44 ARTHUR MERVYN.

must acquaint this lady with the historj^ of this picture, and convince her of my ownership. But how was this to be clone ? Was she connected in any way, by friendship or by consanguinity, with that unfortunate youth. If she were, some information as to his destiny would be anxiously sought. I did not, just then, perceive any impropriety in impartinr^ it. If it caine into her hands by accident still it will be necessary to relate the mode in which it was lost in order to prove my title to it.

I now heard her descending footsteps and hastily replaced the picture on the mantle. She entered, and presenting me a letter, desired me to deliver it to Mr. Welbeck. I had no pretext for deferring my departure; but was unwilling to go without obtaining possession of the portrait. An interval of silence and irresolution succeeded. I cast significant glances at the spot where it lay and at length, mustered up my strength of mind, and pointing to the paper—" Madam," said I, " there is something which I recognize to be mine— I know not how it came into your possession, but so lately as the day before yesterday, it was in mine. I lost it by a strange accident, and as I deem it of inestimable value, I hope you will have no objection to restore it."—

During this speech the lady's countenance exhibited markt of the utmost perturbation—" Your picture!" she exclaimed, " You lost it! How? Where? Did you know that person ? What has become of him ?"—

" I knew him well," said I. "That picture was executed by hims'jlf. He gave it to me with his own hands; and, till the moment I unfortunately lost it, it was my dear and perpetual companion."

" Good Heaven 1" she exclaimed with increasing vehemence, " where did you meet with him ? What has become of him? Is he dead or alive ?"

These appearances suiHciently shewed me that Clavering

and this lady were connected by some ties of tenderness. I

nswered that Uc was dead; that my mother and myself were

ARTHUR MER^^^^^ 65

his attendants and nurses, and that this portrait was his legacy to me.

This intelligence melted her into tears, and it was some time before she recovered strength enough to resume the conversation. She then inquired " When and where was it that he died ? How did you lose this portrait? It was found wrapt in some coarse clothes, lying in a stall in the markethouse, on Saturday evening. Two negro women, servants of one of my friends, strolling through the market, found it and brought it to their mistress, who, recognizing the portrait, sent it to me. To whom did that bundle belong? Was it yours?"

These questions reminded me of the painful predicament in which I now stood. I had promised Welbeck to conceal from every one my former condition : but to explain in what manner this bundle was lost, and how my intercourse with Clavering had taken place was to violate this promise. It was possible, perhaps, to escape the confession of the truth by equivocation. Falsehoods were easily invented, and might lead her far away from my true condition: but I was wholly unused to equivocation. Never yet had a lie polluted my lips. I was not weak enough to be ashamed of my origin. This lady had an interest in the fate of Clavering, and might justly claim all the information which I was able to impart. Yet to forget the compact which I had so lately made, and an adherence to which might possibly be, in the kighest degree, beneficial to me and to Welbeck— I was willing to adhere to it, provided falsehood could be avoided.

These thoughts rendered me silent. The pain of my embarrassment amounted almost to agony. I felt t'.ie keenest regret at my own precipitation in claiming the picture. Its value to me was altogether imaginary. The affection which this lady"had borne the original, whatever was the source of that afr<;ction, would prompt her to cherish tlie

G2

i6 ARTHUR MERVYN.

copy, and, however precious it was in my eyes, I should

cheerfully resign it to her.

In the confusion of my thoughts an expedient suggested

itself sufficiently inartificial and bold—^" It is true, Madam;

what I have said. I saw him breathe his last. This is his

only legacy. If you wish it 1 willingly resign it; but this

is all that I can now disclose. I am placed in circumstances

which render it improper to say more."

Tliese words were uttered not very distinctly, and the

lady's vehemence hindered her from noticing them. She

again repeated her interrogations, to which I returned the same answer.

At first she exppressed the utmost surprise at my conduct. From this she descended to some degree of asperity. She made rapid allusions to the history of Clavering. He was the son of the gentleman who owned the house in which Welbeck resided. He was the object of immeasurable fondness and indulgence. He had sought permission to travel, and this being refused by the absurd timidity of his parents, he had twice been frustrated in attempting to embark for Europe clandestinely. They ascribed his disappearance to a third and successful attempt of this kind, and had exercised anxious and unwearied diligence in endeavouring to trace his footsteps. All their effo ts had failed. One motive for their returning to Europe was the hope of discovering some traces of him, as they entertained no doubt of his having crossed the ocean. The vehemence of Mrs. Wentworth's curiosity as to those partlcul irs of his life and death may be easily conceived. My refusal only heightened this passion.

Finding me refractory to all her efforts she at length disiiiiij^.ed mc in anger.

[ 6j ]

ARTHUR MERVYK

CHAPTER VIII.

1 HIS extraordinary interview was now passed. Pleasure as well as pain attended my reflections on it. I adhered to the promise I had improvidently given to Welbeck, but had excited displeasure, and perhaps suspicion in the lady. She would find it hard to account for my silence. She would probably impute it to perverseness, or imagine it to flow from some incident connected with the death of Clavering, calculated to give a new edge to her curiosity.

It was plain that some connection subsisted between her and Welbeck. Would sh« drop the subject at the point which it had now attained? Would she cease to exert herself to extract from me the desired information, or would she not rather make Welbeck a party in the cause, and prejudice my new friend against me? This was an evil proper, by all lawful means, to avoid. I knew of no other expedient than to confess to him the truth, with regard to Claverino-, and explain to him the dilemma in which my adherence to my promise had involved me.

I found him on my return home and delivered him the letter with which I was charged. At the sight of it surprise, mingled with some uneasiness appeared in his looks. ' Whatl" said he, in a tone of disappointment, ' you thea saw the lady?"

I now remembered his direction-; to leave my message at the door, and apologized for my neglecting them by tcllinff

68 ARTHUR MERVYN.

my reasons. His chagrin vanished, but not" without an apparent effort, and he said that all was well; the affair was of no moment.

After a pause of preparation, I intreated his attention to something which I had to relate. I then detailed the history of Clavering and of my late embarrassments. As I went on his countenance betokened increasing solicitude. His emotion was particularly strong when I came to the interrogatories of Mrs. Wentworth in relation, to Clavering; but this emotion gave way to profound surprise when I related the manner in which I had eluded her inquiries. I concluded "with observing, that when I promised forbearance on the subject of my own adventures, I had not foreseen any exigence which would make an adherence to my promise difficult or inconvenient: that, if h^ interest was promoted by my silence, 1 N\as still willing to maintain it and requested hisdirections how to conduct myself on this occasion.

He appeared to ponder deeply and with much perplexity on what I had said. When he spoke there was hesitation in his manner and circuity in his expressions, that proved him to have something in his thoughts which he knew not how to communicate. He^frequently paused; but my answers and remarks, occasionally given, appeared to deter hiwi from the revelation of his purpose. Our discourse ended, for the present, by his desiring me to persist in my present plan; I should suffer no Inconveniencies from it, since it would be m.y own fault if an interview again took place between th« lady and me; meanwhile he should see her and effectually silence her inquiries.

I ruminated not superficially or briefly on this dialogue. By what means would he silence her inquiries ? He surely meant not to mislead her by fallacious representations ? Some inquietude now crept into my thoughts. I began to form conjectures as to the-nature of the scheme to which my suppression of the truth was to be thus made subservient. It s;;enied as if I.vrcre walking in tlie dark and might rush into

ARTHUR MERVYN. <5f

snares or drop into pits before I was aware of my danger. Each moment accumulated my doubts and I cherished a Sfcret foreboding that the event would prove my new situation to be far less fortunate than I liad, at first, fondly believed. The question now occurred, with painful repetition, Who and what was Welbeck? What was his relation to this foreign lady? What was the service for which I was to be emxployed?

I could not be contented without a solution of these mysteries. Why should I not lay my soul open before my new friend? Considering my situation, would he regard my fears and my surmises as criminal? I felt that they originated in laudable habits and views. My peace of mind depended on the favourable verdict which conscience should pass on my proceedings. I saw the em,p,tines3 of fame and luxury when put in the balance against the recompense of virtue. Never would I purchase the blandishments of adulation and the glare of opulence at the price of my honesty.

Amidst these reflections the dinner-hour arrived. The lady and Welbeck were present. A new train of sentiments now occupied my mind. I regarded them both Avith inquisitive eyes. I cannot well account for the revolution which had taken place in my mind. Perhaps ^t was a proof of the capriciousness of my temper, or it was merely the fruit of my profound ignorance of life and manners. Whencever it arose, certain it is that I contemplated the scene before me with altered eyes. Its order and pomp was no longer the parent of tranquility and awe. My wild reveries of inheriting this splendour and appropriating the affections of this nymph, I now regarded as lunatic hope and childish folly. Education and nature had qualified me for a different scene. This might be the mask of misery and the structure of vice.

My companions as well as myself were silent during the meal. The lady retired as soon as it was finished. My inexplicable melancholy increased. It did not pass unnoticed by Welbeck, who inquired, with an air of kindiies?, into th«

70 ARTHUR MERVYN.

cause of my visible dejection. I am almost ashamed to relate to what extremes my folly transported me. Instead of answering him I was weak enough to shed tears.

This excited afresh his surprise and his sympathy. He renewed his inquiries: my heart was full, but how to disburthen it I knew not. At length, with some difficulty, I expressed my wishes to leave his house and return into the country,

" What," he asked, " had occurred to suggest tliis new plan? What motive could incite me to bur) myself in rustic obscurity? How did I purpose to dispose of myself? Had some new friend sprung up more able or more willing to benefit me than he had been?"

'' No," I answered, " I have no relation who would own me, or friend who would protect. If I went mto the countryit would be to the toilsome occupations of a daylabourer: but even that was better than my present situation."

" This opinion," he observed, " must be newly formed. What was there irksome or offensive in my present mode of life.

That this man condescended to expostulate with me; to dissuade me from my new plan; and to enumerate the benefits •which he was v/illing to confer, penetrated my heart with gratitude. I could not but acknowledge that leisure and literature, copious and elegant accommodation were valuable for their own sake: that all the delights of sensation and refinements of inteHiv,tnce were comprised within my present sphere ; and would be nearly wanting in that to which I was going ; I felt temporary compunction for my folly, and determined to adopt a different deportment. I could not prevail upon my?elf to unfold the true cause of my dejection, and permitted him therefore to ascribe it to a kind of homesicknt-ss; to inexperience; and to tli.it ignorance which, on being us1:ered into a new sc^ne, is oppressed with a sensntion of forlornn:iss. He remarked that these chimeras would vanish before the influence of time, and company, and occupation.

ARTHUR MERV\^. 71

On the next week he would furnish me with employment; meanwhile he would Introduce me into company where intelligence and vivacity would combine to dispel my glooms.

As soon as we separated, miy disquietudes returned. I contended with them in vain and finally resolved to abandon m.y present situation. When and how this purpose was to be effected I knew not. That was to be the theme of future deliberation.

Evening having arrived, Welbeck proposed to me to accdm-pany him on a visit to one of his friends. I cheerfully accepted the invitation and went with him to your friend Mr. Wortley's. A numerous party was assembled, chiefly of the female sex. I was introduced by Welbeck by the title of a young friend of bis. Notwithstanding my embarrassment I did not fall to attend to what passed on this occasion. I remarked that the utmost deference was paid to my companion, on whom his entrance into this company appeared to operate like magic. His eye sparkled; his features expanded into a benign serenity; and his wonted reserve gave place to a torrent-like and overflowing elocution.

I marked this change in his deportment with the utmost astonishment. So great was it, that I could hardly persuade myself that it was the same person. A mind thus susceptible of new impressions must be, I conceived, of a won-iful texture. Nothing was further from my expectations than that tliis vivacity was mere dissimulation and would take its leave of him when he left the company: yet this I found to be the case. Ths door was no sooner closed after him than his accustomed solemnity returned. He spake little, and tliat little was delivered with emphatical and monosyllabic brevity.

We returned home at a late hour, and I immediately retired to my chamber, not so much from the desire of repose as in order to enjoy and pursue my own reflections without interruption.

The condition of my mind was considerably remote froi» happiness. I was placed in a scene that furnished fuel to my curiosity. This passion is a source of pleasure, provided its gratification be practicable. I had no reason, in my present circumstances, to despair of knowledge; yet suspicion and anxiety beset me. I thought upon the delay and toil which the removal of my ignorance would cost, and reaped only pain and fear from the reflection.

The air was remarkably sultry. Lifted sashes and lofty ceilings were insufficient to attemper it. The perturbation of my thoughts affected my body, and the heat which oppressed me, was aggravated, by my restlessness, almost into fever. Some hours were thus painfully past, when I recollected that the bath, erected in the court belov/, contained a sufficient antidote to the scorching influence of the atmosphere.

I rose, and descended the stairs softly, that I might not alarm Welbeck and the lady, who occupied the two room.s on the second floor. I proceeded to the bath, and filling the reservoir with water, speedily dissipated the heat that incommoded me. Of all species of sensual gratification, that was the most delicious; and I continued for a long time, laving my limbs and moistening my hair. In the midst of this amusement, I noticed the approach of day, and immediately saw the propriety of returning to my chamber. I returned with the same caution which I had used in descending; my feet were bare, so that it was ea?y to proceed unattended by the smallest signal of my progress.

I had reached the carpetted staircase, and was slowlyascending, when I heard, within the chamber that was occupied by the lady, a noise, as of some one moving. Though not concious of having acted improperly, yet I felt reluctance to be seen. There was no reason to suppose that this sound was connected with the detection of me, in this situation ; yet I acted as if this reason existed, and made haste to pa^i the door and gain the second flight of steps.

I was unable to accomplish my design, when the chamber door slowly opened, and Welbeck, with a light in his hand, came out. 1 was abashed and disconcerted at this Interview. He started at seeing me; but discovering in an instant who it was, his face assumed an expression in which shame and anger were powerfully blended. He seemed on the point of opening his mouth to rebuke me; but suddenly checking himself, he said, in a tone of mildness, " How is this?— Whence come you?"

His emotion seemed to communicate itself, with an electrical rapidity, to my heart. My tongue faltered while I made some answer. I said, " I had been seeking relief from the heat of the weather, in the bath." He heard my explanation in silence: and, after a moment's pause, passed into his own room, and shut himself in. I hastened to my chamber.

A different observer might have found in these circumstances no food for his suspicion or his wonder. To me, however, they suggested vague ard tum.ultuous ideas.

As I strode across the room I repeated, " This woman is his daughter. What proof have I of that? He once asserted it; and has frequently uttered allusions and hints from which no other inference could be drawn. The chamber from which he came, in an hour devoted to sleep, was hers. For what end could a visit like this be paid? A parent mayvisit his child at all seasons, without a crim.e. On seeing me, methou^ht his features indicated more than surprise. A keen interpreter would be apt to suspect a conciousness of wrong. What if this woman be not his child 1 How sl:ail their relationship be ascertained?"

I was summontd at the customary hour to breakfast. My mind was full of ideas connected with this incident. I was not endowed with sufficient firmness to propose the cocl and systematic observation of this man's deportment. I i(-At as if the state of my'mind could net but be evident to hi.;^; and experienced in myseif all th.e confusion which this uis

H

74 ARTHUR MERVYN.

covery was calculated to produce in him. 1 would liave

■willingly excused myself from meeting him; but that was

impossible.

At breakfast, after the usual salutations, nothing was said. For a time I scarcely lifted my eyes from the table. Stealing a glance at Welbeck, I discovered in his features nothing but his wonted gravity. He appeared occupied with thoughts that had no relation to last night's adventure. This encouraged me; and I gradually recovered my composure. Their inattention to me allowed me occasionally to throw scrutinizing and comparing glances at the face of each.

The relationship of parent and child is commonly discoverable in the visage; but the child may resemble eitlicr of its parents, yet have no feature in common with both. Here outlines, surfaces, and hues were in absolute contrariety. Tliat kindred subsisted between them was possible, notwitlistandlng this dissimilitude: but this circumstance contributed to envenom my suspicicns.

Breakfast being finished, Welbeck cast an eye of invitation to th.e piano forte. The lady rose to conv,)ly with his request. My eye chanced to be, at that moment, fixed on her. In stepping to the instrument some motion or ajjpearance av/akened a thought in my mind, which affected my feelings like the shock of an eartl.quake.

1 have too slight acquaintance with tlie history of the passions to truly cxpUiin the emotion which now throbbed in my veins. 1 had bcrtn a stranger to what is called love. From subsequent reflection, I have contractetl a ;suspicion, thiat the sentiment with which 1 regarded this laciy was not untinctured from this source, and that h.ence arose the turbulence of Uiy feelings, on observing what I construed into maiks of pregnancy. The evidence alTorlcd me was slight; yet it exercised an absolute swa; over my bckuf.

It was well that this siispic on h id not b^-cn sooner excited. Now civility di i no r quire iry stay in ih • ;'];:irtmerit, and nothing but flight .ould conceii the state of ny mind.. I

ARTHUR JfERVTX. 75

hastened, therefore, to a distance, and shroaded myself in the friendly secrecy cf my own chamber.

llie constitution of my mind is doubtless singidar and perverse; yet that opinion, perhaps, is the fruit of n;y ignorance. It may by no means be uncommon for men to fashion their concIusicDs in opposition to evidence and probabiUtyj and so as to feed their malice and subvert their happiness. Thus it was, in an eminent degree, in my case. The simple fact was connected, in my mind, with a train cf the most hateful consequences. The depravit}^ of Welbeck was inferred from it. The charms cf this aiigeiic woman were tarnished and withered. I had formerly surveyed her as a precicirs and perfect monument, but now it was a scene of ruin and bisst.

This had been a source of sufficient anguish ; but this was not all. I recollected that the claims of a parent had been urged. Will you believe that these claims Avere now admitted, and that they heightened the iniquity of Welbeck into the blackest and most stupendous of all crimes? These ideas were necessarily transient. Conclusions more conformable Xr. sppcsrai;cc5 sVfCcrrtrrd. Tttts lady rr^ight nave been lately reduced to widowhood. The recent less of a beloved companion would sufficiently account for lier dejection, and make her present situation compatible with duty.

By this new train cf ideas I was scmewh.at ccmfcrted. I •saw the folly of precipitate inferences, and the injustice cf my^ atrocious im.putaticns, and acquired some degree of patience in my present st?.te cf uncertainty. inIy heart was lightened ef i's wcnted burthen, and 1 laborrcd to irvent seme harmh'ss e>;plication cf ihe scene that I had witnessed tee prcc^Jing night. .

At dinner Welbeck appeared as usual, but net the la.'y. I ascribed her absence to some casual indisp&sition, and ventured to inquire into the state of her health. My ccmpanioa said she was well, bat that she had left the c;ty fcr a mnntb or two, finding the heat of summer inconvenient where ■she was. Thii w;is no unplauslble reason for retii-emer-c. A

7^ AUTITUR MERVYX.

< aiiJ.id m:n:l would have HC(]U'Csced in this representation, and found in it nothlnj^- incons'.ittnt with a supposition respecting the cause of appeiirances favourable to her character; but otiierwise was I afTected. The uneas'ness which had flown lor a moment returned, and I sunk into gloomy silence.

From this I was rousftd by my patron, who requested me to deliver a billet, which he put into my hand, at the countin^;liouse of Mr. Tiietford, and to bring him an answer. This message was speedily performed. 1 entered a large building by the river side. A spacious apartment presented itself, well furnished with pipes and hogsheads. In one corner was a smaller room, in v^hich a gentleman was busy at writing. I advanced to the door of the room, but was there met by a young person, who received my paper, and delivered it to him within. I stood still at the door; but was near enough to overhear what would pass betvv^cen them.

The letter was laid upon the desk, and presently he that sat at it lifted his eyes, and glanced at the superscription. He scarcely spoke above a whisper, but his words, nevertheless, were clearly distin^^uisliable. I did not call to mind the sound of his voice, but his words called up a train of recollections.

*' Lo!" said he, carelessly, " this from the Nabobs

An incident so slight as this v/as sufficient to open a spacious scene of meditation. This little word, half whispered in a thoughtless mood, was a key to unlock an extensive cabinet of secrets. Thetford was probably indlffv-'rcnt whether his pxcl.imation were overheard. Little did he think on the ijiftrejices which would be built upon it.

*' The Nabob!" By this appi:llation had some one been dtnoted in the chaniber-dialoiiue, of which I had been an unsuspected auditor. The man who pretended poverty, and yet gave proofs of inordinate wealth ; whom it was pardonable to defraud of thirty thousand dollars; first, because the loss of that sum would be trivial to one opulent as he; and secondly, becaus-: he was imagined to have acquired this opuIf.nce by other than honest methods. Instead of forthwith

ARTHUR IVIERVYN. 77

returning heme, I wandered into the fields, to indulge myself in the new thoughts which were produced by this occurrence.

I entertained no doubt that the person alluded to was iry patron. No new light v/as thrown upon his character; unless something were deducible from the charge vaguely made, that his wealth Avas the fruit of illicit practices. He was opulent, and the sources of his wealth were unknown, if not to the rest of the community, at least to Thetford. But here had a plot been laid. Tiic fortune of Thetford's brother was to rise from the success of artifices, of which the credulity of Welbeck was to be the victim. To detect and to counterwork this plot was obviously my duty. My interference might now indeed hz too late to be useful; but this was at least to be ascertained by experiment.

How should my intention be effected? I had hitherto concealed from Welbeck my adventures at Thetford's house. These it was now necessary to disclose, and to mention the recent occurrence. My deductions, in consequence of my ignorance, might be erroneous; but of their truth his knowledge of his ov»'n affairs would enable him to judge. It was possible that Thetford and he, whose chamber-conversation T had overheard, were different persons. I endeavoured in vain to ascertain their identity by a comparison of their voices. The words lately heard, my remembrance did not enable me certainly to pronounce to be uttered by the same organs.

This uncertainty was of little moment. It sutHced that Welbeck was designated by this appellation, and that therefore he v/as proved to be the subject of some fraudulent proceeding. The information that I possessed it was my duty to communicate as expeditiously as possible. I was resolved to employ the first opportunity that offered for this end.

My meditations had been ardently pursued, and, when I recalled my attention, I found myself bewildered among"

H 2

78 J^RTHUR MERVYN.

fields :ind fences. It was late before I extricated myself from unknown paths, and reached home.

I entered the parlour; but Welbeck was not there. A table, with tea-equipage for one person v/as set; from which 1 inferred that Welbeck was engaged abroad. This belief was confirmed by the report of the servant. He could not inform me where his master was, but merely that he should not take tea at home. 7'hls incident was a source of vexation and impatience. 1 knew not but that delay would be of the utmost moment to the safety of my friend. Wholly unacquainted as I was with the nature of his contracts with Thittbrd, I could not decide whether a single hour would not avail to obviate the evils that threatened him. Had I known whither to trace his footsteps, I should certainly have sought an immediate interview; but, as it was, I was obliged to wait with v/hat patience I could collect for his return to his own house.

I waited hour after hour in vain. The sun declined, and the shades of evening descended; but Welbeck was still at a distance.

[ 79 ]

ARTPIUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER IZ.

VV ELBECK did not return though hour succeeded hour till the clock struck ten. I inquired of the servants, who informed me that their master was not accustomed to stay out so late. I seated myself at a table, in the parlour, on which there stood a light, and listened for the signal of his coming, either by the sound of steps on the pavement without or by a peal from the bell. The silence vvas uninterrupted and profound, and each minute added to my sum of impatience and anxiety.

To relieve myself from the heat of the weather, which was aggravated by the condition of my thoughts, as well as to beguile this tormenting interval, it occurred to me to betake myself to the bath. I left the candle where it stood, and imagined that even in the bath, I should hear the sound of the bell which would be rung upon his arrival at the door.

No such signal occurred, and, after taking this refreshment, I prepared to return to my-post. The parlour was still unoccupied, but this was not all: the candle I had left upon the table was gone. This was an inexplicVole circumstance. On my promise to wait for their master, the servants had retired to becK^ Ne signal of any one's entrance had been given. The street door was locked and the key hung at its customaiy place, upon the wall. What was I to think? It wr-s obvious to s'jppose that the candle h'id been

re:novv'.i in

83 ARTHUR MERVYN.

traced, and I v/as not sufficiently acquainted with the house to find the way, especially immersed in darkness, to their chamber. One measure, however, it was evidently proper to take, which was to supply myself, anew, with a light. This was instantly performed; but what v>'as next to be done?

I was weary of the perplexities in which I was embroiled. I saw no avenue to escape from them but that which led me to the bosom of nature and to my ancient occupations. For a moment I was tempted to resume my rustic garb, and, on that very hour, to desert this habitation. One thing only detained me;, the desire to apprize my patron of the treachery of Thetford. For this end I was anxious to obtain an interview; but'now I reflected that this information, could, by other means be imparted. Was it not sufficient to write him briefly tiiese particulars, and leave him to profit by the Jinowledge? Thus, I might, likewise, acquaint him with my motives for thus abruptly and unseasonably deserting his service.

To the execution of this scheme pen and paper were necessary. The business of writing was perf:5rmed in the chamber on the third story. I had been hitherto denied access to this room: In it was a show of papers and books. Here it wa^ that the task, for which I had been retained, was to be performed ; but I was to enter it and leave it only in company with Welbeck. For what reasons, I asked, was this procedure to be adopted?

The influence of proliibitions and an appearance of disguise in awakening curiosity, are well known. My mind fastened upon the idea of this room with an unusual degree of intenseness. I had seen it but for a moment. Many of Welbeck's hours were spent in it. It was not to be inferred that they were consumed in idleness: What then was the nature of his cmploymt-nt over which a veil of such impenetrable secrecy was cast?

Will you wonder that the design of cnterin,^' this recess •was insensibly formed? Posoibly it was locked, but its acces

ARTHUR :MERVYX. 8i

sibleness was likewise possible. I meant not the commission of any crime. My principal purpose was to procure the implements of writing-, vvhich were elsewhere not to be found. I should neither unseal papers nor open drawers. I would merely take a survey of the volumes and attend to the objects that spontaneously presented themselves to my view. In this there surely was nothing criminal or blameworthy. Meanwhile I was not unrnindful of the sudden disappearance of the candle. This incident fdled my bosom with the inquietudes of fear and the perturbations of wonder.

Once more I paused to catch any sound that might arise from without. All was still. I seized the candle and prepared to mount the stairs. I had not reached the first landing when I called to mind my midnight meeting with Welbeck at the door of his daughter's chamber. The chamber was now desolate: perhaps it was accessible: if so no injury ■was done by entering it. ^ly curiosity was strong, but it pictured to itself no precise object. Three steps would bear me to the door. The trial, whether it was faslroed, lDi;;ht be made in a moment; and I readily imagined that something might be found within to reward the trouble of examination. The door yielded to my hand and I entered.

No remarkable object was discoverable. The apartment was supplied v/ith the usual furniture. I bent my steps towards a table over which a mirror was suspended. My glances, which roved with svviftness from one object to another, shortly lighted on a miniature portrait that hung near. I scrutinized it with eagerness. It was impossible to overlook its resemBl^nce to my own visage. This was so great that, for a moment, I imagined myself to have been the original from which it had been drawn. This flattering conception yielded place to a belief merely of similitude between me and the genuine original.

The thoughts which this opinion was fitted to produce were suspended by a new object. A small volume, that had, apparently, been much used, lay upon the toilet. I

opened it, and found it to contain some of the Dramas of Apostoio Zeno. I turned over the leaves: a Avritten paper •aluted ray sight. A single glance informed me that it was English. For the present I was insensible to all motives that would command me to forbear. I seized the paper with an intention to peruse it.

At that moment a stunning report was heard. It was loud enough to shake the. walls of the apartment, and abrupt enough to throw me into tremours. I dropped the book and yielded for a moment to confusion and surprise. From •what quarter it came, I was unable accurately to determine: but there could be no doubt, from its loudness, that it was near, and even in the house. It was no less manifest that the sound arose from the discharge of a pistol. Some hand must have drawn the trigger. I recollected the disappearance of the candle from the room below. Instantly a supposition darted into my mind which made my hair rise and my teeth chatter.

^This," I said, " is the deed of Welbeck. He entered •while I was absent from the roomj he bled to his chamber; and, prompted by some unknown instigation, has inflicted on himself death!" This idea had a tendency to palsy my limbs and my thoughts. Some time past in painful and tumultuous fiuctuatlcn. My aversion to this catastrophe, rather than a belief of being, by that means, able to prevent or repair tlie evil, induced me to attempt to enter his chamber. It was possible that my conjectures were erroneous.

The door of his room was locked. I knocked: I dc» inaniied entr:ince in a low voice : I put my eye and m.y car to the key-hole and the crevices: nothing could be heard or atcn. It v/as unavoidable to conclude that no one was within; yet the eliiuvia of gun-powder was perceptible.

Pt.rhai;s the room above had been the scene of this catastrophe. I ascended the second flight of stairs. I approcvhed tl.v,' dpor. No iicund could be caught by ujy most vigilant

ARTHUR MERVYN. 85

attention. I put out the light tliat I carried, and was then able to perceive that there was light within the room. I scarcely knew how to act. For some minutes 1 paused at the door. I spoke, and requested permission to enter. My words were succeeded by a death-like stillness. At length I ventured softly to withdraw the bolt; to open and to advance within tlis room. Nothmg could exceed the horror of my expectation; yet I was startled by the scene that I beheld.

In a chair, w^hose back was placed against the front wall, sat Welbeck. My entrance alarmed him not, nor roused him from the stupor into which he was plunged. He rested his hands upon his knees, and his eyes were rivetted to something that lay, at the distance of a few feet before him, on the tioor. A second glance was sufiicient to inform me of what nature this object was. It was the body of a man, bleeding, ghastly, and still exhibiting the marks of convulsion and agony 1

I shall omit to describe the shock which a spectacle like this communicated to mr unpractised senses. I was ^j^ly as panic-struck and povverlcss as Welbeck himself. I gazed, without power of speech, at one time, at Vv''elbeck: Then I fixed terrified eyes on the distorted features of the dead. At length, Wt.'lb-ck, recovering from his reverie, looked up, as if to see who it was that had entered. No surprise, no alarm, was betrayed by him on seeing me. He manifested no desire or intention to interrupt the fearful silence.

My thoughts \y?n:lered in confusion and terror. Tj^ first impulse was to fly from the scene; bat I could not ?|)e long Insensible to the exigencies of the m.oment. I saw that affairs must not be suffered to remain in tb.eir oreseiit situation. The insensibility or despair of Welbeck required consolation and succour. How to communicate my thoughts, or offer my assistance, I knew not. What led to tiiis murderous catastrophe; who it was whose breathless corpse was before me; what concern Welbeck hud in producing his death; were as yet unknown.

84 ARTHUR JIERVYN.

At length he rose from his seat, and strode at first with faltering, and then with more steadfast steps, across the floor. This motion seemed to put him in possession of himself. He seemed now, for the first time, to recognize my presence. He turned to me and said in a tone of*severity:

" How now! What brings you here?"

This rebuke was unexpected. 1 stammered out in reply, that the report of the pistol had alarmed me, and that I came to discover the cause of it.

He noticed not my answer, but resumed his perturbed steps, and his anxious, but abstracted looks. Suddenly he checked himself, and glancing a furious eye at the corse, he muttered, " Yes, the die is cast. This worthless and miserable scene shall last no longer. I will at once get rid of life and all its humiliations."

Here succeeded a new pause. The course of his thoughts seemed now to become once more tranquil. Sadness, rather thanjfurv, overspread his features; and his accent, when he spcjBRo me, was not faltering, but solenm.

" Mervyn," said he, " you comprehend not this scene. Your youth and inexperience make you a stranger to a deceitful and flagitious world. You know me not. It is time that this ignorance should vanish. The knowledge of me and of my actions may be of use to you. It may teach you to avoid the shoals on which my virtue and my peace have been wrecked; but to the rest of mankind it can be of no use. 'I'he ruin of my fame is, perhaps, irretrievable ; but the hciglit of my iniquity need not be known. I perceive in you a rectitude and firmness worthy to be trusted; promise me, therefore, that not a syllable of what I tell you shall ever pass your lips."

I had lately experienced the inconvenience of a promise; but I was now confused, embarrassed, ardently inquisitive as to the nature of this scene, and unapprized of the motives that mi^^ht afttrw.u-Js occur, persuuulii'; or compelling me

to disclosure. The promise which he exacted was given. He resumed:

" I have detained you in my service, partly for your own benefit, but chiefly for mine. I intended to inflict upon you injury, and to do you good. Neither of these ends can I now accomplish, unless the lessons which my example may inculcate shall inspire you with fortitude, and arm you with caution.

" What it was that made me thus, I know not. I am not destitute of understanding. My thirst of knowledge, though irregular, is ardent. I can talk and can feel as virtue and justice prescribe; yet the tenor of my actions has been uniform. One tissue of Iniquity and folly has been my life ; while my thoughts have been familiar with enlightened and disinterested principles. Scorn and detestation I have heaped upon myself. Yesterday is remembered with remorse. Tomorrow is contemplated with anguish and fear; yet every day is productive of the same crimes and of the same follies.

" I was left, by the insolvency of my father (a tra4|pDf Liverpool,) without any means of support, but such as labour should aflford me. Whatever could generate pride, and the love of independence, was my portion. Whatever can incite to diligence was the growth of my condition; yet my indolence was a cureless disease; and there were no arts too sordid for me to practise.

" 1 was content to live on the bounty of a kinsman. His family was numerous, and his revenue small. He forebore to upbraid me, or even to insinuate the propriety of providing for myself; but he empowered me to pursue any liberal or mechanical profession which might suit my taste. I was insensible to every generous motive. I laboured to forget my dependent and disgraceful condition, because the remembrance was a source of anguish, without being able to inspire me with a steady resolution to change it.

*^ I contracted an acquaintance with a woman who was Miichaste, perverse and malignant. Me, however, she found

S6 ARTHUR MERVYN.

It no difficult task to deceive. My nncle remonstrated against the union. He took infinite pains to unveil my error, and to convince me that wedlock was improper for one destitute, as I was, of the means of support, even if tlie object of my choice were personally unexceptionable.

" His representations were listened to with an ^er. That he thwarted my will, in this respect, even by aiFectionate expostulation, cancelled all that debt of gratitude which I owed to him. I rewarded him for all his kindness by invective and disdam, and hastened to complete my ill-omened marriaoe. 1 had deceived the woman's father by assertions of possessing secret resources. To gratify my passion I descended to dissimulation and falsehood. He admitted me into his family, as the husband of his child; but the character of my wife and the fallacy of my assertions were quickly discovered. He denied me accommodation under his roof, and I was turned forth to the world to endure the penalty of myrashness and my indolence.

^j^emptation would have moulded me into any villainous shape. My virtuous theories and comprehejisive erudition would not have saved me from the basest of crimes. Luckily for me,'^i was, for the present, exempted from temptation. 1 had formed an acquaintance with a young American captain. On being partially iniVrmed of my situation, he invited me to embark with him for his own country. My passage was gratuitous. I arrived, in a short time, at CTiiWeston, which was the place of his abode.

" He introduced me to his family, every member of which was, like hl'ihself, imbued with affection and benevolence. I was treated like their son and brother. I was hospitably cntertaiiied until I sliould be able to select some path of lucrative indiistiy. Such was my incurable depravity, that

made no haste to select my pursuit. An interval of inoccupation succeeded, which I applied to the worst purposes.

" My friend had a sister, who was married; but, during ■:he absence of her husband resided with her family. Hence

ARTHUR :^IERVYX. 87

originated our acquaintance. The purest of human hearts and the most vigorous understanding were ht-rs. She idolized her husbar.d, who well deserved to be the object of her adoration. Her aifection for him, and her general principles, appeared to be confirmed beyond the power to be shaken. I sought her intercourse without illicit vievv^s: 1 delighted in the effusions of her candour and the flashes of her intelligence : I conformed, by a kind of instinctive hypocrisy, to her views: I spoke and felt from the influence of immediate and momentary conviction. She imagined she had found in me a friend worthy to partake in all her sympathies, and forward all her wishes. We were mutually deceived. She was the victim of self-delusion; but I must charge myself with practising deceit both upon myself and her.

" I reflect with astonishment and horror on the steps which led to her degradation and to my calamity. In the high career of passion all consequences were overlooked. She was the dupe of the most audacious sophistry and the grossest delusion. I was the slave of sensual impulses and vol^^ary blindness. The effect may be easily cor.ceived. Not till symptoms of pregnancy began to appear were our eyes opened to the ruin wh"ch impended over us.

'' Then I begm to revolve the conseq lences, which the mist of passion had hitherto concealed. I was tormented by the pangs of remorse, and pursued by tlie phantom of ingratitude. To complete my despair, this unfortunate lady v.'as apprised of my marriage with another woman; a circumstance which I had anxiously concealed from her. She fitd from her father's house at a time when her husband and brother were hourly exp^rcted. What became of her I kn^w not. She left behind her a letter to her father, in which the melancholy truth was told.

" Shame and remorse had no power over my life. To elude the storm of invective and upbraiding; to quiet tlie uproar of my mind, I did not betake myself to voluntary death. My pusillanimity still clung to this wretched exis

!

S« ARTHUR MERVYK

tence. I abruptly retired from the scene, and, repairing to the port, embarked in the first vessel \vhich appeared. The ship chanced to belong to Wilmington, in Delaware, and here I sou^iiL out an obscure and cheap abode.

" I possessed no means of subsistence. I was unknown to my neighbours, and desired to remain unknown. 1 was unqualilicd for manual labour by all the habits of my life; but tiiere was no choice between penury and diligence—between honest labour and crim nal inactivity, I mused incessantly on the forlornncss of my condition. Hour after hour passed, and tiie horrors of want benan to encomr^ass me. I souo;ht with

d 1 O

eagerness for an avenue by which I might escape from it. The pervcrsness of my nature led me on from one guilty thought to anotlicr. I took rtfuge in my customary sophistries, and recoiicikd m}self at length to a scheme cf--/cr

[ 89 ]

ARTHUR MERVYN,

CHAPTER X.

XXAVING ascertained my purpose, It was requisite to search out the means by which I might effect it. These were not clearly or readily suggested. The more I contemplated my project, the more numerous and arduous its difficulties appeared. I had no associates in my undertaking. A due regard to my safety and the unextinguished sense of honour deterred me from seeking auxiliaries aflH coagents. The esteem of mankind was the spring of all my activity, the parent of all my virtue and all my vice. To preserve this, it was necessary that my guilty projects should have neither witness nor partaker

I quickly discovered that to execute this scheme demanded time, application and money, none of which my present situation would permit me to devote to it. At first, it appeared that an attainable degree of skill and circumspection would enable me to arrive, by means of counterfeit bills, to the phinacle of affluence and honour. My error was detected by a closer scrutiny, and I, finally, saw nothing in this path but enormous perils and insurmountable impediments.

Yet what alternative was offered me. To maintain myself by the labour of my hands, to perform any toilsome or prescribed task, was incompatible with my nature. My habits debarred me from countr}^ occupations. My pride regarded as vile and ignominous drudgery any employment which the

I 2

town could aiFord. Meanwhile, my wants were as urgent as. ever and my funds were exhausted.

There are few, perhaps, whose external situation resembled mine, who would have found in it any thing but incitements to industry and invention. A thousand methods of subsistence, honest but laborious, were at my command, but to these I entertained an irreconcilable aversion. Ease and the respect attendpnt upon opulence I was willing to purchase at the price of ever-wakeful suspicion and eternal remorse; but, even at this price, the purchase was impossible.

The desparateness of my condition became hourly more apparent. The further I extended my view, the darker grew the clouds which hung over futurity. Anguish and infamy appeared to be the inseparable conditions of my existence. There was one mode of evading the evils that impended. To free myself from self-upbraiding and to shun the persecutions of my fortune was possible only by shaking off life itself.

One evening, as I traversed the bank of the creek, these dismal meditations were uncommonly intense. They at length terminated in a resolution to throw myself into the stream. The first impulse was to rush instantly to my death, but the remembrance of papers, lying at my lodgings, which might unfold more than I desired to the curiosity of survivors, induced me to postpone this catastrophe till the next morning.

My purpose being formed, I found my heart lightened of its usual weight. By you it will be thought strange, bwt it is nevertheless true, that I derived from this new prospect, not only tranquility but cheerfulness. I hastened home. As soon as I entered, my landlord informed me that a person had been searching for me in my absence. This was an unexampled incident and forboded me no good. I was strongly persuaded that my visitant had been led hither not by friendly, but hostile purposes. This persuasion was confirmed by the description of the stranger's guize and demea»9.ur given by my landlord. My feara instantly recognized

the image of Watson, the man by whom I had been so eminently benefitted, and whose kindness I had compensated by the ruin of his sister and the confusion of his family.

An interview with this man was less to be endured than to look upon the face of an avenging deity. I was determined to avoid this interview, and for this end, to execute my fatal purpose within the hour. My papers v/ere collected with a tremulous hand, and consigned to the flames. I then bade my landlord inform all visitants that I should not return till the next day, and once more hastened towards the river.

My way led past the Inn where one of the stages from Baltimore was accustomed to stop. I was not unaware that Watson had possibly been brought in the coach which had recently arrived, and which now siood before the door of the Inn. The danger of my being descried or encountered by him as I passed did not fail to occur. This was to be eluded by deviating from the main street.

Scarcely had I turned a corner for this purpose when I was accosted by a young man whom I knew to be an inhabi tant of the town, but with whom I had hitherto had no intercourse but what consisted in a transient salutation. He apologized for the liberty of addressing me, and, at the same time, inquired if I understood the French language.

Being answered in the affirmative, he proceeded to tell me, that in the stage, just arrived, had come a passenger, a youth who appeared to be French, who was wholly unacquainted with our language, and who had been seized with a violent disease.

My informant had felt compassion for the forlorn condition of the stranger, and had just been seeking me at my lodgings, in hope that my knowledge of French would enable me to converse with the sick man, and obtain from him a knowledge of his situation and views.

The apprehensions I had precipitately formed, were thus removed and I readily consented to perform this service. The youth was, indeed, in a deplorable condition. Besides

the pains of his disease, he was overpowered by dejection. The innkeeper, was extremely anxious for the removal of his guest. He was by no means willing-to sustain the trouble and expense of a sick or a dying man, for which it was, scarcely probable that he should ever be reimbursed. The traveller had no baggage and his dress betokened the pressure of many wants.

My compassion for this stranger was powerfully awakened. I was in possession of a suitable apartment, for which I had no power to pay the rent that was accruing, but my inability in this respect was unknown, and I might enjoy my lodgings unmolested for some weeks. The fate of this youth would be speedily decided, and I should be left at liberty to execute my first intentions before my embarrassments should be visll^ly Increased.

After a moment's pause, I conducted the stranger to my home, placed him in my own bed, and became his nurse. His malady was such as is known in the tropical islands, by the name of the Yellow or Malignant Fever, and the physician who was called, speedily pronounced his case desperate. It was my duty to warn him of the death that was hastening, and to promise the fulfillment of any of his wishes, not inconsistent with my present situation. He received my intelligence with fortitude, and appeared anxious to communicate some information respecting his own state. His pangs and his weakness scarcely allowed him to be intelligible. From his feeble efforts and broken narrative I collected thus much concerning his family and fortune.

His father's name was Vincentio Lodi. From a Merchant at Leghorn, he had changed himself into a planter in the Island of Guadaloupe. His Son, had been sent, at an early age, for the benefits of education to Europe. The young Vincentio was, at length, informed by his father, that, being weary of his present mode of existence, he had determined to sell Ills property, and transport himself to the United States. The son was directed to hasten home, that he might embark, with his father, on this voyage.

ARTHUR MERVYN. 93

The summons was cheerfully obeyed. The youth on his arrival at the Island found preparation making for the funeral of his father. It appeared that the elder Lodi had flattered one of his slaves with the prospect of his freedom, but had, nevertheless, included this slave in the sale that he had made of his estate. Actuated by revenge, the slave assassinated Lodi in the open street and resigned himself, without a struggle, to the punishment which the law, had provided for such a deed.

Tlie property had been recently tran?ferred, and the price was now presented to young Vincentio by the purchaser. Ke was, by no means, inclined to adopt his father's project, and was impatient, to return with his inheritance, to France. Before this could be done, the conduct of h'.s father had rendered a voyage to the continent indispensable.

Lodi had a daughter, wiiom, a few weeks previous to his death, he had intrusted to an American Captain, for whom, he had contracted a friendship. The vessel was bound to Philadelphia, but the conduct she was to pursue, and the abode she was to select, on her arrival, were known only to the father, whose untimely death involved the son in considerable* uncertainty, with regard to his sister's fate. His anxiety on this account induced him to seize the first conveyance that offered. In a short time he landed at Baltimore.

As soon as he recovered from the fatigues of his voyage, he prepared to go to Philadelphia. Thither his baggage ■was immediately sent under the protection of a passenger and countryman. His money consisted in Portuguese gold, ■which, in pursuance of advice, he had changed into Banknotes. He besought me, in pathetic terms, to search out his sister, whose youth and poverty and ignorance of the language and manners of the country might expose her to innumerable hardships. At the same time, he put a pocketbook and small volume into my hand, indicating, by his countenance and gestures, his desire that I would deliver them to his sister.

5>4 ARTHUR MERVYN.

His obsequies being decently performed, I had leisure t® reflect upon the change in my condition which this incident had produced. In the pocketbook were found bills to tlie amount of twenty tlious-:ind dollars. The volume proved to be a manuscript, written by the elder Lodi in Italian, and contained memoirs of the Ducal house of Vlsconti, from whom the writer believed himself to have lineally descended.

Thus had I arrived, by an avenue so much beyond my foresight, at the possession of wealth. The evil whicii impelled me to the brink of suicide, and which was the-source, though not of all, yet of the larger portion of my anguish, was now removed. What claims to honour or to ease were consequent on riches, were, by an extraordinary fortune, now conferred upon me.

Such, for a time, were my new born but transitory raptures. I forgot that this money was not mine. That it had been received under every sanction of fidelity, for another's use. To retain it was equivalent to robbery. The sister of the deceased was the rightful claimant: it was my duty to search her out, and perform my tacit, but sacred obligations, by puting the whole into her possession.

This conclusion was too adverse to my wishes, not to be strenuously combatted. I asked, what it was that gave man the power of ascertaining the successor to his property ? During his life, he might transfer the actual possession, but if vacant at his death, he, into whose hands accident should cast it, was the genuine proprietor. It is true, tliat the law had sometimes otherwise decreed, but in lav/, there was no validity, further than it was able by investigation and punishment, to enforce its decrees; But would the law extort this money from me|?

It was rather by gesture than by words that the will of Lodi was imparted. It was the topic of remote inferences and vague conjecture rather than of explicit and unerring declarations. Besides if the lady were found, would not prudence dictate the reservation of her fortune to be admini

ARTHUR JIERVYN. 95

stered by me, for her benefit? Of this her age and education had disqualified hcrscli*. It Wds sufiicient for the maintenance oi" both. Slie would regard me as her benefactor and proirc tor. By supplying all her wants and watching-over her safety witnou: apprizai^- lier of the means, by which 1 shall be en.ibled to do this, 1 shall lay irresistible claims to her love and her gratitude.

Such were the sophistries by which reason was seduced and my integrity annihilated. I hastened away from my preicat abode. I easily traced the baggage of the deceased to an inn, and gained poss-ss;on of it. It contained nothing but clothes and books. I then instituted the most diligent search afcer the young lady. For a time, my exertions were fi'ultless.

Meanwhile, the possessor of this house th.ought proper to embark with bis family for Europe. The sum which he demanded for his furniture, though enormous, was precipitately paid by roe. His servants were continued in their former stations, and in the day, at which he relinquished the mansion, I entered ow possession.

There was no diificuity m persuading the world that Welbeck was a personage of opulence and rank. My birth and previous adventures it was proper to conceal. The facility .With which man:;lnd are misled in their estimate of characters, their proneness to multiply inferences and conjectures will not be readily conceived by one destitute of my experience. My sudden appearance on the stage, my stately reserve, my splendid habitation and my circumspect deportment were sufficient to intitle me to homage. The artifices that were used to unveil the truth, and the guesses that were current respecting me, were adapted to gratify my ruling passion.

I did not remit my diligence to discover the retreat of Mademoiselle Lodi, I found her, at length, in the family of a kinsman of the Captain under whose care she had came to America. Her situation was irksome and perilous. She had

9<5 ARTHUR MERVYN.

already experienced the evils of being protectorless and indigent, and my seasonable interference snatched her from impending and less supportable ills.

I could safely unfold all that I knew of her brother's history, except the legacy which he had left. I ascribed the diligence with which I had sought her to his death-bed injunctions, and prevailed upon her to accept from me the treatment which she would have received from her brother, if he had continued to live, and if his power to benefit had been equal to my own.

Though less can be said in praise of the understanding, than of the sensibilities of this woman, she is one, whom, no one could refriin from loving, though placed in situations far less favourable to the generation of that sentiment, than mine. In habits of domestic and incessant intercourse, in the perpetual contemplation of features animated by boundless gratitude and ineffable sympathies, it could not be expected that either she or I should escape enchantment.

The poison was too sweet not to be swallowed with avidity by me. Too late I remembered that I was already enslaved by inextricable obligations. It was easy to have hidden this impediment from the eyes of my companion, but here my integrity refused to yield. I can, indeed, lay claim to little merit on account of this forbearance. If there had been no alternutive between deceit and the frustration of my hopes, I should doubtless have dissembled the truth with as little scruple on this, as on a different occasion, but I could not be blind to the weakness of her with whom I had to contend.

[ 97 ]

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER XI.

Meanwhile large deductions had been made from my stock of money, ^nd the remnant would be speedily consumed by my present mode of life. My expences far exceeded my previous expectations. In no long time I should be reduced to my ancient poverty, which the luxurious existence that I now enjoyed, and the regard due to my beloved and helpless companion, would render more irksome than ever. Some scheme to rescue me from this fate, •was indispensable ; but my aversion to labour, to any pursuit, the end oV srJiich was merely gain, and which would require application and atter.Uo;? continued undiminished.

I was plunged anew into dejection and perplexity. From this I was somewhat relieved by a plan suggested by Mr. Thetford. I thought I had experience of his knowledge and integrity, and the scheme that he proposed seemed liable to no possibility of miscarriage. A ship was to be purchased, supplied v/ith a suitable cargo, and" dispatched to a port in the West-Indies. Loss from storms and enemies was to be precluded by insurance. Every hazard was to be enumerated, and the ship and cargo valued at the highest rate. Should the voyage be safely performed, the profits would be double the original expense. Should the ship be taken or wrecked, the insurers would have bound themselves to make ample, speedy, and certain indemnification—Thetford's brother, a wary and experienced trader, was to be the supercargo.

K

98 ARTHUR MERVl'N.

All my money was laid out upon this scheme. Scarcelyenough was reserved to supply domestic and personal wants. Large debts were likewise incurred. Our caution had, as we conceived, annihilated every chance of failure. Too much could not be expended on a project so infallible; and the vessel, amply fitted and freighted, departed on her veyage.

An interval, not devoid of suspense and anxiety, succeeded. My mercantile inexperience made me distrust the clearness of my own discernment, and I could not but remember, that my utter and irretrievable destruction was connected with the failure of my scheme. Time added to my distrust aad apprehensions. The time, at which tidings of the ship w*re to be expected, elapsed without affording any information of her destiny. My anxieties, however, were to be carefully hidden from the world. I had taught mankind to believe, that this project had been adopted more for amusement than gain; and the debts which I had contracted, seemed to arise from willingness to adhere to established maxims, more than from the pressure of necessity.

Month succeeded month, and mtelligence was still withheld. The notes which I had given for one third of the cargo, and for the premium of insurance, would shortly become due. For the payment of the former, and the cancelling of the latter, 1 had relied upon the expeditious return, or the demonstrated loss of the vessel. Neither of these events had taken place.

My cares were augmented from another quarter. My companion's situation now appeared to be such, as» if our intercourse had been sanctified by wedlock, would have been regarded with delight. As it was, no symptoms were equally to be dc piored. Consequences, as long as they were involved in uncertainty, were extenuated or overlooked; but now, ■when they became apparent and inevitable, were fertile of distress and upbraiding.

Indefinable fears, and a desire to monopolize all the meditAuons anJ^afTcctions of this being, had induced me to per

ARTHUR MERVYN. 99

peluate lier irnorance of any but her native language, and debar her from all intercourse with the world. My friends were of course inquisitive respecting her character, adventures, and particularly her relation to me. The consciousness how much the truth redounded to my dishonour, made me solicitous to lead conjecture astray. For this purpose I did not discountenance the conclusion that was adopted by soire, that she was my daughter. I reflected, that all dangerous surmizes would be effectually precluded by this belief. These precautions afforded me some consolation in my present difficulties. It was requisite to conceal the lady's condition from the world. If this should be ineffectual, it would not be difficult to divert suspicion from my person.The secrecy that 1 had practised would be justified, in the apprehension of those to whom the personal condition of Glemenza should be disclosed, by the feelings of a rather.

Meanwhile, it was an obvious expedient to remove the unhappy lady to a distance from Impertinent observers. A rural retreat, lonely, and sequestered, was easily procured, and hither she consented to repair. This arrangement being concerted, I had leisure to reflect upon the evils which every hour brought nearer, and which threatened to exterminate me. My inquietudes forbade me to sleep, and I was accustomed to rise before day, and seek some respite hi the fields. Returning from one of these unseasonable rambles, I chanced to meet you. Your resemblance to the deceased Lodi, in person and visage, is remarkable. When you first met my eye, ihis similitude startled me. Your subsequent appeal to my compassion was cloathed in such terms, as lOTmed a powerful contrast with your dress, and prepossessed me greatly in favour of your education and capacity.

In my present hopeless condition, ever)- incidftit, however trivial, was attentively considered, with a Vieft to extract from it some means of escaping from my difficulties. My love for the Italian girl, in spite of all my efforts to keep it alive, had begun to languish. Marriage waftrnpcssible;

103 ARTITUR MERVYN.

and had now, in some degree, ceased to be desirable. We are apt to judge of others by ourselves. The passion, I now found myself disposed to ascribe chiefly to fortuitous circumstances; to the impulse of gratitude, and the exclusion of competitors; and believed that your resemblance to her brother, your age, and personal accomplishments, might, after a certain time, and in consequence of suitable contrivances, on my part, give a new direction to her feelings. To gain your concunrence, 1 relied upon your simplicity, your gratitude, and your susceptibility, to the charms of this be"wltching creature.

I contemplated, likewise, another end. Mrs. Wentworth Is rich. A youth who was once her favourite, and designed to Inherit her fortunes, has disappeared, for some years, from the scene. His death is most probable, but of that there is no satisfactory Information. The life of this person, whose name is Clavering, is an obstacle to some designs which had occurred to mc in relation to this woman. My purposes were crude and scarcely formed. I need not swell the catalogue of my errors by expatiating upon them. Suffice it to say, that the peculiar circum^.tances of your introduction to me, led me to reflections on the use that mlgkt be made of your agency, in procuring this lady's acquiescence in my schemes. You were to be ultimacely persuaded to confirm in her the belief that her nephew was dead. To this consummation it was indispensible to lead you by slow degrees, and circuitous paths. Me:ai\vhile, a profound silence, witli regard to your genuine hlsj^jj^^, was to be observed ; and to this forbearance, your coniQfR was obtained with more readiness than I expected.

There was an additional motive for the treatment you received fr^ mc.. My personal projects and cares had hitherto prAentei me from reading Lodi's manuscript; a slight inspeC.til^n, however, was suflicient to prove that the work was ])rofound and eloquent. My ambition has panted, with equal^'idity, after the reputation of literature and

ARTHUR MERVYN. loi

opulence. To claim the authorship of this work was too harmless and specious a stratagem, not to be readily suggested. I meant to translate it into English, and to enlarge U by enterprising incidents of my own invention. My scruples to assume the merit of the original composer, might thus be removed. For this end, your assistance as an amanuensis would be necessary.

You will perceive, that all these projects depended on

the seasonable arrival of intelligence from «. The

delay of another week would seal my destruction. The silence might arise from the foundering of the ship, and the destruction of all on board. In this case, the insurance was not forfeited, but payment could not be obtained within a year. Meanwhile, the premium and other debts must be immediately discharged, and this was beyond my power. Meanwhile I was to live in a manner that would not belie my pretensions ; but my coffers were empty.

I cannot adequately paint the anxieties with which I have been haunted. Each hour has added to the burthen of my existence, till, in consequence of the events of this day, it has become altogether insupportable. Some hours ago, I was summoned by Thecford to his house. The messenger informed me that tidings had been received of my ship. In answer to my eager interrogations, he could give no other information than that she had been captured by the Britisli. He was unable to relate particulars.

News of her safe return would, indeed, have been far more acceptable; but even this information was a source of infinite congratulation. It precluded the deflind of my insurers. The payment of other debts might be postponed for a month, and my situation be the same as before the adoption of this successless scheme. Hope and* joy were reinstated in my bosom, and I hasted to Thetfo^d's compting house. .*.

He received me with an air of gloomy dissatisfaction. I accounted for his sadness by supposing him a\'Ae to com

K2

1

Jo^ ARTHUR MERVYN.

munlcate information, which was less favourable than our Avishes had dictated. He confirmed, with visible reluctance, the news of her capture; He had just received letters from his brother, acquainting him with all particulars, and con. taining the official documents of this transaction.

This had no tendency to damp my satisfaction, and I proceeded to peruse with eagerness, the papers which he put into my hand. I had not proceeded far when my joyous hopes vanished. Two French mulattoes had, after much solicitation, and the most solemn promises to cany with them no articles which the laws of war decree to be contraband, obtained a passage in the vessel. She was speedily encountered by a privateer, by whom every receptacle was ransacked. In a chest, belonging to the Frenchmen, and whichthey had affirmed to contain nothing but their clothes, were found tv;o sabres, and other accoutrements of an officer of cavalry. Under this pretence, the vessel was captured and condemned, and this was a cause of forfeiture, which had not been provided against in the contract of insurance.

By this untoward event my hopes were irreparably blasted, ^he utmost efforts were demanded to conceal my thoughts from my companion. The anguish that preyed upon my heart v/as endeavoured to be masked by looks of indifTerence. -I pretended to have been previously informed by the messenger, not only of the capture, but of the cause that led to it, and forbore to expatiate upon my loss, or to execrate the Authors of niy disappointment. My mind, however, was the theatre of discord and agony, and I waited with impatience for an opp(miuilty to leave him.

For want of other topics, I asked by whom this information had been brought. He answered, that the bearer was Captain Amos Waison^ whose vessel had been forfeited, at the svime tiijie, under a different pretence. He added, that my name l^eing mentioned, accidentally, to Watson, the' latter had betrayed marks of great surprise, and been very earnest inSi3 inquiries respecting my situation. Having

ARTHUR MERVYN. 103

obtained what knowledge Thetford was able to comiTmnicate, the captain had departed, avowing a former acquaintance with me, and declaring his intention of paying mc a visit.

These words operated on my frame like lightning. All within me was tumult and terror, and I rushed precipitately out of the honi^e. I went forward with unequal steps, and at random. Some instinct led me into the fields, and I wai not apprized of the direction of my steos, till, looking up, I found myself upon the shore of Schuylkill.

Thus was I, a second time, ovf-rLcrne by hopeless and incurable evils. An interval of motley feelings, of specious artifice, and contemptible imposture, had elapsed since my meeting with the stranger at Wilmington. Then mr forlorn state had led me to the brink of suicide. A brief and feverish respite had been afforded me, but now was I transported to the verge of the same abyss.

Amos Watson was the brother of the angel whom I had degraded and destroyed. What but fiery indignation and unappeasable vengeance, could lead him into m^y presence? Vv''ith what heart could I listen to his Invectives ? How coaldI endure to bok upon the face of one, whom I had loaded with such atrocious and intolerable injuries?

I was acquainted with his loftiness of mind: his detestation of injustice, and the whirl-wind passions that ingratitude and,villainy like mine were qualified to awaken in his bosom. I dreaded not his violence. The death that he might be prompted to inflict, was no object of aversion. It was poverty and disgrace, the detection of my crimes, the looks and voice of malediction and upbraiding, from which ray cowardice shrunk.

Why should I live? I must vanish from that stage which 1 had lately trodden. My fli^iht must be instant and precipitate. To be a fugitive from exasperated creditors, and from the industrious revenge of Watson, was an ggsy undertaking; but whither could I fiy, where I should^not be pur

I04 ARTHUR MERVYN.

sued by the phantoms of remorse, by the dread of hourly detection, by the necessities of hunger and thirst? In what scene should I be exempt from servitude and drudgery? Was my existence embellished with enjoyments that would justify my holding it, encumbered with hardships, and immersed in obscurity?

There was no room for hesitation. To rush into tlie stream before me, and to put an end at once to my life and the miseries inseparably linked with it, was the only proceeding which fiite had left to my choice. My muscles were already exerted for this end, when the helpless condition of Clemenza was remembered. What provision could I make against the evils that threatened her? Should I leave her utterly forlorn and friendless? Mrs. Wentworth's temper was forgiving and compassionate. Adversity had taught her to participate, and her wealth enabled her to relieve distress. Who was there by whom such powerful claims to succour and protection could be urged as by this desolate girl ? Might I not state Ker situation in a letter to this lady, and urge irresistible pleas for the extension of her kindness to this object?

These thoughts made me suspend my steps. I determined to seek my habitation once more, and having written and deposited this letter, to return to the execution of my fatal purpose. I had scarcely >*eached my own door, when some one approached along tli^ pavement. 'J'he form, at first, was undistinguishable, but by coming, at length, within the illumination of a lamp, it was perfectly recognized.

To avoid this detested interview was now impossible. Watson approached and accosted me. In this conflict of tumultuous feelings 1 was still able to maintain un air of intrepidity. His demeanour was that of a man who struggles with his rage. His accents were hurried, ahd scarcely articulate. 1 have ten words to say to you, said he: lead ti.o the hou5e, and to some privi'.te room. My busmcss Wit' you will be dispatched in a breath.

ARTHUR MERVYN. 195

I inadc him no ans\ver, but led the way into my house, and to my study. On ent,.i'jig this room, I put the li^-ht upon the table, and turnlii^b my visitant, prepared, silently to hear, what he had to unFoli. He struck: his clenched hand against the table with violence. His motion was of tha't tempestuous kind, as to overwhelm the power of utterance, and found it easier to vent itself in gesticulations than in words. At length, he exclaimed,

It is well. Now has the hour, so long, and so impatiently demanded by my vengeance, arrived. Welbeckl Would that my first words could strike thee dead 1 They will so, if thou hast any title to the name of man.

My sister is dead: dead of anguish and a broken heart. Remote from her friends; in a hovel; the abode of indigence and misery.

Her husband is no more. He returned after long absence, a tedious navigation, and vicissitudes of hardships. He flew to the bosom of his love ; of his wife. She was gone; lost to him, and to virtue. In a fit of desperation, he retired to his chamber, and dispatched himself. This is the instrument with which the deed was performed.

Saying this, Watson took a pistol ft-om his pocket, and held it to my head. I lifted not my hand to turn aside the weapon. I did not shudder at the spectacle, or shrink from his approaching hand. With fingers clasped together, and eyes fixed upon the floor, 1 waited till his fury was exhausted. He continued:

All passed in a fev/ hours. The elopement of his daughter—the death of his son. O! my father 1 Most loved, and most venerable of nienl To see thee changed into a maniac 1 Haggard and wild! Deterred from outrage on thyself and those around thee, by fetters and stripes! What was it that saved me from a like fate? To view this hideous ruin, and to think by whom it was occasioned! Yet not to become frantic like thee, my father; or not destroy myfelf like thee my brother! Lly friend!—

io6 ARTHUR AreRVYN.

No. For this hour was I reserved : to avenge your wrongs and mine in the blood of this ungrateful villain.

There, continued he, producing a second pistol, and tendering it to me, there is thy defence. Take we opposite sides of this table, and fire at the same instant.

During this address I was motionless. He tendered the pistol, but I unclasped not my hands to receive it.

Whydoyou heslt.ite? resumed he. Let the chance between us be equal, or fire you first.

No, said I, I am ready to die bj your hand. I wish it. It will preclude the necessity of performing the ofiice for myself. I have injured you, and merit all that your vengeance can inflict. I know your nature too well, to btlicve that my death will be perfect expiation. When the gust of indignation is past, the remembrance of your deed will only add to your sum of misery: yet I do not love you well enough to wish that you would forbear. I desire to die, and to die by another's hand rather than my own.

Coward 1 exclaimed Watson, with augmented vehemence. You know me too well, to believe me capable of assassination. Vile subterfuge I Contemptible pleal Take the pistol and defend yourself. You want not the power or the will; but, knowing that I spurn at murder, you think your safety will be found in passiveness. Your refusal will avail you little. Your fame, if not your life, is at my mercy. If you fauiter now, I will allow you to live, but only till I have stabbed your reputation.

1 now fixed my eyes stedfastly upon him, and spoke: How mucli a stranger are you to tlie feelings of Welbeck! How poor a judge of his cowardice ! I take your pistol, and consent to your conditions.

We took opposite sides of the table. Are you ready ? he cried, fire 1

Both triggers were drawn at the same instant. Both pistols were discharged. Mine was negligently raised. Such is the untoward chance that presides over human affairs; such

ARTHUR MERVYN. 107

is the malignant destiny by which iny steps have ever been pursued. The bullet whistled harmlessly by me. Levelled by an eye that never before failed, and with so small an interval between us. I escaped, but my blind and random shot took place in his heart.

There is the fruit of this disastrous meeting. The catalogue of death is thus completed. Thou sleepest Watson 1 Thy sister is at rest, and so art thou. Thy vows of vengeance are at an end. It was not reserved for thee to be thy own and thy sister's avenger. Welbeck's measure of transgressions is now full, and his own hand must execute the justice that is due to him.

[ ^08]

ATHUR MERVYN.

CiiAPlER XII.

Such was Welbeck's tale listened to by me -with an eagerness in which every faculty wi'.s absorbed. How adverse to my dreams were the incidents that had just been related 1 The curtain was lifted, and a scene of guilt and ignominy disclosed where my rash and inexperienced youth had suspected nothing but loftiness and magnanimity.

For a while the wondrousness of this tale kept me from contemplating the consequences that awaited us. My unfledged fancy had not liithcrto soared to this pitch. All was astounding by its novelty, or tcrrif.c by its horror. The very scene of these offences partook, to my rustic apprehension, of fairy splendour, and magical abruptness. My understanding was bemazed, and my senses were taught to distrust their own testimony.

From this musing state I was recalled by my companion, ■who said to me in solemn accents. Mervyn! I have but two requests to make. Assist me to bury these remains, and then accompiiny me accross the river. I have no power to compel your silence on the acts that you hcve witnessed. J have meditated to berefit, as v/ell as to injure you ; but I do not desire that your demeanour should conform to any other standard than justice. You have promised, and to that promise I trust.

^^f you chuse to fly from this scene, to v/itdraw yourself from what you may conceive to be a theatre of guilt or peril,

the avenues are open; retire unmolested and in silence. If you have a manlike spirit, if you are grateful for the benefits bestowed upon you, if your discernment enables you to see that complidfice Vith my request will intangle you in no guilt, and betray you into no danger, stay, and aid me in hiding these remains from human scrutiny.

Watson is beyond the reach of further injur)'-. I never Intended him harm, though I have torn from him his sister and friend, and have brought his life to an untimely close. To provide him a grave, is a duty that I owe to the dead and to the living. I shall quickly place myself beyond the reach of inquisitors and judges, but would willingly rescue from molestation or suspicion those whom I shall leave behind.

What would have been the fruit of delibei-ation, if I had had the time or power to deliberate, I know not. My thoughts flowed with tumult and rapidity. To shut this spectacle from my view was the first impulse; but to desert this man, in a time of so much need, appeared a thankless and dastardly deportment. To remain where I was, to conform implicitly to his direction, required no effort. Some fear was connected with his presence, and with that of the dead ; but, in the tremulous confusion of my present thoughts, solitude ■would conjure up a thousand phantoms.

I made no preparation to depart. I did not verballv assent to his proposal. He interpreted my silence into acquiescence. He wrapt the body in the carpet, and then lifting one end, cast at me a look which indicated his expectations, that I would aid him in lifting this ghastly burthen. During this process, the silence was unbroken.

I knew not whither he intended to convey the corpse. He had talked of burial, but no receptacle had been provided. How far safety might depend upon his conduct in this particular, I was unable to estimate. I was in too heartless a mood to utter my doubts. I followed his example in raising the corpse from the floor.

L

He led the way into the passage and down stairs. Having reached the first floor, he unbolted a door which led into the cellar. The stairs and passage were illuminated by lamps, that hung from the ceiling, and were accustomed to burn during the night. Now, however, we were entering darksome and murky recesses.

Return, said he, in a tone of command, and fetch the light. I will wait for you.

1 obeyed. As I returned with the light, a suspicion stole into my mind, that Welbeck had taken this opportunity to fly; and that on regaining the foot of the stairs, I should find the spot deserted by all but the dead. My blood was chilled by this Image. The momentary resolution it inspired was to follow the example of the fugitive, and leave the persons, whom the ensuing day might convene on this spot, to form their own conjectures as to the cause of this catastrophe.

Meanwhile, I cast anxious eyes forward. Welbeck was discovered in the same place and posture in which he had been left, lifting the corpse and its shroud in his arms he directed me to follow him. The vaults beneath were lofty and spacious. He passed from one to the other till wc reached a small and remote cell. Here he cast his burthen on the ground. In the fall, the face of Watson chanced to be disengaged from its covering. Its closed eyes and sunken muscles were rendered, in a tenfold degree, ghastly and rueful by the feeble light which the candle shed upon it.

This object did not escape the attention of Welbeck. He leaned against the wall and folding his arms resigned himself to reverie. He gazed upon the countenance of Watson but his looks denoted his attention to be elsewhere employed.

As to me, my state will not be easily described. My eye roved fearfully from one object to another. By turns it was fixed upon the murdered person and the murderer. The narrow cell in which we stood, its.rudely fashioned wulls and arches, destitute of communication with the external air, aivd Its palpable dark scarcely penetrated by the rays of a

ARTHUR MERVYN. iii

Jolltary candle, added to the silence Avliich was deep and universrd, produced an impression on my fancy which no time will obliterate.

Perhaps my imagination was distempered by terror. The incident which I am going to relate may appear to have existed only in my fancy. Be that as it may, 1 experienced all the eff.:cts which the fullest belief is adapted to produce, glancing vaguely at the countenance of Watson, my attention was arrested by a convulsive motion in the eye-lids. This motion increased, till, at length the eyes opened, and a glajice, languid but wild, was thrown aroun.i. Instantly they closed, and the tremulous appearance vanished.

I started from my place and was on the point of uttering some involuntary exclamation. At the same moment. Welbeck seemed to recover from his reverie.

How is this! said he. Why do we linger here? Every moment is precious. We cannot dig for him a grave with our hands. Wait here, while 1 go in search of a spade.

Saying this, he snat h?d the candle from my hand, and hasted away. My eye followed the lijht as its gleams shifted their place upon the walls and ceilin^-^^s, and gradually vanishing, gave place to unrespited gloom. This proceedingwas so unexpected and abrupt, that I had no time to remonstrate against it. Before I retreived the power of reticction, the light had disappeared and the footsteps were no longer to be heard. *•

I was not, on ordinary occas'ons, destitute of eqmnimitv, but, perhaps the imagination of man is naturally abhorrent of death, until tutored into indifference by hub t. Every circumst nee combined to fili me with shuddcrin^^- and panick. For a while, I was enabled to endure my situation by the exertions of my reason. That the lifeless remains of an human being are powerless to injure or benefit, I was thoroughly persu.ided. 1 suinmoned this belief to my aid, and was abi^, if not to subdue, yet to curb my fears. I listened

112 ARTHUR MERVYN.

to catch the sound of the returning footsteps of Welbeck, and hoped that every new moment would terminate my solitude. No signal of his coming was afforded. At length it occurred to me that Welbeck had gone with no intention to return: That his malice had seduced me hither, to encounter the consequences of his deed. He had fled and barred every door behind him. This suspicion may well be supposed to overpower my courage, and to call forth desperate efforts for my deliverance.

I extended my hands and went forward. I had been too little attentive to the situation and direction of these vaults and passages, to go forward with undeviating accuracy. My fears likewise tended to confuse my perceptions and bewilder my steps. Notwithstanding the danger of encountering obstructions. I rushed towards the entrance with precipitation.

My temerity was quickly punished. In a moment, I was repelled by a jutting angle of the wall, with such force that I staggered backward and fell. The blow was stunning, and •when I recovered my senses, I perceived that a torrent of blood v/as gusliing from my nostrils. My clothes were moistened with tills unwelcome effus'on, and I could not but reflect on tlie hazard which I should incur by being detected in this recess, covered by these accusing stains.

This reflection once more set me on my feet, and incited my exertions. I now proceeded with greater Vaiiness and caution. I had lost all distinct notions of my way. My motions were at random. All my labour was to shun obstructions and to advance whenever the vacuity would permit. By this means, the entrance was at length found, and after various efforts, I arrived, beyond my hopes, at the foot of the staircase.

• I ascended, but quickly encountered an infuperable impediment. The door at the stair-head, was closed and barred. My utmost strength was exerted in vain, to break the lock or the hinges. Tlius were my direst apprehensions fulfilled.

ARTHUR MERVVN. 113

Wclbeck had left me to sustain the charc^e of murder: to obviate suspicions the most atrocious and plausible that the course of human events is capable of producing.

Here I must remain till the morrow: till some one can be made to overhear my calls and come to my deliverance. What effects will my appearance produce on the spectator! Terrified by phantoms and stained with blood shall I not exhibit the tokens of a maniac as well as an assass'n?

The corpse of Watson will quickly be discovered. If previous to this disclosure I should change my bloodstained garments and withdraw into the country, shall I not be pursued by the most vehement suspicions and, perhaps, hunted to my obscurest retreat by the ministers of justice? I am innocent, but my tale however circumstantial or true, will scarcely sufiice for my vim'icat'on. My flight will be construed into a proef of incontestable guilt.

While harassed by these thoughts my attention was attracted by a faint gleam cast upon the bottom of the ftaircase. It grew stronger, hovered for a moment in my sight, and then disappeared. That it proceeded from a lamp or candle, borne by some one along the passages was no untenable opinion, but was far less probable than that the effulgence was meteorous. I confided in the latter supposition and fortified myself anew against the dread of preternatural dangers. iMy thoughts reverted to the contemplntion of the hazards and suspicions which flowed from my continuance in this spot.

In the midst of my perturbed musing, my attention was again recalled by an illumination like the former. Instead of hovcrlni^- and vanishing, it was permanent. No ray could be more feeble, but the tangible obscurity to which it succeeded rendered it conspicuous as an electrical flash. For a while I eyed it without moving from my place, and in momentary expectation of its disappearance.

Remarking its stability, the propriety of scrutinizing it more nearly, and of ascertaining the source whence it flowed, 2 L

114 ARTHUR MERVYN.

was at length su^-gested. Hope, as well as curiosity, was the parent of my conduct. I'hough utterly at a loss to assign the cause of this appearance, I was willing to believe some connection between that cause and the means of my deliverance.

I had scarcely formed the resolution of descending the stair, when my hope was extinguished by the recollection that the cellar had narrow and grated windows, through which light from the street might possibly have found access. A second recollection supplanted this belief, for in my way to this staircase, my attention would have been solicited, and my steps, in some degree, been guided by light coming through these avenues.

Having returned to the bottom of the stair, I perceived ever)' part of the long drawn passage illuminated. I threw a glance forward, to the quarter whence the rays seemed to proceed, and beheld, at a considerable distance, Welbeck in the cell which I had left, turning up the earth with a spade.

After a pause of astonishment, the nature of the error which 1 had committed, rushed upon apprehension. I now perceived that the darkness had misled me to a diiferent staircase from that which I had originally descended. It was apparent that Welbeck intended me no evil, but had really ^-•one in search of the instrument which he had mentioned.

This discovery overwhelmed me with contrition and shame, though it freed from the terrors of imprisonment and accusation. To return to the cell which I had left, and where "Welbeck was employed in his disastrous office, was the expedient which regards to my own safety unavoidably suggested.

Welbeck paused at my approach, and betrayed a momentary consternation at the sight of my ensanguined visage. The blood, by some inexplicable process of nature, perhaps by the counteracting influence of fear, had quickly ceased to flow. Whether the cause of my evasion, and of my flux •f blood, was guessed, or whether his attention was with

ARTHUR MERVYN. 115

arawn, by more momentous objects, from my condition, he proceeded in his task in silence.

A shallow bed, and a slight covering of clay was provided for the hapless Watson. Welbeck's movements were hurried and tremulous. His countenance betokened a mind engrossed by a single purpose, in some degree, foreign to the scene before him. An intensity and fixedness of features, that conspicuous, were led me to suspect the subversion of his reason.

Having finished the task, he threw aside his impliment. He then put into my hand a pocketbook, saying it belonged to Watson, and might contain something serviceable to the living. I might make what use of it I thought proper. He then remounted the stairs and, placing the candle on a table in the hall, opened the principal door and went forth. 1 was driven, by a sort of mechanical impulse, in his footsteps. I followed him because it w^as agreeable to him and because I knew not whither else to direct my steps.

The streets were desolate and silent. The watchmnn's call remotely and faintly heard, added to the general solemnity. I followed my companion in a state of mind not easily described. I had no spirit even to inquire whither he was going. It was not till we arrived at the water's edge that I persuaded myself to break silence. I then began to rehect on the degree in which his present schemes might endanger Welbeck or myself. I had acted long enough a servile and mechanical part; and been guided by blind and foreign impulses. It was time to lay aside my fetters, and demand to know whither the path tended in which I was importuned to walk.

Meanwhile I found myself intanglsd among boats and shipping. I am unable to describe the spot by any indisputable tokens. I know merely that it was the termination of one of the principal streets. Here Welbeck selected a boat and prepared to enter it. For a moment I hesitated to comply •with his apparent invitation. I stammered out an interroga

tion. Why is this? Why should we cross tlie river? Wh?t service can I do for you? I ought to know the purpose of my voyage before I enter it.

He checked himself and surveyed mc for a minute in silence. What do you fear? said he. Have I not explained my wishes? Merely cross the river with me, for T cannot navigate a boat by myself. Is there any thing arduous or mysterious in this undertaking? we part on the Jersey shore, and I shall leave you to your destiny. All 1 siiall ask from you will be silencej and to hide from mankind what you know concerning me.

He now entered the boat and urged me to follow his example. I reluctantly complied. I perceived that the boat contained but one oar and that was a small one. He seemed startled and thrown into great perplexity by this discovery. It will be impossible, said he, in a tone of panic and vexation, to procure another at this hour; what is to be done?

This impediment was by no means insuperable. I had sinewy arms and knew well how to use an oar for the double purpose of oar and ruddtr. I took my station at the stem, and quickly extricated the boat from its neighbours and from the wharves. I was wholly unacquainted with the river. The bar, by which it was incumbered, 1 knew to exist, but in what direction and to what extent it existed, and how it might be avoided in the present state of the tide I knew not. It was probable, therefore, unknowing as I was of the proper tract, that our boat would speedily have grounded.

My attention, meanwhile, was fixed upon the oar. My companion sat at the prow and was in a considerable degree unnoticed. 1 cast eyes occasionally at the scene which I had left. Its novelty, joined with the incidents of my condition, threw me into a state of suspense and wonder which frequently slackened my hand, and left the vessel to be driven by the downward current. Lights were sparingly seen, and these were perpetually fluctuating, as masts, yards, and hulls were interposed, and passed before them. In proportion as

ARTHUR MERVYN. ii

we receded from the shore, the clamours seemed to multiply, and the suggestion that the city was involved in confusion and uproar, did not easily give way to maturer thoughts. Twelve was the hour cried, and this ascended at once from all quarters, and was mingled with the baying of dogs, so as to produce trepidation and alarm.

From this state of magnificent and awful feeling, I was suddenly called by the conduct of Welbeck. We had scarcely moved two hundred yards from the shore, when he plunged into the water. The first conception was that some implement or part of the boat had fallen overboard. I looked back and perceived that his seat was vacant. In my first astonishment I loosened my hold of the oar, and it floated away. The surface was smooth as glass and the eddy occasioned by his sinking was scarcely visible. I had not time to determine whether this was designed or accidental. Its suddenness deprived me of the power to exert myself for his succour. I wildly gazed around me in hopes of seeing him rise. After some time my attention was drawn, by the sound of agitation in the water, to a considerable distance.

It was too dark for any thing to be distinctly seen. There was no cry for help. The noise was like that of one vigorously struggling for a moment, and then finking to the bottom. I listened with painful eagerness, but was unable to distinguish a third signal. He sunk to rise no more.

I was, for a time, inattentive to my own situation. The dreadfulness, and unexpectedness of this catastrophe occupied me wholly. The quick motion of the lights upon the shore, shewed me that I was borne rapidly along with the tide* How to help myself, how to impede my course, or to regahi either shore, since I had lost the oar, I was unable to tell. I ■was no less at a loss to conjecture whither the current, if suffered to control my vehicle, would finally transport me.

The disappearance of lights and buildings, and the diminution of the noises, acquainted me that I had passed the td^^ It was impossible longer to hesitate. The shore was

jt5 ARTHUR MERVYTf.

to be regained by one way only, which was swimming. To any exploit of this kind, my strength and my skill were adequate. I threw away my loose gown; put the pocketbook ot" the unfortunate Watson in my mouth, to preserve it from being injured by moisture ; and committed myself to the stream.

I landed in a spot incommoded with mud and reeds. I sunk knee-deep into the former, and was exhausted by the fatigue of extricating myself. At length I recovered firm ground, and threw myself on the turf to repair my wasted strength, and to reHect on the measures which my future, welfare enjoined me to pursue.

What condition was ever parallel to mine? The transactions of the last three days, resemblsd the monstrous creations of delirium. They were painted with vivid hues on my memory; but so rapid and incongruous were these transitions, that I almost denied belief to their reality. They exercised a bewildering and stupefying influence on my mind, from which the meditations of an hour were scarcely sufficient to relieve me. Gradually I recovered the power of arranging my ideas, and forming conclusions.

Welbeck was dead. His property was swallowed up, and his creditors left to wonder at his disappearance. All that was left, was the furniture of his house, to which Mrs.Wentworxh •would lay claim, in discharge of the unpaid rent. What now was the destiny that awaited the lost and friendless Mademoiselle Lodi. Where was Ihe concealed? Welbttk had dropped no intimation by which 1 might be led to suspect the place of her abode. If my power, in other respects, could have contributed aught to her relief, my ignorance of her asylum had utterly disabled me.

But what of the murdtred person? He had suddenly vanished from the face of the earth.. H's fate and the place of his interment would brobably be suspected and ascertained. Was 1 sure to escape from the consequences of this deed? WaUoii had relatives and friends. What influence oi^^r

ARTHUR MERVYN. iif

^tatc and happiness his untimely and mysterious fate would possess, it was obvious to inquire. This idea led me to the recollection of his pocketbook. Some papers might be there explanatory of his situation.

T resumed my feet. 1 knew not where to direct my steps. I was dropping with wet, and shivering with the cold. I was destitute of habitation and friend. I had neither money, nor any valuable thing in my possession. I moved forward, mechanically and at random. Where I landed was at no great distance from the verge of the town. In a short time I discovered the glimmering of a distant lamp. To this I directed my steps, and here 1 paused to examine the contents of the pocketbook.

1 found three banknotes^ each of fifty dollars, inclosed in a piece of blank paper. Beside these were three letters, apparently written by his wife, and dated at Baltimore. They were brief, but composed in a strain of great tenderness, and containing affecting allusions to their child. I could gather from their date and tenor, that they wxre received during his absence on his recent voyage; that her condition was considerably necessitous, and surrounded by wants which their prolonged separation had increased.

The fourth letter was open, and seemed to have been very lately written. It was directed to Mrs. Mary Watson. He informed her in it of his arrival at Philadelphia from St. Domingo; of the loss of his ship and cargo; andof his intention to hasten home with all possible expedition. He told her that all was lost but one hundred and fifty dollars, the greater part of which he should bring with him, to relieve her more pressing wants. The letter was signed, and folded, and sujierscribcd, but unscaLed.

A little consideration shewed me, in what manner it became me, on this occasion, to demean myself. I put the banknotes in the letter, and sealed it with a wafer ; a few of which Avere found in tiie pocketbook. 1 hesitated sometime whetluj^ should add any thing to the information which the

h^^ i

J20 ARTHUR MERVYN.

letter contained, by means of a pencil which offered itself to my view; but I concluded to forbear. 1 could select no suitable terms in which to communicate the mournful truth. I resolved to deposit this letter at the post-office, where I knevr letters could be left at all hours.

My reflections at length, reverted to my own condition, what was the fate reserved for me? How far my safety might be affected by remaining in the city, in consequence of the disappearance of Welbeck, and my known connection with the fugitive, it was impossible to foresee. My fears readily suggested innumerable embarrassments and inconveniences which would flow from this source. Besides, on what pretence should I remain? To whom could I apply for protection or em.ployment? All avenues, even to subsistence, were shut against me. The country was my sole asylum. Here, in exchange for my labour, I could at least purchase food, safety, and repose. But if my choice pointed to the country, there was no reason for a moment's delay. It would be prudent to regain the fields, and be faj-from this detested city before the rising of the sun.

Meanwhile I was chilled and chaffed by the clothes that I wore. To change them for others, was absolutely necessary to my ease. The clothes which I wore were not my own, and were extremely unsuitable to my new condition. My rustic and homely garb was deposited in my chamber at Welbeck's. These thoughts suggested the design of returning thither. I considered, that, probably, the servants had not been alarmed. That the door was unfastened, and the house was accessible. It would be easy to enter and retire ■without notice; and this, not without some waverings and misgivings, I presently determined to do.

Havin(5 deposited my letter at the office, I proceeded to my late abode. I approached, and lifted the latch with caution. There were no appearances of any one having been disturbed. I procured a light in the kitchen, and hied softly and with dubious footsteps to my chamber. There

V

ARTHUR MERVYN. 121

robed, and resumed my check shirt, and trowsers, and fustian coat. This change being accomplished, nothing remained ^ but that I should strike into the country -n'ith the utmost expedition.

In a momentary review which I took of the past, tt^ design for which Welbeck professed to have originally detained me in his service, occurred to my mind. I knew the danger of reasemng loosely on the subject of property. To any trinket, or piece of furniture in this house, J did not allow myself to question the right of Mrs. Wentworth; a right accruing to her in consequence of Welbe^Srs failure in the payment of his rent; but there was one tlni^g which I felt an irresistible desire, and na. scruples which should forbid me, to possess, and that was, the manuscript to which Welbeck had alluded, as having been written by the deceased Lodi.

I was well instructed in Latin, and knew the Tuscan language to be nearly akin to it. I despaired not of being at sometime able to cultivate this language, and believed that the possession of this manuscript might essentially contribute ta this end, as well as to many others equally beneficial. It was easy to conjecture that the volume was to be found among his printed books, and it was scarcely less easy to ascertain the truth of this conjecture. I entered, not without tremulous sensations, into the apartment which had been the scene of the disastrous interview between Watson and Welbeck. At every step I almost dreaded to behold the spectre of the former rise before me.

Numerous and splendid volumes were arranged on mahogany shelves, and screened by doors of glass. I ran swiftly over their names, and was at length so fortunate as to light upon the book of which I was in search. I immediately secured it, and leaving the candle extinguished on a table in the parlour, I once more issued forth into the street. With light steps and palpitating heart I turned my face towards the country. My necessitous condition I believed M

til ARTHUR MERVVN.

would justify me in passing without payment the Schuylkill bridge, and the eastern sky began to brighten with the dawn of morning not till I had gained the distance of nine mile* from the city.

A Such is the tale which I proposed to relate to you. Such are the memorable incidents of five days of my life; from which I have gathered more instruction than from the whole tissue of my previous existence. Such are the particulars of my knowledge respecting the crimes and misfortunes of Welbeck; which the insinuations of Wortley, and my desire to retain your good opinion, have induced me t« unfold.

[ 1^3 ]

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER ZIII.

JMeRVYN's pause allowed his auditors to reflect on the particulars of his narration, and to compare them ■vs'ith the facts, with a knowledge of which, their own observation had supplied them. My profession introduced me to the friendship of Mrs. Wentworth, by whom, after the disappearance of Welbeck, many circumstances respecting him had been mention. She particularly dwelt upon the deportment and appearance of this youth, at the single interview which took place between them, and her representations were perfectly conformable to those which Mervyn had hirai. self delivered.

Previously to this interview Welbeck had insinuated to her that a recent event had put him in possession of the truth respecting the destiny of Clavering. A kinsman of his, had arrived from Portugal, by whom this intelligence had been brouglit. He dexterously eluded her intreaties to be furnished with minuter information, or to introduce this kinsman to her acquaintance. As soon as Mervyn was ushered into her presence, she suspected him to be the person to whom Welbeck had alluded, and this suspicion his conversation had confirmed. She was at a loss to comprehend the reasons of the silence which he so pertinaciously maintained.

Her uneasiness, however, prompted her to renew her solicitations. On the day, subsequent to the catastrophe related

124 ARTHUR MERVYN.

by Mervyn, she sent a messenger to Welbeck, with a request to see him. Gabriel, the black servant, informed the messenger that h:s,*master had gone into the country for a week. At the end of tiie week, a messenger was again dispatched ■with the same errand. He called and knocked, but no one answered rf signals. He examined the entrance by the kitchen, But every avenue was closed. It appeared that the house was'wholly deserted.

These appearances naturally gave birth to curiosity and suspicion. The house was repeatedly examined, but the solitude and silence within continued the same. The creditors of Welbeck were alarmed by these appearances, and thtir claims to the property remaining in the house were precluded by Mrs. Wentworth, who, as owner of the mansion, •was legally entitled to the furniture, in place of the rent "which Welbeck had suffered to accumulate.

On examining the dwelling, all that was valuable and portable, p.irticularly linen and plate, was removed. The remainder was distrained, but the tumults of pestilence succeeded, and hindered it from being sold. Things were allowed to continue in their former situation, and the house was carefully secured. We had no leisure to form conjectures on tbe causes of this desertion. An explanation was afforded us by the narrative of this youth. It is probable that the servants, finding their master's absence continue, had pillaged the house and fled.

Meanwhile, though our curiosity with regard to Welbeck v;as appeased, it was obvious to inquire by what series of inducements and events Mervyn was reconducted to the city and led to tlie spot where I first met with him. We intimated our wishes in this respect, and our young friend readily consented to take up the thread of his story and bring it down to the point that was desired. For this purpose, the ensuing evening wa* selected. Having, at an early hour, shut ourselves up from all intruders and visitors, he continued as follows:

ARTHUR MERVYN. 125

1 have mcntioi;£d that, by sun-rise, I had gauied the distance of many miles from the city. My purpose Avas to stop at the first farm-house, and seek employment as a daylabourer. The first person whom I observed was a man of placid mien and plain garb. Habitual benevol^e was apparent amidst the wrinkles of age. He was mversing his buck-wheat field and measuring, as it seemed, the harvest that was now nearly ripe.

I accosted him with diffidence, and explained my wishes. He listened to my tale with complacency, inquired into my name and family, and into my qualifications for the office to which I aspired. My answers were candid and full.

, Why, said he, I believe thou and I can make a bargain. We will, at least, try each other for a week or two. If it doe& not suit our mutual convenience we can change. The morning is damp and cool, and thy plight does not appear the most comfortable that can be imagined. Come to the house and eat some breakfast.

The behaviour of this good man filled we with gratitude and joy. Methought I could embrace him as a father, and entrance into his house, appeared like return to a long-lost and much-loved home. My desolate and lonely condition appeared to be changed for paternal regards and the tenderness of friendship.

These em.otions were confirmed and heightened by every object that presented itself under this roof. The family consisted of Mrs. Hadwin, two simple and affectionate girls, his daughters, and sei-vants. The manners of this family, quiet, artless, and cordial, the occupations allotted, me, the land by which the dwelling was surrounded, its pure airs, romantic walks, and exhaustless fertility, constituted a powerful contrast to the scenes which I had left behind, a i were congenial with every dictate of my understanding aiid every sentiment that glowed in my heart.

My youth, mental cultivation, and circumspect deportment fntitled me to deference and confidence, x-ucii hour coaM a

126 ARTHUR MERVVN.

firmed me in the good opinion of Mr. Hadwin, and in the affections of his daughters. In the mind of my employer, the simplicity of the husbandman and the devotion of the Quaker, were blended with humanity and intelligence. The sisters, Susan and Eliza, were unacquainted with calamity and vice, tli^igh the medium of either observation or books. They were strangers to the benefits of an elaborate education, but they were endowed with curiosity and discernment, and had not suffered their slender means of instruction to remain unimproved.

The sedateness of the elder formed an amusing contrast with the laughing eye and untamable vivacity of the younger: but they smiled and they wept in unison. They thought and acted in different but not discordant keys. On all momentous occasions, they rc.isoned and felt alike. In ordinary cases, they separated, as it were, into different tracks; but this diversity was productive, not of jarring, but of harmony.

A romantic and untutored disposition like mine, may be supposed liable to strong impressions from perpetual converse with persons of their age and lex. The elder was soon discovered to have already disposed of her affections. The younger was free, and somewhat that is more easily conceived than named, stole insensibly upon my heart. The images that haunted me at home and abroad, in her absence aud her presence gradually coalesced into one shape, and gave birth to an incessant train of latent palpitations and indefinable hopes. My days were little else than uninterrupted reveries, and night only called up phantoms more vivid and equally enchanting.

The men)orable incidents which had lately happened scarcely counterpoised my new sensations or diverted my contemplations from the present. My views were gradually led to rest upon futurity, and in that I quickly found cause of circumspection and dread. My present labours were light and were sufficient for my subsistence in a single state; but wedlock was the parent of new wants and of new cares.

ARTHUR MERVTN. 127

Mr. Hadwin's possessions were adequate to his own frugal maintenance, but divided between his children would be too scanty for either. Besides this division could only take place at his death, and that was an event whose speedy occurrence was neither desirable nor probable.

Another obstacle was now remembered. Ha'dwin was the consciencious member of a sect, which forbade the marriige of its votaries with those of a different communion. I had been trained in an opposite creed, and imagined it impossible that I should ever become a proselyte to Quakerism. It only remained for me to feign conversion, or to root out the opinions of my friend, and win her consent to a secret marriage. Whether hypocrisy was eligible was no subject of deliberation. If the possession of all that ambition can conceive, were added to the transports of union with Eliza Hadwin, and offered as the price of dissimulation, it would have been instantly rejected. My external goods were not abundant nor numerous, but the consciousness of rectitude was mine, and, in competition with this, the luxury of the heart and of the senses, the gratifications of boundless ambition and inexhaustible wealth were contemptible and frivolous.

The conquest of Eliza's errors was easy ; but to introduce discord and sorrow into this family, was an act of the utmost ingratitude and profligacy. It was only requisite for my understanding clearly to discern, to be convinced of the insuperability of this obstacle. It was manifest, therefore, that the point to which my wishes tended was placed beyond my reach.

To foster my passion, was to foster a disease destructive either of my integrity or my existence. It was indispensable to fix my thoughts upon a different object, and to debar myself even from her intercourse. To ponder on themes foreign to my darling image, and to seclude myself from her society, at hours which had usually been spent with her, ■were difficult tasks. The latter was the least pract'.c?.ble. I had to contend with eyes, which alternately wondered ai^

128 ARTHUR MERVYN.

and upbraided me for my unkindness. She was wholly unaware of the nature of her own feelings, and this ignorance made her less scrupulous in the expression of her sentiments.

Hitherto I had needed not employment beyond myself and my companions. Now my new motives made me eager to discover some means of controling and beguiling my thoughts. In this state, the manuscript of Lodi occurred to me. In my way hither, I had resolved to make the study of the language of this book, and the translation of its contents into Englifli, the business and solace of my leisure. Now this resolution was revived with new force.

My project was perhaps singular. The ancient language of Italy possessed a strong affinity with the modern. My knowledge of the former, was my only means of gaining the latter. 1 had no grammar or vocabulary to explain how far the meanings and inflections of Tuscan words varied from the Roman dialect. I was to ponder on each sentence and phrase ; to select among different conjectures the most plausible, and to ascertain the true, by patient and repeated scrutiny.

This undertaking, phantastlc and impracticable as it may seem, proved upon experiment, to be within the compass of my powers. TJie detail of my progress would be curious and instructive. What impediments, in the attainment of a darling purpose, human ingenuity and patience are able to surmount; how much maybe done by strenuous and solitary efforts; how the mind, unassisted, may draw forth the princlpltts of inflection and arrangement; may profit by remote, analagous, and latent similitudes, would be forcibly Illustrated by my example; but the theme, however attractive, must, for the present, be omitted.

My progress was slow; but the perception of hourly improvement afforded me unspeakable pleasure. Having arrived near the last pages, 1 was able to pursue, with little inter* ruption, the thread of an eloquent narration. The triumph of a leader ©f out-laws over the popular enthusiasm of tht

ARTHUR MERVYN. 129

Milanese, and the claims of neighbouring potentates, were about to be depicted. The Condottiero Sforza, had taken refuge from his enemies in a tomb; accidentally discovered amidst the ruins of a Roman fortress in the Appenine. He had sought this recess for the sake of concealment, but found in it a treasure, by which he would be enabled to secure the wavering and venal, faith of that crew of ruffians that followed his standard, provided he fell not into the hands of the enemies who were now in search of him.

My tumultuous curiosity was suddenly checked by the following leaves being glewed together at the edges. To dissever them without injury to the written spaces, was by no means easy. I proceeded to the task, not without precipitation. The edges were torn away, and the leaves parted.

It may be thought that I took up the thread where it had been broken; but no. The object that my eyes encountered, and which the cemented leaves had so long concealed, was beyond the power of the most capricious or lawless fancy to have prefigured; yet it bore a shadowy resemblance to the images with which my imagination was previously occupied. I opened, and beheld—a bank-tiotel

To the first transports of surprise, the conjecture succeeded that the remaining leaves, cemented together in the same manner, might inclose similar bills. They were hastily separated, and the conjecture v/as verified. My sensations, at this discov^ery, were of an inexplicable kind. I gazed at tlie notes in silence. I moved my finger over them; held them in different positions; read and re-read the name of each sum, and the signature; added them together, and repeated to myself—Tiventj thousand dollars 1 They are mine, and by such means 1

This sum wou^d have reedeemed the falling fortunes of Welbeck. The dying Lodi was unable to comm.unicate ail the contents of this inestimable volume. He had divided his treasure, with a view to its greater safety, between this

13» . ARTHUR MERVYN.

Tolume and his pocketbook. Death hasted upon hhn too suddenly to allow him to explain his precautions. Welbeck had placed the book in his collection, purposing sometime t» peruse it; but deterred by anxieties, which the perusal ■would have dissipated, he rusJied to desperation and suicide, from which some evanescent contingency, by unfolding this treasure to his view, would have effectually rescued him.

But was this event to be regretted? This sum, like the former, would probably have been expended in the same pernicious prodigality. His career would have continued sometime longer, but his inveterate habits would have finally conducted his existence to the same criminal and ignominious close.

Bu.t the destiny of Welbeck was accomplished. The money was placed, without guilt or artifice, in my possession. My fortune had been thus unexpectedly and wonderously propitious. How was I to profit by her favour? Would not this sum enable me to gather round me all the instrunjents of pleafure? Equipage, and palace, and a multitude oi servants; polished mirrors, splendid hangings, banquets, and flatterers, were equally abhorrent to my taste, and my principles. The accumulation of knowledge, and the diffusion of happiness, in which riches may be rendered eminently instrumental, were the only precepts of duty, and the only avenues to genuine felicity.

But what, said I, is my title to this money? By retaining it, sliall I not be as culpable as Welbeck? It came into his possession as it came into mine, without a crime }i but my knov.lcdge of the true proprietor is equally certain, and the claims of the unfortunate stranger are as valid as ever. Indeed, if utility, and not law, be the measure of justice, her claim, desolate and indigent as slie is, unfitted, by her past life, by the softness and the prejudices of her education, for contending with calamity, is incontestible.

ARTHUR MERVYN. 131

As to mc, health and dUigence will give me, not only the competence which I seek, but the power of enjoying it. If my present condition be unchangeable, I shall not be unhappy. My occupations are salutary and meritorious; I am a stranger to the cares as well as to the enjoyment of riches; abundant means of knowledge are possessed by me, as long as I have eyes to gaze at man and at nature, as they are exhibited in their original forms or in books. The precepts of my duty cannot be mistaken. The lady must be sought and the money be restored to her.

Certain obstacles existed to the immediate execution of this scheme. How should I conduct my search? What apology should I make for withdrawing thus abruptly, and contrary to the terms of an agreement into which I had lately entered, from the family and service of my friend and benefactor, Hadwin ?

My thoughts were called away from pursuing these inquiries by a rumour, which had gradually swelled to formidable dimensions ; and which, at length, reached us in our quiet retreats. The city, we were told, was involved in contusion and panick, for a pestilential disease had begun its destructive progress. Magistrates and citizens were flying to the country. The numbers of the sick multiplied beyond all example; even in the pest affected cities of the Levant. The malady was malignant, and unsparing.

The usual occupations and amusements of life were at an end. Terror had exterminated all the sentiments of nature. Wives were deserted by husbands, and children by parents. Some had shut themselves in their houses, and debarred themselves from all communication with the rest of mankind. The consternation of others had destroyed their understanding, and their misguided steps hurried them into the midst of the danger which they had previously laboured to shun. Men were seized by this disease in the streets; passengers fled from them; entrance into their own dwellings was denied to them; they perished in the public ways.

13^ ARTHUR MERVYN.

The chambers of disease were deserted, and the sick left to die of negligence. None could be fonnd to remove the lifeless bodies. Their remains, suffered to decay by piecemeal, filled the air with deadly exhalations, and added tenfold to the devastation.

Such was the tale, distorted and diversified a thousand ■ways, by the credulity and exaggeration of the tellers. At first I listened to the story with indifference or mirth. Methought it was confuted by its own extravagance. The enormity and variety of such an evil made it unworthy to be believed. I expected that every new day would detect the absurdity and fallacy of such representations. Every new day, however, added to the number of witnesses, and the consistency of tlie tale, till, at length, it was not possible to withhold my faith.

[- »33 3

ARTHUR MERVYN,

CHAPTER XIV.

1 HIS mmour was of a nature to absorb and suspend the whole soul. A certain subhmity is connected with enormous dangers, that imparts to our consternation or our pity, a tincture of the pleasing. This, at least, may be experienced by those who are beyond the verge of peril. My own person was exposed to no hazard. I had leisure lo conjure up terrific images, and to personate the witnesses and sufferers of this calamity. This employment was not enjoined upon me by necessity, but was ardently pursued, and must therefore have been recommended by some nameless charm.

Others were very differently affected. As often as the tale was embellished with new incidents, or inforced by new testimony, tlie hearer grew pale, his breath was stifled by inquietudes, his blood was chilled and his stomach was bereaved of its usual energies. A temporar)'^ indisposition was produced in many. Some were haunted by a melancholy bordering upon madness, and some, in consequence of sleepless panics, for which no cause could be assigned, and for which no opiates could be found, were attacked by linj^-ering or mortal disases.

Mr. Hadwin was superior to groundless apprehensions. His daughters, however, partook in all the consternation which surrounded them. Tiie eldt-st had, indeed, abundrmt « ason for hvr terror. The youth to whom she was bctrotlied, resided in the city. A ye?r previous to this, he had left the N

J 34 ARTHUR MERVYN.

house of Mr. Hadwln, who was his uncle, unJ had removed

to Philadelphia, in pursuit of fortune.

He made himself clerk to a merchant, and by some mercantile adventures in which he had successfully engaged, began to flatter himself with being able, in no long time, to support a family. Meanwhile, a tender and constant correspondence was maintained between him and his beloved Susan. This girl was a soft enthusiast, in whose bosom devotion and love glowed with an ardour that has seldom been exceeded.

The first tidings of the yellow fever, was heard by her with unspeakable perturbation. Wallace was interrogated, by letter, respecting its truth. For a time, he treated it as a vague report. At length, a confession was extorted from him that tliere existed a pestilential disease in the city, but, he added, that it was hitherto confined to one quarter, distant from tlie place of his abode.

The most pathetic intreaties, were urged by her that he would withdraw into the country. He declared his resolution to comply when the street in which he lived should become infected, and his stay should be attended with real danger. He stated how nmch his interests depended upon the favour of his present employer, who had used the most powerful arguments to detain him, but declared that, when his situation should become, in the least degree, perillous, he would slight every consideration of gratitude and interest, and fly to Malverton. Meanwhile, he promised to communicate tidings of his safety, by every opportunity.

Belding, Mr. Hadwin's next neighbour, though net uninfected by the general panic, persisted to visit the city daily with his market-cart. He set out by sun-rise, and usually returned by noon. By him a letter was punctually received by Susan. As the hour of Belding's return approached, her impatience and anxiety increased. The daily epistle was received and read, in a transport of eagerness. For a while, her emotion subsided, but returned with augmented vehemence at noon on the ensuing day.

ARTI^UR MERVYN. 135

These agitations were too vehement for a feeble constitution like her's. She renewed her supplications to Wallace to quit the city. He repeated his assertions of being, hitherto, secure, and his promise of coming when the danger should be imminent. When Belding returned, and, instead of being accompanied by Wallace, merely brought a letter from him, the unhappy Susan would sink into fits of lamentation and weeping, and repel every effort to console her with an obstinac) that partook of madness. It was, at length, manifest, that Wallace's delays would be fatally injurious to the health of his mistress.

Mr. Hadwin had hitherto been passive. He conceived that the intreatics and remonstrances of his daughter were more likely to influence the conduct of Wallace, than any representations which he could make. Nov/, however, he wrote the contumacious Wallace a letter, in which he laid his commands upon him to return in company with Belding, and declared that by a longer delay, the youth would forfeit his favour.

The malady had, at this time, made considerable progress. Belding's interest at length yielded to his fears, and this was the last journey which he proposed to make. Hence our impatience for the return of Wallace was augmented; since, if this opportunity were lost, no suitable conveyance might again be offered him.

Belding set out, as usual, at the dawn of day. The customary interval between his departure and return, was spent by Susan, in a tunrailof hopes and fears. As noon approached her suspense arose to a pitch of wildntss and agony. Siie could scarcelv be restrained from runnin^: alon'.v the road, many miles, towards the city; that she might, by meeting Belding halfway, the sooner ascertain the fate of her lover. She stationed herself at a window which overlooked the road along which Belding was to pass.

Her sister, and her father, th.ough less impatient, marked, with painful eagerness, the first ^oijnd of the approaching

13^ ARTHUR MERVYN.

vehicle. They snatched a look at it as soon as It appcnrcii

in sight. Beldlng was without a companion.

This confirmation of her fears, overwhelmed the unhappy Sus'in. She sunk into a fit, from which, for a lono-time, her recovery was hop-less. This was succeeded by paroxysms of a furious insanity, in which she attempted to snatch any p®iuted implement which lay within her reach, v/ith a view to destroy herself. These being carefully removed, or forcibly wrested from her, she resigned herself to sobs and exclamations.

Having interroq,ated Belding, he informed us tl:at he occupied his r.sual post in the market place; that heretofore, Wallace had duly sought him out, and exchanged letters; but, that on this morning, the young man had not made his appearance; though Belding had been induced, by his wish to see him, to prolong his stay in the city, much beyond the usual period.

Tliat some other cause than sickness had occasioned this omission, was barely possible. There was scarcely room for the most sanguine temper to indulge an hope. Wallace was without kindred, and probably without friends, in the city. The merchant, in whose service he had placed himself, was connected with him by no consideration but that of interest. What then must be his situation when seized with a malady "which all believed to be contagious; and the fear of which, was able to dissolve the strongest ties that bind human being* together?

I was personally a stranger to this youth, I had seen hig letters, and they bespoke, not indeed any great refinement or elevation of intelligence, but a frank and generous spirit, to •which I could not refuse my esteem; but his chief claim to my affection consisted in his consanguinity to Mr. Hadwin, and his place in the affections of Susan. His welfare was essential to the happiness of those, whose happiness had become essential to mine. I witnessed the outrages of despair in the daughter, and the symptoms of a deep, but less

ARTHUR MERVVX. J37

violent grief, In the sister and parent. Was it not possible for me to alleviate their pangs ? Could not the fate of Wallace be ascertained?

This disease assailed men with different degrees of malignitv. In its worst form perhaps it was incurable; but in some of its modes, it was doubtless conquerable by the skill of physicians, and the fidelity of nurses. In its least formidable symptoms, negligence and solitude would render it fatal.

Wallace might, perhaps, experience tlils pest in its most lenient degree: but the desertion of all mankind; the want, not'-only of medicines, but of food, would irrevocably seal his doom. My imagination was incessantly pursued by the image of this youth, perishing alone, and in obscurity; calling on the name of distant friends, or invoking, ineffectually, the succour of those who were near.

Hitherto distress had been contemplated at a distance, and through the medium of a fancy delighting to be startled by the wonderful, or transported by sublimity. Now the calamity-had entered my own doors, imaginary evils were supplanted by real, and my heart was the seat of commiseration and horror.

I found myself unfit for recreation or employment. I shrouded myself in the gloom of the neighbouring forest, or lost myself in the maze of rocks and dells. I endeavoured, in vain, to shut out the phantoms of the dying Wallace, and to forget the spectacle of domestic woes. At length, it occurred to me to ask. May not this evil be obviated, and the felicity of the Hadwins re-established ? Wallace is friendless and succourlcss; but cannot I supply to hiiii the place of protector and nurse? Why not hasten to the city, search out his abode, and ascertain whether he be living or dead? If he still retain life, may I not, by consolation and atttndance, contribute to the restoration of his health, and conduct hici once more to the bosom of his family ?

ijS ARTHUR MERVYN.

With what transports will his iirrival be hailed? Hovr amply will their impatience and their sorrow be compensated by his return! In the spectacle of their joys, how rapturous and pure will be my delight 1 Do t!ie benefits which 1 have received from the Hadwins demand a less retribution than this?

It is true, that my own life will be endangered; but my danger will be proportioned to the duration of my stay in this seat of infection. The death or the flight of Wallace may absolve me from the necessity of spending one night in the city. The rustics who dally frequent the market are, as experience proves, exempt from this disease; in consequence, perhaps, of limiting their continuance in the city to a few hours. May I not, in this respect, conform to their example, and tnjoy a similar exemption?

My stay, however, may be longer than the day. I may be condemned to share in the common destiny. What then? Life is dependent on a thousand contingencies, not to be computed or foreseen. The seeds of an early and lingering death are sown in my constitution. It is vain to hope to escape tlie malady by which my mother and my brothers have died. We are a race, whose existence some inherent property has limited to the short space of twenty years. We are exposed, in common with the rest of mankind, to innumerable casualities; but if these be shunned, we are unalterably fated toperish by consumption. Why then should I scruple to lay down my life in the cause of virtue and humanity? It is better to die, in the consciousness of having offered an heroic sacrifice; to die by a speedy stroke, than by the per▼erseness of nature, in ignominious inactivity, and lingering agonies.

These considerations determined mc to hasten to the city. To mention my purpose to the Hadwins would be useless or pernicious. It would only augment the sum of their present anxieties. I should meet with a thousand obstacles in the tenderness and terror of Eliza, and in the prudent affcctipn

ARTHUR MERVVN. 13^

of her father. Their arguments I should be condemned to hear, but should not be able to confute; and sb.ould onlyload myself with imputations of perverseness and temerity.

But how else should I explain my absence ? I had hitherto preserved my lips untainted by prevarication or falsehood. Perhaps there was no occasion which would justify an untruth ; but here, at least, it was superfluous or hurtful. My disappearance, if effected without notice or warning, will give birth to speculation and conjecture; but my true motives •will never be suspected, and therefore will excite no fears. My conduct will not be charged with guilt. It will merely be thought upon with some regret, which will be alleviated by the opinion of my fafety, and the daily expectation of my return.

But, since my purpose was to search out Wallace, I must be previously furnished with directions to the place of his abode, and a description of his person. Satisfaction ®n this head was easily obtained from Mr. Hadwin; who was prevented from suspecting the motives of my curiosity, by my questions being put in a manner apparently casual. He mentioned tse street, and the number of the house.

I hstened with surprise. It was an house with which I was already familiar. He resided, it seems, with a merchant. Was it possible for me to be mistaken?

What, I asked, was the merchant's name?

Tbetford,

This was a confirmation of my first conjecture. I recollected the extraordinary means by which I had gained access to the house and bed-chamber of this gentleman. 1 recalled the person and appearance of the youth by whose artincet I had been intahgled in the snare. These artifices implied some domestic or confidential connection between Thetford and my guide. Wallace was a member of the fa'nily. Could it be he by whom I was betrayed?

Suitable questions easily obtained from Hadwin a description of the person and carnage of his nephew. Every cir

140 ARTHUR MERVYX.

cumstance evlncecl the identity of their persons. Wallace, then, was the engaguig and sprightly youth whom I had encountered at Lesher's; and who, for purposes not hitherto discoverable, had led me into a situation so romantic and perilous.

I was far from suspecting that these purposes were criminal. It was easy to infer that his conduct proceeded from juvenile wantonness, and a love of sport. My resolution was imaltcred by this disclosure; and having obtained all the information which I needed, 1 secretly began my journey.

My reflections, on the way, were sufRciently employed in tracing the consequences of my project; in computing the inconveniences and dangers to which I was preparing to subject myself; in fortifying my courage against the influence of rueful sights and abrupt transitions; and in imagining the measures which it would be proper to pursue in every emergency.

Connected as these views were with the family and character of Thetford, I could not but sometimes advert to those incidents v/hich formerly happened. The mercantile alliance between him and Welbeck was remembered; the allusions ^vhich were made to the condition of the latter in the chamber conversation, of which I was an unsuspected auditor; and the relation which these allusions might possess with subsequent occurrences. Welbeck's property was forfeited. It had been confided te the care of Thetford's brother. Had the case of this forfeiture been truly or thoroughly explained? Might not contraband articles have been admitted through the management, or under the ccnnivkuce of the brothers ; and might not the younger Thetford be furnished with the means of purchasing the captured vessel and lier cargo; which, as usual, would be sold by auction at a fifth or tenth of its real value?

Welbeck was not alive to profit by the detection of this artifice, admitting these conclusions to be just. My knowledge will be useless to the world; for by wUdt motives can

ARTHUR MERVYN. I4t

I be Infiuenced to publish the truth; or by whom will my smgle testimony be believed, in opposition to that plausible exterior, and, perhaps, to that general integrity which Thetford has nnlntained? To myself it will not be unprofitable. It is a lesson on the principles of human nature; on the delusiveness of appearances; on the perviousness of fraud; and on the pov;er with which nature has invested human beings over the thoughts and actions of each other.

Thetford and his frauds were dismissed from my thouglits, to give place to considerations relative to ClemeKza Lodi, ind the money which chance had thrown into my possession. Time had only confirmed my purpose to restore these bills to the rightful proprietor, and heightened my impatience to discover her retreat. I reflected, that the means of doing this were more likely to suggest themselves at the place to which I was going than elsewhere. I might, indeed, perish before my views, in this respect, could be accomplished. Against these evils, I had at present no power to provide. While I lived, I would bear perpetually about me the volume and its precious contents. If I died, a superior power must direct the course of this as of all other events.

[ 142

ARTHUR IsIERVYN.

CHAPTER XV.

1 HESE meditations did not enfeeble my resolution, or slacken my pace. In proportion as I drew near the city, the tokens of its calamitous condition became more apparent. Every farm-house was filled with supernumerary tenants; fugitives from home; and haunting the skirts of the road, eager to detain every passenger with inquiries after news. The passengers were numerous; for the tide of emigration was by no means exhausted. Some were on foot, bearing in their countenances the tokens of their recent terror, and filled with mournful reflections on the forlornness of their state. Few had secured to themselves an asylum ; some were without the m.eans of paying for victuals or lodging for the coming night; others, who were not thus destitute, yet knew not whither to apply for entertainment, every bouse being already over-stocked with inhabitants, or barring its inhospitable doors at their approach.

Families of weeping mothers, and dismayed cliilJren, attended with a few pieces of indispensable furniture, were carried in vehicles of every form. The parent or husband had perisiied ; and the price of some moveable, or the pittance handed forth by public charity, had been expended to purchase the means of retiring from this theatre of disasters; though uncertain and hopeless of accommodation in the neighbouring districts.

ARTHUR MERVYN. 145

Between these and the fuijitives whom curiosity had led to the road, dialogues frequently took place, to which I was suffered to listen. From every mouth the tale of sorrow was repeated with new aggravations. Pictures of their own distress, or of that of their neighbours, were exhibited in all the hues which imagination can annex to pestilence and poverty.

My preconceptions of the evil now appeared to have fallen short of the truth. The dangers into which I was rushing, seemed more numerous and imminent than 1 had previously imagined. I v/avercd not in my purpose. A panick crepe to my heart, which more vehement exertions were necessary to subdue or control; but I harboured not a momentary doubt that the course which I had taken was prescribed by duty. There was no difficulty or reluctance in proceeding. All for which my efforts were demanded, was to walk in this path without tumult or alarm.

Various circumstances had hindered me from setting out upon this journey as early as was proper. My frequent pauses to listen to the narratives of travellers, contributed likewise to procrastination. The sun had nearly set before I reached the precincts of the city. I pursued the track which I had formerly taken, and entered Highstreet after night-fall. Instead of equipages and a throng of passengers, the voice of levity and glee, which I had formerly observed, and which the mildness of the season would, at other times, have produced, I found nothing but a dreary solitude.

The market-place, and each side of this magnificent avenue were illuminated, as before, by lamps; but between th« verge of Schuylkill and the heart of the city, I met not more than a dozen figures; and these were ghost-like, wrapt in cloaks, from, behind which theycastupon me glances of wonder and suspicion; and, as I approached, changed their course, to avoid touching me. Their clothes v/ere sprinkled with vinegar; and their nostrils defended from contagion by soma powerful perfume.

144 ARTHUR MERVYN.

I cast a look upon the houses, which I recollected to haw formerly been, at this hour, brilliant with lights, resounding ^vith lively voices, and thronged with busy faces. Now they ■were closed, above and below; dark, and without tokens of being inhabited. From the upper windows of some, a gleam sometimes fell upon the pavement I was traversing, and shewed that their tenants had not fled, but were secluded or disabled.

These tokens were new, and awakened all my panicks. Death seemed to hover over this scene, and I dreaded that the floating pestilence had already lighted on my frame. I had scarcely overcome these tremors, when I approached an house, the door of which was open, and before w^hich stood a vehicle^ which I presently recognized to be an hearse.

The driver was seated on it. I stood still to mark his visage, and to observe the course which he proposed to take. Presently a coffin, borne by two men, issued from the house. The driver was a negro, but his companions were white. Their features were marked by ferocious indifference to danger or pity. One of them as he assisted in thrusting the coffin into the cavity provided for it, said, I'll be damned if I think the ^p.or.dog was quite dead. It wasn't X.\\t fever that ailed him, but the sight of the girl and her mother on the floor. I wonder how they all got into that room. What carried them there ?

The other surlily muttered. Their legs to be sure.

But what should they hug together in one room for?

To save us trouble to be sure.

And I thank them with all my heart; but damn it, It wisn't right to put him in his coffin before the breath was fairly gone. I thought the lust look he gave me, told me to st:iy a few minutes.

Pshaw 1 lie could not live. The sooner dead the better for him; as well as for us. Did you mark how he eyed us, when we carried away his wife and daughter? I never cried in my life, s'.nce 1 was knee-higli, but curse me if I ever felt

ARTHUR MERV7N. 145

in i>f ttcr tunc for the business than just then. Hey! continued he, looking up, and observing me standing a few pacei distant, and listening to their discourse, What's wanted? Any body dead ?

I stayed not to answer or parly, but hurried forward. My joints trembled, and cold drops stood on my forehead. I was ashamed of my own infirmity; and by vigorous efforts of my reason, regained some degree of composure. The evening had now advanced, and it behoved me to procure accommodation at some of the inns.

These were easily distinguished by their signs, but many were without inhabitants. At length, I lighted upon one, the hall ©f which was open, and the windows lifted. After knocking for some time, a young girl appeared, with many marks of distress. In answer to my question, she answered that both her parents were sick, and that they could receive no one. I inquired, in vain, for any other tavern at which strangers might be accommodated. She knew of none such; and left me, on some one's calling to her from above, in the midst of my embarrassment. After a moment's pause, I re* turned, discomforted and perplexed, to the street.

I proceeded, in a considerable degree, at random. At length, I reached a spacious building, in Fourth-street, which the sign-post shewed me to be an inn. I knocked loudly and often at the door. At length, a female opened the window of the second story, an J, in a tone of peevishness, demanded •what I wanted? I told her that I wanted lodging.

Go hunt for it somewhere else, said she ; you'll find none here. I began to expostulate; but she shut the window with quickness, and left me to my own reflections.

I began now to feel some regret at the journey I had taken. Never, in the depth of caverns or forests, was I equally conscious of loneliness. I was surrounded by the kabitations of men; but I was destitute of associate or friend. I had money, but an horse shelter, or a morsel of food, could not be purchased. I came for the purpose of relieving

146 ARTHUR lAIERVYN.

others, but stood in the utmost need myself. Even In health my condition was helpless and forlorn; but what would become of me, should this fatal malady be contracted. To hope that an asylum would be afforded to a sick man, which was denied to one in health, was unreasonable.

The first impulse which flowed from these reflections, was to hasten back to Malverton; which, with sufficient diligence, I might hope to regain before the morning light. I could not, methought, return upon my steps with too much speed. I was prompted to run, as if the pest was rushing upon me, and could be eluded only by the most precipitate flight.

This impulse was quickly counteracted by new ideas. I thought with indignation and shame on the imbecility of my proceeding. I called up the images of Susan Hadwin, and of Wallace. I reviewed the motives which had led me to the undertaking of this journey. Time had, by no means, diminished their force. 1 had, incleed, nearly arrived at the accomplishment of what I had intended. A few steps would carry me to Thetford's habitation. This might be the critical moment, when succour was most needed, and would be most efficacious.

1 had previously concluded to defer going thither till the enusing morning; but why should 1 allow myself a moment's delay? 1 might at least gain an external view of the house, and circumstances might arise, which would absolve me from the obligation of remaining an hour longer in the city. All for which 1 came might be performed; the destiny of Wallace be ascertained; and I be once more safe within tlie precincts of Mjlverton before the return of day.

I immediately directed my steps towards the habitation of Thctford. Carriages bearing the dead were frequentlydiscovered. A few passengers likewise occurred, whose hasty and perturbed steps, denoted their participation In the common distress. The house, of which I was in quost,

ARTHUR MERVYN. ^147

quickly appeared. Light, from an upper window, indicated that it was still inhabited.

I paused a moment to reflect in what manner it became me to proceed. To ascertain the existence and condition of Wallace was the purpose of my journey. He had inhabited this house; and whether he remained in it, was now to be known. I felt repugnance to enter, since my safety might, by entering, be unawares and uselessly endangered. Most of the neighbouring houses were apparently deserted. In some there were various tokens of people being within. Might I not inquire, at one of these, respecting the condition of Thetford's family ? Yet why should I disturb them by inquiries so impertinent, at this unseasonable hour? To knock at Thetford's door, and put my questions to him who should obey the signal, was the obvious method.

I knocked dubiously and lightly. No one cam?. I knocked again, and more loudly; I likewise drew the bell. I distinctly heard its distant peals. If any were within, my signal could not fail to be noticed. I paused, and listened, but neither voice nor footsteps could be heard. The light, though obscured by window curtains, which seemed to be drawn close, was still perceptible.

I ruminated on the causes that might hinder my summons from being obeyed. I figured to myself nothing but the helplessness of disease, or the inserisibllity of death. Tliese images only urged me to persist in endeavouring to obtain admission. Without weighing the consequences of my act, I involuntarily lifted the latch. The door yielded to mj hand, and I put my feet within the passage.

Once more I paused. The passage was of considerable extent, and at the end of it I perceived light as from a lam.p or candle. This impelled me to go forward, till I reached the foot of a staircase. A candle stoocfupon the lowest step.

This was a new proof that the house was not deserted. I struck my heel against the floor with some violence ; but this, like my former signals, was unnoticed. Having proceeded

1^8 ARTHUR MERVYN.

thus far, it would have been absurd to retire with my purpose uneffected. Taking the candle in my hand, I opened a door that was near. It led into a spacious parlour, furnished ■with profusion and splendour. I walked to and fro, gazing at the objects which presented themselves; and involved in perplexity, I knocked with my heel louder than ever; but

00 less ineffectually.

Notwithstanding the lights which I had seen, it was possible that the house was uninhabited. This 1 was resolved to ascertain, by proceeding to the chamber which I had observed, from without, to be illuminated. This chamber, as far as the comparison of circumstances would permit me to decide, I believed to be the same in which 1 had passed the ilrst ni-^ht of my late abode in the city. Now was I, a second time, in almostequal ignorance of my situation, andof the consequences which impended exploring my way to the same recess.

I mounted the stair. As I approached the door of which

1 was in search, a vapour, infectious and deadly, assailed my senses. It resembled nothing of which I had ever before been sensible. Many odours had been met with, even since my arrival in the city, less supportable than this. I seemed not so much to smell as to taste the element that now encompassed me. 1 felt as if I had inhaled a poisonous and subtle fluids whose power instantly bereft my stomach of all vigour. Some fatal influence appeared to seize upon my vitals; and the work of corrosion and decomposition to be busily begun.

For a moment, I doubted whether imagination had not fome share in producing my sensation; but I had not been previously panick-struck; and even now I attended to my own sensations without mental discomposure. That I had imbibed this disease was not to be questioned. So far the chances in my favour were annihilated. The lot of sickness was drawn.

Whether my case would be lenient or malignant; whether I should recover or perish, was to be left to the decision

ARTHUR MERVVN. 149

of the future. This Incident, Instead of appnlling me, tended rather to invigorate my courage. The danger which 1 feared had come. I might enter with indifference, on this theatre of pestilence, I might execute without faultering, the duties that my circumstances might create. My state was no longer hazardous; and my destiny would be totally uninfluenced by my future conduct.

The pan^- with which I was first seized, and the momentary inclination to vomit, which it produced, presently subsided. My wholesome feelings, indeed, did not revisit me, but strength to proceed was restored to me. The enluvia became more sensible as 1 approached the door of the chamber. The door was ajar; and the light within was perceived. My belief, that those within were dead, was presently confuted by a sound, which I first supposed to be that of steps moving quickly and timorously across the floor. This ceased, and was succeeded by sounds of different, but inexplicable import.

Having entered the apartment, I saw a candle on the hearth. A table was covered with vials and other apparatus of a sick chamber. A bed stood on one side, the curtain of which was dropped at the foot, so as to conceal any one within. I fixed my eyes upon this object. There were sufficient tokens that some one lay upon the bed. Breath, drawn at long intervals; mutterings scarcely audible; and a tremulous motion in the bedstead, were fearful and intelligible indications.

If my heart faultered, it must not be supposed that my trepidations arose from any selfish considerations. Wallace only, the object of my search, was present to my fancy. Pervaded with remembrance of the Hadwin's; of the agonies which they had already endured; of the despair which would overwhelm the unhappy Susan, when the death of her lover should be ascertained; observant of the lonely condition of this house, whence I could only infer that the iick had been denied suitable attendance; and reminded by the svmptoms O 2

150 ARTHUR MERVYN.

that appeared, that this being was struggling with the agonlci of death; a sickness of the heart, more insupportable than that which I had just experienced stole upon me.

My fancy readily depicted the progress and completion of this tragedy. Wallace was the first of the family on whom the pestilence had seized. Thetford had fled from his habitation. Perhaps, as a father and husband, to shun the danger attending his stay, was the injunction of his duty. It was questionless the conduct which selfish regards would dictate. Wallace was left to perish alone; or, perhaps, which indeed was a supposition somewhat justified by appearances, he had been left to the tendence of mercenary wretches; by whom, at this desperate moment he had been abandoned.

I was not mindless of the possibility that these forebodings, specious as they were, might be false. The dying person might be some other than Wallace. The whispers of my hope were, indeed, faint; but they, at least, prompted me to snatch a look at the expiring man. For this purpose, I ac!Tanced and thrust my head within the curtain.

I ^5t ]

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER XVI.

1 HE features of one whom I had se;n so transiently as Wallace, may be imagined to be not easily recognized, especially when those features were tremulous and deathful. Here, however, the differences were too conspicuous to mislead me. I beheld one to whom I could recollect none that bore resemblance. Though ghastly and livid, the traces of intelligence and beaut)'^ were undefaced. The life of Wallace was of more value to a feeble individual, but surely the Ifeeing that was stretched before me and who was hastening to his last breath was precious to thousands.

Was he not one in whose place I would willingly have died? The offering was too late. His extremities were already cold. A vapour, noisome and contagious, hovered over him. The fiutterings of his pulse had ceased. His existence was about to close amidst convulsion and pangs.

I withdrew my gaze from this object, and walked to a table. I was nearly unconscious of my movements. TiTy thoughts were occupied with contemplations of the train of horrors and disasters that pursue the race of man. My musings were quickly internjpted by the sight of a small cabinet the hinges of which were broken and the lid half-raised. In the present state of my thoughts, I wsls prone to suspect the worst. Here were traces of pillage. Some casual or mercenary attendant, had not only contributed to hasten the 4cath of the patient, but had rifled his property and fled.

152 ARTHUR MERVYN.

This suspicion would, perhaps, have yielded to mature reflections, if I had been suffered to reflect. A moment scarcely elapsed, when some appearance in the mirror, which hung over the table, called my attention. It was a human figure, nothing could be briefer than the glance that I fixed upon this apparition, yet there was room enough for the vague conception to suggest itself, that the dying man had started from his bed and was approaching me. Tliis belief was, at the same instant, confuted, by the survey of his form and garb. One eye, a scar upon his cheek a tawny skin, a form grotesquely misproportioned, brawny as Hercules, and habited inlivery, composed, as it were, the parts of one view. To perceive, to fear, and to confront this apparition were blended into one sentiment. I turned towards him with the swiftness of lightning, but my speed was useless to my safety. A blow upon my temple was succeeded by an utter oblivion of thought and of feeling. I sunk upon the floor prostrate and senseless.

My insensibility might be mistaken by observers for death, yet some part of this interval was haunted by a fearful dream. I conceived myself lying on the brink of a pit whose bottom the eye could not reach. My hands and legs were fettered, so as to disable me from resisting two grim and gigantic figures, who stooped to lift me from the earth. Their purpose methoHghc was to cast me into this abyss. My terrors were unspeakable, and I struggled with such force, that my bonds snapt and I found myself at liberty. At this moment my senses returned and 1 opened my eyes.

The memory of recent events was, for a time, effaced by my visionary horrors. I was conscious of transition from one state of being to another, b it my imagination was still filled with images of danger. The bottomless gulf and my gigantic persecutors were still dreaded. I looked up with eagerness. Beside me [discovered three fit.;ures, whose character or ofllce were ex])l lined by ac^flin of pine-boards which lay upon the floor. One ^.tood with hammer and nails in his

ARTHUR MERVYX. 153

hand, as ready to replace and fasten the Ikl of the cofEn, as soon as its burthen should be received.

I attempted to rise from the floor, but my head was dizzy and my sight confused. Perceiving me revive, one of the men, assisted me to regain my feet. The mist and confusion presently vanished, so as to allow me to stand unsupported and to move. I once more gazed at my attendants, and recognized the three men, whom I had met in Highstreet, and whose conversation I have mentioned that I overheard. I looked again upon the cofiin. A wavering recollection of the incidents that led ine hither and of the stunning blow which I had received, occurred to me. I saw into what error, appearances had misled these men, and shuddered to reflect, by what hair-breadth means I had escaped being buried alive.

Before the men had time to interrogate me, or to comment upon my situation, one entered the apartment whose habit and mein tended to incourage me. The stranger was characterised by an aspect full of composure and benignity, a face in which the serious lines of age were blended with the ruddiness and smoothness of youth, and a garb that bespoke that religious profession, with whose benevolent doctrines the example of Hadwin had rendered me familiar.

On observing me on my feet, he betrayed marks of surpr'.se and Satisfaction. He addressed me in a tone of mild

Yo.mg man, said he, what is thy condition? Art thou sick t If tliou art, thou must consent to receive the best treatment which the times will afford. These men will convey thee to the hospital at Bush-Hill.

The mention of that contagious and abhorred receptacle, inspired me with some degree of energy. No, said I, 1 am not sick, a violent blow reduced me to this situation. I shall presently recover strength enough to leave tliij spot, wltiiout assistance.

154 ARTHUR MERVYN.

He looked at me, with an Incredulous but compassionate air : I fear thou dost deceive tliyself or me. The necessity of going to the hospital is much to be regretted, but on the uhole it is best. Perhaps, indeed, thou hast kindred or friends who will take care of thee.

No, said I ; neitlier kindred nor friends. I am a stranger in the city. I do not even know a single being.

Alas! returned the stranger with a sigh, thy state is sorrowful—but how earnest thou hither? continued he, looking around him, and whence comest thou ?

I came from the country. I reached the city, a few hours ago. I was in search of a friend who lived in this house.

Thy undertaking was strangely hazardous and rash : but ■who is the friend thou seekest ? Was it he who died in that bed, and whose corpse has just been removed?

The men now betrayed some impatience ; and inquired of the last comer, whom they called Mr. Estwick, what they were to do. He turned to me, and asked if I were willing 10 be conducted to the hospital ?

I assured him that 1 was free from disease, and stood in no need of assistance ; adding, that my feeblenefs was owing to a stunning blow received from a ruffian on my temple. The marks of this blow were conspicuous, and after some hesitation he dismissed the men; who, lifting the empty coffin on their flioulders, disappeared.

He now invited me to descend into the parlour: for, said he, the air of this room is deadly. I feel already as it 1 should have reason to repent of having entered it.

He now inquired into the cause of those appearances which he had witnessed. I explained my situation as clearly and succinctly as I was able.

After ponderilig, in silence, on my ftory:—I see how it is, said he : the person whom thou sawest in the agonies of death was a stranger. He was attended by his servant and an hired nurse. His master's death being certain, the nurse was dispatched by the servant to procure a coffin. He pro

I

ARTHUR MERVYN. 155

bjibly chose that opportunity to rifle his master's trunk, that stood upon the table. Thy unseasonable entrance interrupted him ; and he designed, by the blow which he gave thee, to secure his retreat before the arrival of an hearse. I knovr the man, and the apparition thou hast so well described, was his. Thou sayest that a friend of thine lived in this house— Thou hast come too late to be of service. The whole family have perished—Not one was suffered to escape.

This intelligence was fatal to my hopes. It required some efforts to subdue my rising emotions. Compassion not only for Wallace, but for Thetford, his father, his wife and his child; caused a passionate effusion of tears. 1 was ashamed of this useless and child-like sensibility; and attempted to apologize to my companion. The sympathy, however, had proved contagious, and the stranger turned away his face to hide his own tears.

Niiy, said he, in answer to my excuses, there is no need to be ashamed of thy emotion. Merely to have known this family, and to have witnessed their deplorable fate, is sufficient to melt the moft obdurate heart. I suspect that thou wast united to some one of this family, by ties of tenderness like those which led the unfortunate Maravegli hither.

This suggestion was attended, in relation to myself, with some degree of obscurity; but my curiosity was somewhat excited by the name that he had mentioned. I inquired into the character and situation of this person, and particularly respecting his connection with this family.

Maravegli, answered he, was the lover of the eldest daughter and already betrothed to her. The whole family, consisting-of helpless females, had placed themselves under his peculiar guardianship. Mary Walpole and her children enjoyed in him an husband and a father.

The name of Walpole, to which I was a stranger, suggested doubts which I hastened to communicate. I am in search, said I, not of a female friend, though not devoid

15^ ARTHUR MERVYN.

of interest in the welfare of Thetford and his family. My

principal concera is for a youth, by name, Wallace.

He looked at me with surprise. Thetford 1 this is not his abode. He changed his habitation some weeks previous to the fever. Those who last dwelt under this roof were an English woman, and seven daughters.

This detection of my error somewhat consoled me. It was still possible that Wallace was alive and in safety. I eagerly inquired whither Thetford had removed, and whether he had any knowledge of his present condition.

They had removed to number , in Market-street.

Concerning their state he knew nothing. His acquaintance with Thetford was imperfect. Whether he had left the city or had remained, he was wholly uninformed.

It became me to ascertain the truth in these respects. I was preparing to offer my parting thanks to the person by whom I had been so highly benefitted; since, as he now informed, it was by his interposition that I was hindered from being inclosed alive in a coffin. He was dubious of my true condition, and peremptorily commanded the followers of the hearse to desist. A delay of twenty minutes, and some medical application, would, he believed, determine whether my life was extinguished or suspended. At the end of this time, happily, my senses were reco^iered.

Seeing my intention to depart he inquired why, and whither I was going? Having heard my answer. Thy design resumed he, is highly indiscrete and rash. Nothing will sooner generate this fever than fatigue and anxiety. Thou hast rxarccly recovered from the blow so lately received. Instead of being useful to others this precipitation will only disable t!)y:iL'If. Instead of roaming the streets and inhaling this unwholesome air, thou hadst better betake thyself to bed and try to obtain some sleep. In the morning, thou wilt be better qualified to a'.icertuln the f:ite of thy friend, and afford J^m the relief wliich he shkll want.

ARTHUR MERVYN. 157

I could not but admit the reasonableness of these remonstrances, but where should a chamber and bed be sought? It was not likely that a new attempt to procure accommodation at the Inns would succeed better than the former.

Thy state, replied he, is sorrowful. I have no house to "which I can lead thee. I divide my chamber and even my bed with another, and my landlady could not be prevailed upon to admit a stranger. What thou wilt do, I know not. This house has no one to defend it. It was purchased and furnished by the last possessor, but the whole family, including mistress children and servants, were cut off in a single week. Perhaps, no one in America can claim the property. Meanwhile plunderers are numerous and active. An house thus totally deserted, and replenished with valuable furniture will, I fear, become their prey. To night, nothing can be done towards rendering it secure, but staying in it. Art thou willing to remain here till the morrow ?

Every bed in the house has probably sustained a dead person. It would not be proper, therefore, to lie in any one of them. Perhaps, thou mayest find some repose upon this carpet. It is, at least, better than the harder pavement, and the open air.

This proposal, after some hesitation, I embraced. He was preparing to leave me, promising, if life were spared to him, to return early in the morning. My curiosity respecting the person whose dying agonies I had witnessed, prompted me to detain him a few minutes.

Ahl said he, this perhaps, is the only one of many victims to this pestilence whose loss the remotest generations may have reason to deplore. He was the only dcsccndent of an illustrious houfe of Venice. He has been devoted from his childhood to the acquisition of knowledge and the practice of virtue. He came hither, as an enlightened observer, and after traversing the country, conversing with all the men in it eminent for their talents or their office; and collecting a fund of observations, whose solidity and justice have scl

158 ARTHUR MERVYN.

dom been paralleled, he embarked, three months ago, for

Europe.

Previously to his departure, he formed a tender connection "with the eldest daughter of this family. The mother and her children had recently arrived from England. So many faultless women, both mentally and personally considered, it was not my fortune to meet with before. This youth well deserved to be adopted into this family. He proposed to return with the utmost expediroii to his native country, and after the settlement of his affairs, to hasten back to America, and ratify his contract with Fanny Walpole.

The ship in which he embarked, had scaixely gone twentyleagues to sea, before she was disabled by a storm, and obliged to return to port. He posted to New-York, to gain a passage in a packet shortly to sail. Meanwhile this malady prevailed among us. Mary Walpole was hindered by her ignorance of the nature of that evil which assailed us, and the counsel of injudicious friends, from taking the due precautions for her safety. She hesitated to fly till flight was rtjulered impracticable. Here death added to the helplssness and distraction of the family. They were successively seized and destroyed *by the same pest.

Maravrgli was apprised of their danger. He allowed the packet to depart without him, and hastened to the rescue of the Walpoles from the perils which encompassed them. He arrived in this city time enough to witness the interment of the last survivor. In the sanie hour lie was seized himself by this disease: the catastrophe is known to thee.

I will now leave thee to thy repose. Sleep is no less needful to myself than to thee: for this is the second night which has past Without it—Saying this, my companion took his leave.

1 now enjoyed leisure to review my situation, I experienced no inclination to sleep. I lay down tor a moment, but my comfortless sensations and restless contemplations would n^ permit me to rest. Before 1 entered this roof, I

ARTHUR MERV\TSr. I5f

I was tormented with hunger, bat my craving had given place to inquietude and loathing. I paced, in thoughtful and anxious mood, across the floor of the apartment. /

I mused upon the incidents related by Estwick, upon the exterminating nature of this pestilence, and on the horrors of which it was productive. I compared the experience of the last hours, with those pictures which my imagination had drawn in the retirements of Ma\'ert?n, I wondered at the contrariety that exists between the scenes cf the city and the country; and festered with more zeal than ever, the resolution to avoid these seats of depravity and danger.

Concerning my own destiny, however, I entertained no doubt. My nev>' sensations assured me that m,y stomach had received this cerosive poison. Whether I should die or live was easily decided. The sickness which assiduous attendence and powerful prescriptions might remove, would, by negligence and soliiude, be rendered fatal: but from whom could I expect medical or friendly treatment?

I had indeed a roof over my head. I should not perish in the public wa\ : bat what was my ground for Japing to continue under this roof? My sickness being suspected, I should be dragged in a cart to the hospital; where should, indeed die ; but not with the consolation of loneliness and silence. Dying groans were the only music, and livid corpses were the only spectacle to which I should there be introduced.

Immured in these dreary meditations, the night passed away. The li ^\\X. glancing through the window awakened in my bosnm a gleam of cheerfuln.^ss. Contrary to my expectations, my feelhi^s were not more d stemj^ered, notwithstanding my want of sleep, than on the 1 *st evening. This was a token that my state was far from being so desperate as I suspected. It was possible, I thought, that this was the worst indisposition to which I was liable.

Meanwhile the coming of Estwick was impatiently expected. The sun arose, and the m.orning advanc^, but he

i6o ARTHUR MERVYN.

came not. I remembered that he talked of having reason to repent his visit to this house. Perhaps, he likewise, was sick, and that this was the cause of his delay. This man's kindness had even my love. If I had known the way to his dwelling, I should have hastened thither, to inquire into his condition, and to perform for him every office that humanity might enjoin, but he had not aiTorded me any information on that head.

[ "^I 1

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER ZVII.

1 T v.-as now incunbent on me to seek the habitation of Thet/or.l. To leave this house accessible to every passcn;^er appeared to be imprudent. I had no key by which I might lock the principal door. I therefore bolted it on the iniide, and passed through a window, the shutters of whlcli 1 closed, though I could not fasten after me. Tliis led me into a spacious court, at the end of which was a brick wall; over which I leap^^d into the strcrt. This was the means by v,^hich I had fonncr'y escaped from the same precincts.

The streets, as I passed, were desolate and silent. I The largest computation made the number of fugitives two-thirds of %ie whole people ; yet, judging by the universal desolation, it seemed, as if the solitude were nearly absolute. That so many of the houses were closed, I was obliged to ascribe to the cessation of traffic, which made the opening of their windows useless, and the terror of infection, which made the inhabitants seclude themselves from the observation of each other.

I proceeded to search .out the house to wliich Estwjck had directed me, as the ubo.le of Thetford. What was my const^rnat'on when I found it to be the same, at the door of which the convers;ition took place, of which i had been an auditor on the kst evening-.

162 ARTHUR MERVYN.

I recalled the scene, of which a rude sketch had been given by the hearse-men. If such were the fate of the master of the family, abounding with money and friends, what could be hoped for the moneyless and friendless Wallace? The house appeared to be vacant and silent; but these tokens might deceive. There was little room for hope; but certainty was wanting, and might, perhaps, be obtained by entering the house. In some of the upper rooms a wretched beingmight be immured; by whom the information, so earnestly desired, might be imparted, and to whom my presence might bring relief; not only from pestilence, but famine. For a moment, I forgot my own necessitous condition ; and reflected not that abstinence had already undermined my strength.

1 proceeded to knock at the door. That my signal was unnoticed, produced no surprize. The door was unlocked, and I opened. At this moment my attention Avas attracted by the opening of another door near me. I looked, and perceived a man issuing forth from an house at a small distance.

It now occurred to me, that the information which I sought might possibly be gained from one of Thetford's neighbours. 7'his person was aged, but seemed to have lost neither cheerfulness nor vigour. He had an air of intrepidity and calmness. It soon appeared that I was the object of his curiosity. He had, probably, marked my deportment through some window of his dwelling, and had come forth to make inquiries into the motives of my conduct.

He courteously saluted me. You seem, said he, to be In search of some one. If I can afford you the information you want, you will be welcome to it.

Encouraged by this address, 1 mentioned the nameof Thetford ; and added my fears that he had not escaped the general calamity.

It IS true, said he. Yesterday himself, his wife, and his child were in an hopeless condition. I saw them in the evening, and expected not to find them alive this morning. As soon ai it was light, however, I visited the house again; but found

ARTHUR MERVYN. 163

it empty. 1 suppose they must have died, and been removed in the night.

Though anxious to ascertain the destiny of Wallace, I was unwilling to put direct questions. shuddered, ^vhile I longed to know the truth.

Why, said I, falteringly, did he not seasonably withdraw from the city ? Surely he had the means of purchasing an asylum in the country.

I can scarcely tell you, he answered. Some infetuation appeared to have seized him. No one was more timorous; but he seemed to think himself safe, as long as he avoided contact with infected persons. He was likewise, I believe, detained by a regard to his interest. His flight would net have been more injurious to his affairs, than it was to those of others; but gain was, in his eyes, the supreme good. He intended ultimately to withdraw ; but his escape to-day, gave him new courage to encounter the perils of to-morrov/. He deferred his departure from day to day, till it ceased to be practicable.

His family, said I, was numerous. It consisted of more than his wife and children. Perhaps these retired in sufncient season.

Yes, said he ; his father left the house at an early psriod. One or two of the servants likewise forsook him. Oiic girl, more faithful and heroic than the rest, resisted the remonstrances of her parents and friends, and resolved to adhere to him in every fortune. She was anxious that tliC family should fly from danger, and would willingly have fled in their company; but while they stayed, it was her immovable resolution not to abandon them.

Alas, poor girl 1 She knew not of what stuff the heart of Thetford was made. Unhappily, she was the first to become sick. I question much whether her disease was pestilential. It was, probably, a slight indisposition; which, in a few days, would have vanished of itself, or Lave reidily yielded to suitable treatment.

i64 ARTHUR MERVYN.

Thetford was transfixed with terror. Instead of summoning a physician, to ascertain the nature of Ijcr symptoms, he called a negro and his cart from Bush-hill. In vain the neighbours interceded for this unhappy victim. In vain she implored his clemency, and asserted the lightness of her indisposition. She besought him to allow her to send to her mother, who resided a few miles in the country, who would hasten to her succour, and relieve h';m and his faniily from the danger and trouble of nursing her.

The man was lunatic with apprehension. He rejected her intreaties, though urged in a manner that would have subduei an heart of iVnt. The girl was innocent, and amiable, and courageous, but enterta'ned an unconquerable dread of the hospital. Finding intreaties ineffectual, she exerted all her strength in opposition to the man who lifted her into the cart.

Finding that her strug^^les availed nothing, she resigned herself to despair. In going to the hospital, she believed herself led to certain d^ath, and to the sulTjrance of every evil which the known inhumanity of its attendents could inflict. This state of mind, added to exposure to a noon-day sun, in an open vehicle ; moving, for a mlh, over a rugged pavement, was sufricient to destroy her. I was not surprised to hear that she died the next day.

Th's proceeding was suiTiciently iniquitous; yet it ^vas not the worst act of this man. The rank and education of the young woman, might be some apology for negligence ; but his clerk, a youth who seemed to enjoy his coniidencc, and to be treated by his family, on the footing of a brotlier or son, fell sick on the next night, and was treated in the same manner.

These tidings struck me to the heart. A burst of indignation and sorrow filled my eves. I could scarcely stifle my emotion sufficiently toask, Of whom, sir, do you speak ? Was the name of the youth—his name—was—

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■ ARTHUR MERVYIC. 165

His name was Wallace. I see that you have some interest in his fate. He was one whom I loved. I would have given half my fortune to procure him accommodation under some hospitable roof. His attack was violent ; but still, his recovery, if he had been suitably attended, was possible. That he should survive removal to the hospital, and the treatment he must receive when there, was not to be hoped.

The conduct of Thetford was as absurd as it was wicV-ed. To imagine this disease to be contagious was the height of folly; to suppose himself secure, merely by not permitting a sick man to remain under his roof, was no less stupid ; but Thetford's fears had subverted his understanding. He did not listen to arguments or supplications. His attention was incapable of straying from one object. To influence him by words was equivalent to reasoning with the deaf.

Perhaps the wretch was more to be pitied than hated. The Victims of his implacable caution, could scarcely have endured agonies greater than those which his pusillanimity inflicted on himself. Whatever be the am.ount of his guilt, the retribution has been adequate. He witnessed the death of his wife and child, and last night was the close of his own existence. Their sole attendent was a black woman; wliom, by frequent visits, I endeavoured, with little success, to make diligent in the performance of her duty.

Such, then, was the catastrophe of Wallace. The end for -which I journeyed hither was accomplished. His destiny was ascertained; and all that remained was to fulfil the gloomy predictions of the lovely, but unhappy Susan. To tell them all the truth, would be needlesly to exasperate her sorrow. Time, aided by the tenderness and sympathy of friendship, may banish her despair, and relieve her from all but the witcheries of melancholy.

Having disengaged my mind from these reflections, I explained to my companion in general terms, my reasons for visiting the city, and my curiosity respecting Thetford. He inquired into the particulars of my joiu-ney and, the time of

J 66 ARTHUR MERVYN.

my arrival. When informed that I had come in the preceding evening, and had passed the subsequent hours without sleep or food, he expressed astonls'iment and compassion.

Your undertaking, said he, has certainly been hazardous. There is poison in every breath which you draw, but this hazard has been greatly increased by abstaining from food and sleep. My advice is to hasten back into the country; but you must first take some repose and some victuals. If you pass Schuylkill before night-fall, it will be sufficient.

I mentioned the dliliculty of procuring accommodation on the road. It would be most prudent to set out upon my journey so as to reach Malvcrton at night. As to food and sleep they were not to be purchased in this city.

True, answered my companion, \vith quickness, they are not to be bought, but I will furnish you with as much as you desire of both for nothing. That is my abode, continued he, pointing to the house, which he had lately left. I reside with a widow lady and her daughter, who took my counsel, and fled in due season. I remain to moralize upon the scene, with only a faithful black, who makes my bed, prepares my coffee, and bakes my loaf. If I am sick, all that a physician can do, I will do for myself, and all that a nurse can perform, I expect to be performed by Austin*

Come with me, drink some coffee, rest a while on my matrass, and then fly, with my benedictions on your head.

These words were accompanied by features disembarrassed and benevolent. My temper is alive to social impulses, and I accepted his invitation, not so much because I wished to eat or to sleep, but because I felt reluctance to part so soon •with a being, who possessed so much fortitude and virtue.

He was surrounded by neatness and plenty. Austin added dexterity to submlsslvencss. My companion, whose name I now found to be Medlicote, was prone to converse, and commented on the state of the city like one whose reading had been extensive and experience large. He combatted an opinion which I had casually formed, respecting the origin

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•f this epidemic, and imputed it, not to infected substances imported from the east or west, but to a morbid constitution of the atmosphere, owing-wholly, or In part to filthy streets, airless habitations and squalid persons.

As I talked with this man, the sense of danger was obliterated, I felt confidence revive in my heart, and energy revisit my stomach. Though far from my wonted health, my sen sation grew less comfortless, and I found myself to stand in no need of repose.

Breakfast being finished, my friend pleaded his daily engagements as reasons for leaving me. He counselled mc to strive for some repose, but I was conscious of incapacity to sleep. I was desirous of escaping, as soon as possible, from this tainted atmosphere and reflected whether any thing remained to be done respecting Wallace.

It now occurred to me that this youth must have left some clothes and papers, and, perhaps, books. The property of these was now vested in the Hadwins. I might deem myself, without presumtlon, their representative or agent. Might I not take some measures for obtaining possession, or at least, for the security of these articles?

The house and its furniture was tenantless and unprotected. It was liable to be ransacked and pillaged by those desperate ruffians, of whom many were said to be hunting for spoil, even at a time like this. If these should overlopk this dwelling, Thetford's unknown successor or heir might appropriate the whole. Numberless accidents might happen to occasion the destruction or embezzlement of what belonged to Wallace, which might be prevented by the conduct which I should now pursue.

Immersed in these perplexities, I remained besvildered and motionless. I was at length roused by some one knocking at the door. Austin obeyed the signal, and instantly returned, leading in—Mr. Hadwinl

I know not whether this unlooked-for interview excited on my part, most grief or sui-prize* The motive of his coming

1^3 ARTHUR MERVYN.

was easily divined. His journey was on two accounts superfluous. He whom he sought was dead. The duty of ascertaining his condition, I had assigned to myself.

I now perceived and deplored the error of which I had been guilty, in concealing my intended journey from my patron. Ignorant of the part I had acted, he had rushed into the jaws of this pest, and endangered a life unspeakably valuable to his children and friends. I should doubtless have obtained his grateful consent to the project which I had conceived; but my wretched policy had led me into this clandestine path. Secrecy may seldom be a crime. A virtuous intention may produce it; but surely it is always erroneous and pernicious. My friend's astonishment at the sight of me, was not inferior to my own. The causes which led to this unexpected interview were mutually explained. To soothe the agonies of his child, he consented to approach the city, and endeavour to procure intelligence of Wallace. When he left his house, he intended to stop in the environs, and hire some emisary, whom an ample reward might tempt to enter the city, and procure the information which was needed.

No one could be prevailed upon to execute so dangerous a service. Averse to return without performing his commission, he concluded to examine for himself. Thetford's removal to this street was known to him ; but, being ignorant of my purpose, he had not mentioned this circumstance to me, durin^- our last conversation.

I was sensible of the danger which Hadwin had incurred by entering the city. Perhaps, my knowledge or the inexpressible importance of his life, to the happiness of his daughters, made me agravate his danger. I knew that the longer he lingered in this tainted air, the hazard was increased. A moment's delay was unnecessary. Neither Wallace nor myself were capable of being benefitted by his presence.

I mentioned the death of his nephew, as a reason for hastening his departure. I urged him in the most vehement terms to remount his horse and to fly ; I tndeavcured to pre

ARTHUR MERVYN. 169

elude all Inquiries respecting myself or Wallace; promising to follow him immediately, and answer all his questions at Malverton, My importunities were inforced by his own fears, and after a moment's hesitation, he rode away.

The emotions produced by this incident, were, in the present critical st»te of my frame, eminently hurtful. My morbid indications suddenly returned. I had reason to ascribe my condition to my visit to ihe chamber of Maravegli, but this, and its consequences, to myself, as well as the journey of Hadwin, were the fruits of my unhappy secrecy.

I had always been accustomed to perform my journeys on foot. This, on ordinary' occasions, was the preferable method, but now I ought to have adopted the easiest and swiftest means. If Hadwin had been acquainted with my purpose he would not only have approved, but would have allowed me tlie use of an horse. These reflections were rendered less pungent by the recollection that my motives were benevolent, and that I had endeavoured the benefit of others by means, which appeared to me most suitable.

Meanwhile, how was I to proceed? What hindered me from pursuing the footsteps of Hadwin with all the expedition which my uneasiness, of brain and stomach would allow? I conceived that to leave any thing undone, witli regard to Wallace, would be absurd. His property might be put under the care of my new friend. But how was it to be distinguished from the property of others? It was, probably, contained in trunks, which was designated by some label or mark. I was unacquainted with his chamber, but, by passing from one to the other, I might finally discover it. Some token, directing my footsteps, might occur, though at present unforeseen.

Actuated by these considerations. I once more entered Thetford's habitation. I regretted that I had not procured the counsel or attendence of my new friend, but some engagements, the nature of which he did not explain, occasioned him to leave me as soon as breakfast was finished.

[ 170 J

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER XVIII.

I WANDERED over this deserted mansion, in a considerable degree, at random. Effluvia of a pestilential nature, assailed me fr®m every corner. In the front room of the s.icond story, I imagined that I discovered vestiges of that catastrophe which the past night had produced. The bed appeared as if some one had recently been dragged from it. The sheets were tinged with yellow, and with that substance which is said to be characteristic of this disease, the gangrenous or black vomit. The floor exhibited similar ttains.

There are many, who will regard my conduct as the last refinement of temerity, or of heroism. Nothing, indeed, more perplexes me than a review of my own conduct. Not, indeed, that death is an object always to be dreaded, or that my motive did not justify my actions; but of all dangers, those allied to pestilence, by being mysterious and unseen, are the most formidable. To disarm them of their terrors, requires the longest ia»niliarity. Nurses and physicians soonest become intrepid or indilFerent; but the rest of mankind recoil from the scene with unconquerable loathing.

I was sust'iined, not by confidence of safety, and a belief of exemption from this malady, or by the influence of habit, •which inures us to all that is detestable or perilous, but by a belief ihat this was as eligible an avenue to death as any other J and that life is a trivial sacrifice in the cause of duty.

ARTHUR MERVYN. 17»

I passed from one roora to the other. A portmanteau, marked with the initials of Wallace's name, at length, attracted my notice. From this circumstance I inferred, that this apartment had been occupied by him. The room wai neatly arranged, and appeared as if no one had lately used it. There were trunks and drawers. That which I have mentioned, was the only one that bore marks of Wallace's ownership. This I lifted in my arm.s with a view to remove it to Medlicote's house.

At that moment, methought I beard a footstep slowly and lingerin^ly ascending the stair. I was disconcerted at this incident. The footstep had in it a ghost-like solemnity and tardiness. This phantom vanished in a moment, and yielded place to more liumble conjectures. A human being approached, whose office and commission were inscrutable. That we were strangers to each other was easily imagined; but how would my appearance, in this remote chamber, and loaded with another's property, be interpreted? Did he enter the house after me, or was he the tenant of some chamber hitherto imvisited; whom my entrance had awakened from his trance and called from his couch ?

In the confusion of my mind, I still held my burthen uplifted. To have placed it on th.e floor, and encountered ths visitant, without this equivocal token about me, was the obvious proceeding. Indeed, time only could dec idc whether these footsteps tended to tliis, or to some otlicr apartment.

My doubts were quickly dispelled. The door opened, and a figure glided in. The portmanteau dropped from my arms, and my heart's-blocd was chilled. Tf an apparition of the dead were possible, and that possibility I could not deny, this was such an appaniion. A hue, yellowish and livid; bones, uncovered with flesh; eyes, ghastly, hollow, woebegone, and fixed in an agony of wonder upon me; and locks, matted and negl'gent, constituted the image which I now bciield. My belief of somewhat preternatural in this

T]2 ARTHUR MERVYN.

appearPiice, was conSrmed by recollection of resemblances between these features and those of one who was dead. In this shape and visage, shadowy and death-like as they v/ere, the lineaments of Vv'allace, of him who had misled my rustic simplicity on my first visit to this city, and whose death I had conceived to be incontestably ascertained, were forcibly recognized.

This recognitiQn, which at first alarmed my superstition, speedily led to more rational inferences. Wallace had been dragi-ed to the hospital. Nothing was less to be suspected than that he would return alive from that hideous receptacle, but this was by no means impossible. The figure that stood before me, had just risen from the bed of sickness, and from the brink of tlie grave. The crisis of his malady had passed, and he was once more entitled to be ranked among the living.

This event, and the consequences which my imagination connected with it, filled me with the liveliest joy. I thought not of his ignorance of the causes of my satisfaction, of the doubts to which the circumstances of our interview would g'.ve birth, respecting the integrity of my purpose. ] forgot the artifices by which I had formerly been betrayed, and the embarrassments which a meeting with the victim of his artifices would excite in him; I thought only of the happiness which his recovery would confer upon his uncle and his cousins.

I advanced towards him with an air of congratulation, and offered him my hand. He shrunk back, and exclaimed in a feeble voice. Who are you? What business have you here?

I am the friend of Wallace, if he will allow me to be so. I am a messenger from your uncle and cousins at Maherton. I came to know the cause of your silence, and to afford you any assistance in my power.

He continued to regard me with an air of suspicion and doubt. These I endeavoured to remove by explaining the motives that led me hither. It was with difficulty that he

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seemed to credit my representations. When thoroughly convinced of the truth of my assertions, he inquired with great anxiety and tenderness concerning his relations; and expressed his hope that they were Ignorant of what had befallen him.

I could not encourage his hopes, I regretted my own precipitation in adopting the belief of his death. This belief, had been uttered with confidence, and without stating my reasons for embracing it, to Mr. Hadwin. These tidings would be borne to his daughters, and their grief would be exasj:)erated to a deplorable, and, perhaps, to a fatal degree.

There was but one m-ethod of repairing or eluding this mischief. Intelligence ought to be conveyed to them of his recovery. But where was the messenger to be found? No one's attention could be found disengaged from his own concerns. Those who were able or willing to leave the city had sufficient motives for departure, in relation to themselves. If vehicle or horse were procurable for money, ought it not to be secured for the use of Wallace himiSelf, whose health required the easiest and £peeditst ccnveyar.ce from this theatre of death?

My companion was powerless in mind as In limibs. He seemed unable to consult upon the means of escaping from the inconveniences by which he was surrounded. As soon as sufficient strength was regained, he had left the hospital. To repair to 3Ialverton was the measure wliich prudence obviously dictated; but lie was hopeless of effi;cting it. The city was close at hand; this was his usual home; and hither his tottering, and almost involuntary steps had conducted him.

He listened to my representations and councils, and acknowledged their propriety. He put himself under my protection and guidance, and prom'sed to confirm implicitly to my directions. His strength had sufficed tp bring him thus far, but was now utterly exhausted. The task of searching , for a carriage and horse devolved upon me.

174 ARTHUR MERVYN.

In cfFecting this purpose, I was obliged to rely upon my own ingenuity and diligence. Wallace, though so long a resident in the city, knew not to whom I could apply, or by ■whom carriages were let to hire. My own reflections taught me, that this accommodation was most likely to he furnished by innkeepers, or that some of tliose might at least inform me of the best measures to be taken. I resolved to set out immediately on tiiis search. Meanwhile, Wallace was persuaded to take refuge in Medlicote's apartments; and to make, by the assistance of Austin, the necessary preparation for his journey.

The morning had now advanced. The rays of a sultry sun had a sickening and enfeebling influence, beyond any which I had ever experienced. The drought of unusual duration had bereft the air and the earth of every particle of moisture. The element which I breathed appeared to have stagnated into noxiousness and putrifaction. I was astonished at observing the enormous diminution of my strength. My brows were heavy, my intellects benumbed, my sinews enfeebled, and my sensations universally unquiet.

These prognostics were easily interpreted. What I chiefly dreaded was, that they would disable me from executing the task which 1 had undertaken. I summoned up all my resolution, and cherished a disdain of yielding to this ignoble destiny. I reflected that the source of all energy, and even of life, is seated in thought; that nothing is arduous to human efforts; that the external frame will seldom languish, while actuated by an unconquerable soul.

1 fought against mydreary feelings, which pulled me to the earth. I quickened my pace, raised my drooping eye-lids, and hummed a cheerful and favourite air. For all that I accomplished during this day, I believe myself indebted to the ttrenuousness and ardour of my resolutions.

I went from one tavern to another. One was deserted; in another the people were sick, and their attendents refused to hearken to my inquiries or offers; at a third, their horses

ARTHUR MERVYN. • 175

Tvere engaged. I was determined to prosecute my search as long as an inn or a livery-stable remained unexamined, and my strength would permit.

To detail the events of this expedition, the argmnents and supplications which 1 used to overcome the dictates of avarice and fear, the fluctuation of my hopes and my incessant disappointments, would be useless. Having exhausted all my expedients ineflfectually, I was compelled to turn my weary steps once more to Medlicote's lodgings.

My meditations were deeply engaged by the present circumstances of my situation. Since the means which were first suggested, were impracticable, I endeavoured to investigate others. Wallace's debility made it impossible for him to perform this journey on foot: but would not his strength and his resolution suffice to carry him beyond Schuylkill? A carriage or horse, though not to be obtained in the city, could, without difficulty, be procured, in the country. Every farmer had beasts for burthen and draught. One of these might be hired at no immoderate expense, for half a day.

This project appeared so practicable and so specious, that 1 deeply regretted the time and the effisrts which had already been so fruitlessly expended. If my project, however, had been mischievous, to review it with regret, was only to prolong and to multiply its mischiefs. I trusted that time and strength would not be wanting to the execution of this new design.

On entering Medlicote's house, my looks, which, in spite of my languors, were sprightly and confident, flattered Wallace with the belief that my exertions had succeeded. When acquainted with their failure, he sunk as quickly into hopelessness. My new expedient was heard by him with no marks of satisfaction. It was impossible, he said, to move from this spot by his own strength. All his powers were exhausted by his walk from Bush-hill.

i7'5 ARTHUR MERVYN.

I endeavoured, by arguments and railler'es, to revive hii courage. The pure a;r of the countiy would exhillrate him into new life. He might stop at every fifty yards, and rest upon the green sod. If overtaken by the night, we would procure a lodging, by address and importunity ; but if every door should be shut against us, we should at least, enjoy the shelter of some barn, and might diet wholsomely upon the new-laid eggs that we should find there. The worst treatment we could meet with, was better than continuance in the city.

These remonstrances had some influence, and he at length consented to pat his ability to the test. First, however, .it was necessary to invigorate liimself by a few hours rest. To this, though with infinite reluctance, I consented.

This interval allowed him to reflect upon the past, and to inquire into the fate of Thetford and his family. The intelligence, which Medlicote had enabled me to afford him, w^as heard with more satisfaction than regret. The ingratitude and cruelty with which he had been treated, seemed to have extinguished every sentiment, but hatred and vengeance. I v/as willing to profit by this interval to know more of Thetford, than I already possessed. I inquired why Wallace, had so perversely neglected the advice of his uncle and cousin, and persisted to brave so many dangers when flight was so easy.

I cannot justify my conduct, answered he. It was in the highest degree, thoughtless and perverse. I was confident and unconcerned as long as our neighbourhood was free from disease, and as long as I forbore any communication with the sick; yet I should have withdrawn to Malverton, merely to gr.itify my friends, if Thetford had not used the most powerful arguments to detain me. He laboured to extenuate the danger.

Why not stay, sa".d he, as long as I and my family stay ? Do you think that we would linger here, if the danger were imminent. Ai soon as it becomes so, we will fly. You

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know that we have a country-house prepared for our reception. When we go, you shall accompany us. Your services at this time are indispensable to my affairs. If you will not desert me, your salary next year shall be double ; and that will enable you to marry your cousin immediately. Nothing is i-nore improbable than that any of us should be sick, but if this should happen to you, I plight my honour that you shall be carefully and faithfully attended.

These assurances were solemn and generous. To make Susan Hadwln my wife, was the scope of all my wishes and labours. By staying I should hasten this desirable event, and incur little hazard. By going, I should alienate the affections of Thetford; by whom, it is but justice to acknowledge, that I had hitherto been treated with unexampled generosity and kindness ; and blast all the schemes 1 had formed for rising into wealth.

My resolution was by no means stedfast. As often as a letter from Maherton arrived, I felt myself disposed to hasten away, but this inclination was combated by new arguments and new intreaties of Thetford.

In this state of suspense, the girl by whom Mrs. Thetford's infant was nursed, fell sick. She was an excellent creature, and merited better treatment than she received. Like me, she resisted the persuasions of her friends, but her motives for remaining were disinterested and heroic.

No sooner did her indisposition appear, than she was hurried to the hospital. I saw that no reliance could be placed upon the assurances of Thetford. Every consideration gave way to his fear of death. After the girl's departure, though be knew that she was led by his means to execution,—yet he consoled himself with repeating and believing her assertions, that her disease was not the fever,

I was now greatly alarmed for my own safety. I was determined to encounter his anger and repel his persuasions J^and to depart with the market-man, next morning. That night, however, I was seized with a violent fever. 1 knew

178 ARTHUR :\IERVYN.

in what manner patients were treated at the hospital, and

removal tliither was to the last degree abhorred.

The morning arrived, and my situation was discovered. At the first intimation, Thetford rushed out of the house, and refused to re-enter it till I was removed. I knew not my fate, till three ruffians made their appearance at my bed-side, and communicated their commission.

I called on the name of Thetford and his wife. I intreated a moment's delay, till I had seen these persons, and endeavoured to procure a respite from my sentence. They were deaf to my intreatics, and prepared to execute their office by force. I was delirious with rage and with terror. I heaped the bitterest execrations on my murderer ; and by turns, invoked the compassion, and poured a torrent of reproaches on, the wretches whom he had selected for his ministers. My struggles and outcries were vain.

I have no perfect recollection of what pafTed till my arrival at the hospital. My passions, combined with my disease, to make me frantic and wild. In a state like mine, the slightest motion could not be indured without agony. What then must I have felt, scorched and dazled by the sun, sustained by hard boards, and borne for miles over a rugged pavement ?

I cannot make you comprehend the anguish of my feelings. To be disjointed and torn piecemeal by the rack, was a torment inexpressibly infirrior to this. Nothing excites my wonder, but that I did not expire before the cart had moved three pac^^s.

I knew not how, or by whom 1 was moved from this vehicle. Insensibility came at length to my relief. After a time I opened my eyes, and slowly gained some knowledge of my situation. I lay upon a mattress, whose condition proved that ai half-decayed corpse had recently been dragged from it. The room was large, but it was covered witb bedi like my own. B;itween each, there was scarcely the

ARTHUR MERVYN. 17^

interval of three feet. Each sustained a wretch, whose groan* and distortions, bespoke the desperateness of his condition.

The atmosphere was loaded by mortal stenches. A vapour, suffocating and malignant, scarcely allowed me to breathe. No suitable receptacle was provided for the evacuations produced by medicine or disease. My nearest neighbour was struggling with death, and my bed, casually ^ extended, was moist with the detestable matter which had flowed from hii stomach.

You w^ill scarcely believe that, in this scene of horrors, the sound of laughter should be overheard. Vv^'hile the upper rooms of this building, are filled with the sick and the dying, the lower apartments are the seen-? of carrousals and mirth. The wretches who are hired, at enormous wages, to tend the sick and convey away the dead, neglect their duty a;id consume the cordials, which are provided for the patients, in debauchery and riot.

A female visage, bloated with malignity and drunkenness, occasionally looked inJ Dying eyes were cast upon her, invoking the boon, perhaps, of a drop of cold water, or her assistance to change a posture which compelled him to behold the ghastly writhings or deathful smile of his neighbour.

The visitant had left the banquet for a moment, only to see who was dead. If she entered the room, blinking eyes and reeling steps, shewed her to be totally unqualified for ministering the aid that was needed. Presently, she disappeared and others ascended the staircase, a coffin was depoeited at the door, the wretch, v/hose heart still quivered, •was seized by rude hands, and dragged along the floor into the passage.

O! how poor are the conceptions which are formed, by the fortunate few, of the sufferings to which millions of their fellow beings are condemned. This misery was more frightful, because it was seen to flow from the depravity of the attendents. My own eyes only would make me credit the cxistance of wickedness so enormous. No woiader that to

I So ARTHUR MERVYN.

die in garrets and celhrs and stublesaiiivisited and imknovm,

had, by so many, been preferred to bein^- brought hither.

A physician cast an eye upon my state. He gave some directions to the person who attended him. I did not comprehend them, they were never executed by the nurses, and if the attempt had been made, I should probably have refused to rceive what was offered. Recovery was equally beyond my expectations and my wishes. The scene Avhich was hourly displayed before me, the entrance of the sick, most of whom perished in a few hours, and their departure to the grares prepared for them, reminded me of the fate to which I, also, was reserved.

Three dars passed away, in which every hour was expected to be the last. That, amidst an atmosphere so contagious and deadly, amidst causes of distruction hourly accumulating, I should yet survive, appears to me nothing less than miracur lous. That of so many conducted to this house, the only one who passed out of it alive, should be myself^, almost surpasses my belief.

Some inexplicable principle rendered harmless those potent enemies of human life. My fever subsided and vanished. My strength was revived, and the first use that I made of my limbs, was to bear me far from the contemplation and sufferance of those evils.

[ ^8i ]

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER XIX.

JTlAVING gratified my curiosity in this respect, Wallace proceeded to remind me of the circumstances of our first interview. He had entertained doubts whether I was the person, whom he had met at Lesher's. I acknowledged myself to be the same, and inquired, in my turn, into the motives of his conduct on that occasion.

I confess, said he, with some hesitation, I meant only to sport with your simplicity and ignorance. You must not imagine, however, that my stratagem was deep-laid and deliberately executed. My professions at the tavern were sincere. I meant not to injure but to serve you. It was not till I reached the head of the staircase, that the mischievous contrivance occurred. I foresaw nothing, at the moment, but ludicrous mistakes and embarrassment. The scheme was executed almost at the very moment it occurred.

After I had returned to the parlour. Thetford charged me with the deliveiy of a message in a distant quarter of the city. It was not till I had performed this commission, and had set ojt on my return, that I fully revolved the consequences likely to flow from my project.

That Thetford and his wife would detect you in their bed-chamber was unquestionable. Perhaps, weary of my long delay, you would have fairly undressed and gone to bed. The married couple would have* made preparat»on to follow you, and when the curtain was undrawn, would discover a R

i82 ARTHUR MERVYN.

robust youth, fast asleep, In their place. These Images, which had just before excited my laughter, now produced a very different emotion. I dreaded some fatal catastrophe from the fiery passions of Thetford. In the first transports of his fury he might pistol you, or, at least, might command you to be dragged to prison.

I now heartlily repented of my jest and hastened home that I might prevent, as far as possible, the evil effects that might flow from it. The acknowledgment of my own agency in this affair, would at least, transfer Thetford's indignation to myself to whom it was equitably due.

The married couple had retired to their chamber, and no alarm or confusion had follov/ed. This was an inexplicable circumstance. I waited with impatience till the morning should furn'sh a solution of the difficulty. The morning arrived. A strange event, had, indeed, taken place in their bed-chamber. They found an infant asleep in their bed. Thetford had been roused twice in the night, once by a noise in the closet and, afterwards, by a noise at the door.

Some connection between these sounds and the foundling, was naturally suspected. In the morning the closet was exajTjined, and a coarse pair of shoes was found on the floor. The chamber door, which Thetford had locked in the evening, was discovered to be open, as likewise a window in the kitchen.

These appearances were a source of wonder and doubt to others, but were perfectly intelligible to me. I rejoiced that my stratagem had no more dangerous consequence, and admired the ingenuity and perseverance with which you had extricated yourself from so critical a state.

This narrative was only the verification of my own guesses. Its facts were quickly supplanted in my thoughts by the disastrous picture he had drawn of the state of the hospital. I was confounded and shocked by the magnitude of this evil. The cause of it was obvious. The wretches Avhom money could purchase, were of course, licentious and unprincipled,

ARTHUR MERVYN. 183

superintended and controlled they might be useful instruments, but that superintendence could not be bought.

What qualities were requisite in the governor of such an institution? He must have zeal, diligence and perseverance. He must act from lofty and pure motives. He must be mild and firm, intrepid and compliant. One perfectlyqualified for the office it is desirable, but not possible, to find. A dispassionate and honest zeal in the cause of duty and humanity, may be of eminent utility. Am I not endo^ved with this zeal? Cannot my feeble efforts obviate some portion of this evil?

No one has hitherto claimed this disgustful and perillous situation. My powers and discernment are small, but if they be honestly exerted they cannot fail to be somewhat beneficial.

The impulse, produced by these reflections, was to hasten to the City-hall, and make known my wilbes. This impulse was controlled by recoUect'ons of my own indisposition, and of the ftate of Wallace. To deliver this youth to his friends was the strongest obligation. When this was discharged, I might return to the city, and acquit myself of more comprehensive duties.

Wallace had now enjoyed a few hours rest, and was persuaded to begin tlie journey. It was now noon-day, and the sun darted insupportable rays. Wallace was more sensible than I of their unwholesome influence. We had not reached the suburbs, when his strength was wholly exhausted, and had'I not supported him, he would have sunk upon the pavement.

;My limbs were scnrcely less weak, but my resolutions were much more ilrenuous than lils, I made light of his indisposition, and endeavoured to persuade him that his vigour would return in proportion to his distance from the city. The moment we should reach a shade, a short respite would restore us to health and cheerfulness.

i84 ARTHUR MERVYN.

Nothing could revive his courage or induce him to go on. To return or to proceed was equally impracticable. But, should he be able to return, where should he find a retreat 1 The danger of relapse ayhs imminent: his own chamber at Thetford's was unoccupied. If he could regain this house, might I not procure him a physician and perform for him the part of nurse.

His present situation was critical and mournful. To remain in the street, exposed to the malignant fervours of the sun, was not to be endured. To carry him in my arms, exceeded jny strength. Should I not claim the assistance of the first passenger that appeared?

At that moment a horse and chaise passed us. The vehicle proceeded at a quick pace. He that rode in it might afford us the succour that we needed. He might be persuaded to deviate from his course and convey the helpless Wallace to the house we had just left.

This thought instantly impelled me forward. Feeble as 1 was, I even ran with speed. In order to overtake the vehicle. My purpose was effected with the utmoft difficulty. It fortun'ately happened that the carriage contained but one person, ■who stopped at my request. His countenance and guise was niild ZZ^ encouraging.

Good friend, ! c::iClaimed. here is a youn,^ ?:.2i\ too indisposed to walk. 1 want him carried to his lodgings. Will you, for money or for charity, allow him a place in your chaise, and set him down where I shall direct? Observing tokens of hesitation, 1 continued, you need have no fears to perform this office. He is not sick, but merely feeble. I will not ask twenty minutes, and you may ask what reward you think proper.

Still he hesitated to comply. His business, he said, had

not led him into the city. He merely passed along the fkirts of

it, whence he conceived that no danger would arise. He was

desirous of helping the unfortunate, but he could not think

of riscj^ucing his own life, in the cause of a stranger, when

ARTHUR MERVVN. 185

he had a wife and children depending on his existence and exertions, for bread. It gave him pain to refuse, but he thought his duty to himself and to others required that he should not hazard his safety by compliance.

This plea was irrisistable. The mildness of his maanfr shewed, that he might have been overpowered by persuasion or tempted by reward. I would not take advantage of his tractability; but should have declined his assistance, even if it had been spontaneously offered. I turned away from him in Silence, and prepared to return to the spot where I had left my friend. The man prepared to resume his way.

In this perplexity, the thought occured to me, that, since this person was going into the country, he might, possibly, consent to carry Wallace along with him. I confided greatly in the salutary influence of rural airs. I believed that debility constituted the whole of his complaint; that continuance in the city might occasion his relapse, or, at least, procrastinate his restoration.

I once more addressed myself to the traveller, and inquired in what direction, and how far he was going. To my unspeakable satisfaction, his answer informed me, that his home lay beyond Mr. Hadwin's, and that his road carried him directly past that gentleman's door. He was wiUing to receive Wallace into his chaise, and to leave him at his uncle's.

This joyous and auspicious occurrence surpassed my fondest hopes. I hurried with the pleasing tidings to Wallace, who eagerly consented to enter the carriage. I thought not at the moment of myself, or how far the same means of escaping from my danger might be used. The stranger could not be anxious on my account; and Wallace's dejection and weakness may apologize for his not soliciting my company, or expressing his fears for my safety. lie was no sooner seated, than the traveller hurried away. I gazed after them, motionless and mute, till the carriage turning a corner, passed beyond my sight.

R 2

186 ARTHUR MERVYN.

I had now leisure to revert to my own condition, and to ruminate on that series of abrupt and diversified events that had happened, during the few hours which had been passed in the city: the end of my coming' was thus speedily and satisfactorily accomplished. Aly hopes and fears had rapidly fluctuated; but, respecting this young man, had now subsided into calm and propitious certainty. Before the decline of the sun, he would enter his paternal roof, and diffuse ineffable joy throughout that peaceful and chaste asylum.

This contemplation, though rapturous and soothing speedily gave way to reflections on the conduct which m.y duty required, and the safe departure of Wallace, afforded me liberty to pursue. To offer myself as a superintendent of the hospital was still my purpose. The languors of my frame might terminate in sickness, but this event it was-useless to anticipate. The lofty scite and pure airs of Bush-hill might tend to dissipate my languors and restore me to health. At least, wiiile I had power, I was bound to exert it to the wisest purpofes. I refolved to feek the City-hall immediately, and, for that end, crossed the intermediate fields which separated Sassafras from Chesnut-street.

More urgent considerations had diverted my attention from the money which I bore about me, and from the image of the desolate lady to whom it belonged. My intentions, with regard to her, were the same as ever; but now it occurred to me, with new force, that my death might preclude an interview between us, and that it was prudent to dispose, in some useful way, of the money which would otherwise be left to the sport of chance.

The evils which had befallen this city were obvious and cnorninu!--. Hunger and negligence had exasperated the malignity and facilitated the progress of the pestilence. Could this money be more usefully employed than in alleviating these evils? During my life, I had no power over it, but my death would justify mc in prescribing the course which it siiould take.

ARTHUR M£RVYN. 187

How was this course to be pointed out? How might I place it, so that I should effect ruy intentions without relinquishing the possession during roy life.

These thoughts were superseded by a tide of new sensations. The weight that incommoded my brows an I my stomach was suddenly increased. My brain was usurped by some benumbing power, and my limbs refused to support me. My pulsations were quickened, and the prevalence of fever could no lonjer be doubted.

Till now, 1 had entertained a faint hope, that my indisposition would vanish of itsilf. This hope was at an end. The grave was before me, and my projects of curiosity or benevolence were to sink into oblivion. I was not bereaved of the powers of reflection. The consequences of lying in the road, friendless and unproteCied, were sure. The first passenger would notice me, and hasten to summon one of those carnages which are busy night and day, in transporting its victims to the hospital.

This fate was, beyond all others, abhorrent to my imagination. To hide me under some roof, where my existence would be unknown and unsuspected, and where I might perish unmolested and in quiet, was my present wish. Thetford's or Medlicote's might afford me such an asylum, if it were possible to reach it.

I made the most strenuous exertions; but they could not carry me forward more than an hundred paces. Here I rested on steps, which, on looking up, I perceived to belong to Welbeck's house.

This incident was unexpected. It led my reflections into a new train. To go farther, in the present condition of my frame, was impossible. I was well acquimted with th's dweUing. All its avenues were closed. Whether it had remained unoccupied since my flight from it, I could net decide. It was evident that, at present, it was without inhabitants. Possibly it might have continued in the same condition in which Welbeck had left it. Beds or sofas might

188 ARTHUR MERVYN.

be found, on which a sick man might rest, and be fearless

of intrusion.

This inference was quickly overturned by the obvious supposition, that every avenue "vas bolted and locked. This, however, might not be the condition of the bath-house, in which there was nothing that required to be guarded with unusual precautions. I was suffocated by inward, and scorched by external heat; and the relief of bathing and drinking, appeared inestimable.

The value of this prize, in addition to my desire to avoid the observation of passengers, made me exert all my remnant of strength. Repeated efforts at length enabled me to mount the wall; and placed me, as I imagined, in security. I swallowed large draughts of water as soon as I could reach the well.

The effect was, for a time, salutary and delicious. My fervours were abated, and my faculties relieved from the weight which had lately oppressed them. My present condition was unspeakably more advantageous than the former. I did not believe that it could be improved, till, cast'ng my eye vaguelyover the building, I happened to observe the shutters of a lower window partly opened.

Whether this was occasioned by design or by accident there was no means of deciding. Perhaps, in the precipitation of the latest possessor, this window had been overlooked. Perhaps it had been unclosed by violence, and afforded entrance to a robber. By what means soever it had happened, it undoubtedly afforded ingress to me. I felt no scruple in profiting by this circunistv.nce. My purposes were not dishonest. 1 should not injure or purloin any thing. It was laudable to feek a refuge from the well-meant perfecutionsof thofe who governed the city. All I sought was the privilege of dying alone.

Havinggotten in at thi window. I could not but remark that the furniture and its arrangements had undergone no alteration in my abfcnce. I moved softly from one apartment to

ARTHUR MERVVN. j8f

another, till at length I entered, that which had formerly been Welbeck's bed-chamber.

The bed was naked of covering. The cabinets and closets exhibited their fastenings broken. I'heir contents were gone. Whether these appearances had been produced by midnight robbers or by the ministers of law, and the rage of the creditors of Welbeck, was a topic of fruitless conjecture.

My design was now effected. This chamber should be the scene of my disease and my refuge from the charitable cruelty of my neighbours. My new sensations, conjured up thf hope that my indisposition might prove a temporary evil. Instead of pestilential or malignant fever it might be an harmless intermittent. Time would ascertain its true nature, meanwhile I would turn the carpet into a coverlet, supplying my pitcher with water, and administered without sparing, and without fear, that remedy which was placed within my reach.

[ 19° 1

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER XX.

1 LAID myself on the bed and wrapped my limbs in the folds of the caq-»et. My thoughts were restless and perturbed. I was once more busy in reflecting on the conduct which I ought to pursue, with regard to the bank-bills, I weighed with scrupulous attention, every circumstance that might influence my decision. I couU not conceive any more beneficial application of this property, than to the service of the indigent, at this season of multiplied distress, but I considered that if ray death were unknown, the house would not be opened or examined till the pestilence had ceased, and the benefits of this application would thus be partly or wholly precluded.

This season of disease, however, -would give place to a season of scarcity. The number and wants of the poor, during the ensuing winter, would be deplorably iiggravated. What multltudts might be rescued from famine and nakedness by the judicious application of this sum?

But how should I secure this application? To inclose the bills in a letter, directed to some eminent citizen or public officer, was the obvious proceeding. Both of these conditions were fulfilled in the person of the present chief magistrate. To him, therefore, the packet was to be sent.

Paper and the implements of writing were necessary for this end. Would they be found, I asked, in the upper room ? If that apartment, like the rest which I had seen, and its

ARTHUR MERVYN. 191

furniture had remained uniouched, my task would be practicable, but if the means of writing were not to be immediately procured, my purpose, momentous and dear as it was, must be relinquished.

The truth, in this respect, was easily, and ought immediately to be ascertained. I rose from the bed which I had lately taken, and proceeded to the study. The entries and staircases were illuminated by a pretty strong twilight. The rooms, in consequence of every ray being excluded by the closed shutters, were nearly as dark as if it had been midnight. The rooms into which I had already passed, were locked, but its key was in each lock. I flattered myself that the entrance into the study would be found in the same condition. The door was shut but no key was to be seen. My hopes were considerably damped by this appearance, but I conceived it to be still possible to enter, since, by chance or by design, the door might be unlocked.

My fingers touched the lock, when a sound was heard as if a bolt, appending to the door on the inside, had been drawn. I was startled by this incident. It betokened that the room was already occupied by some otlier, who desired to exclude a vs. tor. The unbarred shutter below was remembered, and associated itself with this circumstance. That this house should be entered by the same avenue, at the same time, and this room should be sought, by two persons was a mysterious concurrence.

I began to question whether I had heard distinctly. Numberless inexplicable noises are apt to assail the ear in an empty dwelling. The very echoes of our steps are unwonted and new. This perhaps was some such sound. Resuming courage, I once more applied to the lock. The door, in spite of my repeated efforts, would not open.

My design was too momentous to be readily relinquished. My curiosity and my fears likewise were awakened. The marks of violence, which I had fcen on the closets and cabi

ipi ARTHUR MERVYN.

nets below, seemed to Indicate the presence of plunderers.

Here was one who laboured for seclusion and concealment.

The pillage was not made upon my property. My weakness would disable me from encountering or mastering a man of violence. To solicit admission into this room would be useless. To attempt to force my way would be absurd. These reflections prompted me to withdraw from the door, but the uncertainty of the conclusions I had drawn, and the importance of gaining access to this apartment, combined to check ray steps.

Perplexed as to the means I should employ, I once more tried the lock. This attempt was fruitless as the former. Though hopeless of any information to be gained by that means, 1 put my eye to the key-hole. I discovered a light different from what was usually met with at this hour. It was not the twilight wliich the sun, imperfectly excluded, produces, but gleams, as from a lamp; yet gleams were fainter and obscurer than a lamp generally imparts.

Was this a confirmation of my first conjecture ? Lamp-light at noon-day, in a mansion thus deserted, and in a room which had been the scene of memorable and disastrous events, was ominous. Hitherto no direct proof had been given of the presence of an huinan being. How to ascertain his presence, or whether it were eligible by any means, to ascertain it, were points on which I had not deliberated.

I had no power to deliberate. My curiosity, impelled me to call—." Is there any one within? Speak."

These words were scarcely uttered, when some one exclaimed, in a voice, vehement but half-smothered—Good God!—

A deep pause succeeded. I waited for an answer: for somewhat to which this emphatic invocation might be a prelude. Whether the tones were expressive of surprise or pain, or grief, was, for a moment dubious. Perhaps the motives which led me to this house, suggested the suspicion, ■which, presently succeeded to my doubts, that the person

ARTHUR MKRYY'S. 193

Avithin was clis'ibled by sickncs?. The circuirstances of my own condition took away the Impro"^ability from this belief. Why might not another be induced like me to hide himself in this desolate retreat ? might not a servant, left to take car>? of tiie house, a measure usually adoptv-id by the opulent at this time, be seized by the reigning malady ? Incapacitated for exert'on, or fearing to be dragged to the hospital, he has fliut himsslf in this apartment. The robber, it maybe, who came to pillage, was overtaken and detained by disease. In either case, detection or intrusion would be hateful, and Yiouid be assiduously eluded.

These thoughts had no tendency to vveaken or divert my efforts to obtain access to this room. The person was a brother in calamity, whom it was my duty to succour and cherish to the utmost of my power. Once more I spoke :— Who is within ? I beseech you answer me. ^Vhatever you be, I desire to do you good and not injury. Open the door and let me know your condition. I will try to be of use to you.

I was answered by a deep groan, and by a sob counteracted and devoured as it were by a mighty effort. This token of distress th.riiled to m.y heart. My terrors wholly disappeared, and gave place to unlimited compassion. I again intreated to be admitted, promising all the succour or consolation which my situation allowed me to afford.

Answers were made in tones of anger and Impatience, blended with those of grief—I want no succour—vex me not with your entreaties ^nd offers. Fly from this spot: Linger not a moment lest you participate my destiny and rush upon your death.

These, I considered merely as the effusions of delirium, or the dictates of despair. Tlve style and articulation denoted the speaker to be superior to the class of servants. Hence my anxiety to see and to aid lilm was increased. My remonstrances were sternly and pertinaciously repelled. For a time, incoherent and impassioned e:^iamations flowed

194 ARTHUR MERVYN.

from him. At length, I was only permitted to hear, strong aspirations and sobs, more eloquent and more indicative of grief than any language.

This deportment filled me with no less wonder than commiseration. By what views this person was led hither, by what motives induced to deny himself to my intreaties, was ■wholly incomprehensible. Again, though hopeless of success, I repeated my request to be admitted.

My perseverance seemed now to have exhausted all his patience, and he exclaimed, in a voice of thunder—Arthur Merv^Mi ! Begone. Linger but a moment and my rage, tyger-like, will rush upon you and rend you limb from limb.

This address petrified me. The voice that uttered this sanguinary menace, was strange to my ears. It suggested no suspicion of ever having heard it before. Yet my accents had betrayed me to him. He was familiar with my name. Notwithstanding the improbability of my entrance into this dwelling, I was clearly recognized and unhesitatingly named 1

My curiosity and compassion were in no wise diminished, but I found myself compelled to give up my purpose—I withdrew reluctantly from the door, and once more threw myself upon my bed. Nothing was more necessary in the present condition of my frame, than fleep; and sleep liad, perhaps, been possible, if tlie scene around me had been less preg nant with causes of wonder and panic.

Once more I tasked my memory in order to discover, in the persons with whom I had hitherto conversed, some resemblance in voice or tones, to him whom I had just heard. This process was effectual. Gradually my imagination called up an image, which now, that it was clearly seen, I was astonished had not instantly occurred. Three years ago, a man, by name Colvill, came on foot, and with a kn'^psack on his back, into the district where my father resided. lie had learning and genius, and reridlly obtained tiie station fof

ARTHUR MERVYN. 195

which only he deemed himself quali&ed; that of a schoolmaster.

His demeanour was gentle and modest; his habits, as to sleep, food, and exercise, abstemious and regular. Meditation in the forest, or reading* in his closet, seemed to constitute, together with attention to his scliolars, his s-^le amusement and employment. He estranged iiimself from company, not because society afforded no pleasure, but because studious seclusion afforded him chief satisfaction.

No one was m.ore idolized by his unsuspecting neighbours. H's scholars rcivered him as a father, and made under his tuition a remarkable proficiency. His character seemed open to boundless inspection, and his conduct was pronounced by all to be faultless.

At the end of a year the scene was changed. A daughter of one of his patrons, young, artless and beautiful, appeared to have fallen a prey to the arts of some detectable seducer. The betrayer was gradually detected, and successive discoveries shewed that the same artifices had been practised, with the same success upon many others. Coivill was the arch-villain. He retired from the storm of vengeance that was gathering over him, and had not been heard of since that period.

I saw him rarely, and for a s'-.ort time, and I was a mere boy. Hence, the fai'mre to recollect his voice, and to perceive that the voice of him, immured in the room above, was the same with that of Colvill. Thouj^h I had (lipht reasons for recognizing his features, or accents, I had abundant cause t© think of him with detestation, and pursue him with implacable revenge, for the victim of his acts, she whose ruin was first detected, was—niy sister,

This unhappy girl, escaped from the upbraidings of her parents, from the contumelies of the world, from the goadings of remorse, and the anguish tiowing from the perfidy and desertion of Colvill, in a voluntaiy death. She was innocent and lovdv. Previous to this evil, my soul was

196 ARTHUR MF.RVYN.

linked with hcr's by a thousand resemblances and syn^^p^ithles, as well as by perpetual intercourse tVcii-i infancy, and by tlie fraternal relation. She was my sister, uvf preceptress and friend, but she died—her end v;:is violent, untimely, and criminal 1—-1 cannot think of her witiioiii hearl-burs'ing' grief, of her destroyer, without h rancour which i i^now to be wronj, but which I cannot subdue.

When the ima^e of ColviU rushed, upon this occasion, on 111) thought, I uiuiost started on my fcit. To iuect him, after so long a separation, here, and in thcs." c.rcu.ristances, was so U!ilooked-ior and abrupt an event, and revivcvi a tribe of such hateful impulfcs and a^^ouizin^- recollections, tli..t a total revolution sie.nedto have been ellected in my fr.-i iie. li.s recognition of n.y ptr-^on, h.is aversion to be si.en, his ejaculation of terror and surprii-e on first hearing n;y voice, all contributed 10 strengthen my belief.

Plow was I to act f My feeble frame could but illy second my vengeful purposes ; but vengeance, though it sometimes occupied my thoughts, was hindered by my reason, from leading me in any instance, to outrage or even to upbraiding.

All my wishes with regard to this man, were limited to expelling his image from my memory, and to fliunning a meeting with him. Tliat he had not opened the door at my bidding, was now a topic of joy. To look upon somiC bottomless pit, into which 1 was about to be cast headlong, and alive, was less to be abhorred than to look upon the face cf Colvill. Had I known that he had taken refuge in this house, no power should have compelled me to enier it. To be immersed in the infection of the hospital, and to be liurried, yet breathing and observant, to my grave, was a more supportable fate.

I dwell, with self-condemnation and shame, upon this part of my story. To feel extraordinary indignation at vice, merely because we have pai-taken in an extraordinary degree, cf its mischiefs, is unjustifiable. To regard the wicked with r.o emotion but pity, to be active in reclaiming them, in

ARTHUR JIERVYN. 197

controlling their malevolence, and preventing or repairing tlie ills which they produce, is the only province of duty. This lesson, as well as a thousand others, 1 have yet to learn ; but I despair of living long enough for that or any beneficial purpose.

My emotions with regard to Colvill, were erroneous, but omnipotent. I started from my bed, and prepared to rufh into the street. I was careless of the lot that should befal me, since no fate could be worse than that of abiding under the same roof with a wretch spotted with so many crimes.

I had not set my feet upon the floor before my precipitation was checked by a sound from above. The door of the study was cautiously and slowly opened. This incident admitted only of one construction, supposing all obstructions removed. Colvill was creeping from his hiding place, and would probably fly with speed from the house. My belief of his sickness was now^ confuted. An illicit design was congenial with his character and congruous with those appearances already observed.

I had no power or wish to obstruct his flight. I thought of it with transport and once more threw myself upon the bed, awd wrapped my averted face in the carpet. He would probably pass this door, unobservant of me, and my muffled, face would save me from the agonies connected with the sight of him.

The footsteps above were distinguifhable, though it was manifest that they moved with lightsomeness and circumspection. They reached the stair and descended. The room in which I lay, was, like the rest, obscured by the closed shutters. This obscurity now gave way to a light, resembling that glimmering and pale reflection which I had noticed in the study. My eyes, though averted from the door, were disengaged from the folds which covered the rest of my head, and observed these tokens of Colvill's approach, flitting on the wall.

iy8 ARTHUR MERVYN.

jNIy fcveridi perturbations increased as he drew nearer. He reached the door, and stopped. The light rested for a moment. Presently he entered the apartment. My emotions suddenly rose to an heigliC that would not be controlled. I imagined that he anoioached the bed, and was gazing upon me. At the same moment, by an involuntary impulse, I threw off my covering, and, turning my face, fixed my eyes upon my visitant.

It was as 1 suspected. The figure, lifting in his right hand a candle, and gazing at the bed, with lineaments and attitude, bespeaking fearful expectation and tormenting doubts, wa^ now beheld. One glance communicated to my senses all the parts of this terrific vision. A sinking at my heart, as if it had been penetrated by a dagger, seized me. Thi3 was not enough, 1 uttered a shriek, too rueful and loud not to have startled the attention of the passengers, if any had, at that moment been paffing the street.

Heaven seemed to have decreed that this period fliould be filled with trials of my equanimity and fortitude. The test of my courage v/as once more employed to cover me with humiliation and remorse. This second time, my fancy conjured up a spectre, and I shuddered as if the grave were forsaken and the unquiet dead haunted my pillow.

The visage and the shape had indeed preternatural attitudes, but they belonged, not to Colvill, but to—Wklbeck.

[ 199 J

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER ZXI.

ixE whom I had accompanied to the midst of the river; whom I had imagined that'^i" saw s'nk to rise no more, was now before me. Though incapable of precluding the groundless belief of preternatural visitations, I was able to banish the phantom almost at the same instant at which it appeared. ^'V eibeck had escaped from the stream alive ; or had, by some inconceivable means, been restored to life.

The first was the most plausible conclusion. It instantlyengendered a suspicion, that his plunging into tlie wr.terwas an artifice, intended to establish a belief of his death. His own tale had shewn him to be versed in frauds, and flexible to evil. But was he not associated with Colvlll ; and what, but a compact in Iniquity, could bind together such men?

While thus musing, Welbeck's countenance and gesture displayed emotions too vehement for speech. The glances that he fixed upon me were unsiedfast and wild. He walked along the floor, stopping at each moment, and darting looks of eagerness upon me. A conflict of passions kept him m.ute. At length, advancing to the bed, on the side of which I was now sitting, he acTdressed me.

What is this ? Are you here ? In defiance of pestilence, are you actuated by some demon to haunt me, like the ghost of my offences, and cover me with shame? What have I to do with that^untless. yet guileless front? With that foolishly, confiding, and obsequious, yet erect and unconquerable spirit?

200 ARTHUR MERVYX.

Is there no means of evading your pursuit ? Must I dip niy hands, a second time, in blood; and dig for you a grave by the side of Watson ?

These words were listened to with calmness. I suspected and pitied the man, but I did not fear him. His words and his looks were indicative less of cruelty than madness. I looked at him with an air compassionate and wistful. I spoke with mildness and composure.

Mr. Welbeck, you are unfortunate and criminal. Would to God 1 could restore you to happiness and virtue; but though my desire be strong, I have no power to change your habits or rescue you from misery.

I believed you to be dead. I rejoice to find myself mistaken. While you live, there is room to hope that your errors will be cured; and the turmoils, and inquietudes that have hitherto beset your guilty progress, will vanish by your reverting into better paths.

From me you have nothing to fear. If your welfare will be promoted by my silence on the subject of your history, my silence shall be inviolate. I deem not lightly of my promises. They are given and shall not be recalled.

This meeting was casual. Since I believed you to be dead, it could not be otherwise. You err, if you suppose that any injury will accrue to you from my life; but you need not discard tliat error. Since my death is coming, I am not averse to your adopting the belief that the event is fortunate to you.

Death is the inevitable and universal lot. When or how it comes, is of little moment. To stand, when so many tliousands are falling around mc, is not to be expeiSled. I have acted an humble and obscure part in the world, and my career has been short; but I murmur not at the decree tliut m.ikes it so.

The pestilence is now upon me. The chances of recovery are too slender to deserve my confidence. I came hither to die unmolested, and at peace. All I ask of you is to consult your own safety by immediate flight; and not f^lisappoint

ARTHUR MKRVVN. cot

my hopes of concealment, by disclosing-my ccndiiicn to the agents of xhj: hospital.

Welbeck listened wiiii the deepest attention. The wiklness of his air disappeared, and gu\e pbxe to perplexity and apprehensio'j.

You are sick, said he, in a tremulous tone, in which terror was mingled v.'itli affection-You know this, and expect not to recover. No mother, nor sister, nor friend will be near to administer food, or medicine, or comfort; yet you can talk calmly; can be th.us consideiatr of others—of me; whose guilt has been so deep, and who has mer'.ted so little at your hands!

Wretched coward 1 Thus m'serable as I am, and expect to be, I cling-to life. To comply with your heroic counsel, and to tiy; to leave you thus desolate and helpless, is the strongest impulse. Fain would I resist it but cannot.

To desert you would be flagitious an A dastardly beyond all former acts, yet to stay with you is to contract the disease and to perish after you.

Life, burthened as it is, with guilt and ignominy, is still dear—yet you exhort me to go ; you dispense with my assistance. Indeed, I could be of no use, I should injure myself and pro£t you nothing. I cannot go into the city and procure a physician or attendant. 1 must never more appear in the streets of this city. L must leave you then—. He hurried to the door. Again, he hesitated. I renewed my intreaties that he would leave me ; and encouraged Ids belief that his presence might endanger himocif without conferring the slightest benefit upon me.

Whither should I tly ? The wnde world contains no asylum for lYiC, I lived but on one condition. I came hither to find what would save me from ruin—from death. I find it not. It has vanished. Some audacious and fortunate hand has snatched it from its place, and now my ruin is compleit:. My last hope is extinct.

202 ARTHUR ?.IER\^^N.

Yes. Mervyn ! I will stay with you. I will hold your head. I will put water to your lips. I will watch night and day by your side. When you die, I will carry you by night to the neighbouring field: will bury you, and water your grave with those tears that are due to your incomparable worth and untimely destiny. Then I will lay myself in your bed and wait for the same oblivion.

Welbeck seenied now no longer to be fluctuating between opposite purposes. His ten'.pestuous features subsided into calm. He put the candle, still liglited on the table, and paced the floor with less disorder than at his first entrance.

His resolution was seen to be the dictate of despair. I hoped that it would not prove invincible to my remonstrances. I was conscious that his attendance might preclude, in some degree, my own exertions, and alleviate the pangs of death; but these consolations might be purchased too dear. To receive them at the hazard of his life would be to make them odious.

But if he sliould remain, what conduct would his companion pursue? Why did he continue in the study when Welbeck had departed? By what motives were those men led hither? I addressed myself to Welbeck.

Your resolution to remain is hasty and rash. By persisting in it, you will add to the miseries of my condition; you will take away the only hope that I cherished. But, however you may act, Colv II or I must be banished from this roof. Wiiat is the lea^-^ue between ycni ? lireuk it, 1 conjure you; behjre his fiauJs have Involved yoc in inextricabledtstruction.

Welbeck looked at me with some expression of doubt.

I mean, continued I, the man whose voice 1 lieard above. He is a villain and betr.iyer. I have maniibld proofs of his guilt. Why does he linger behind you? However you may decide, it is fitting that he should vanish.

Alas! said Welbeck, I have no companion; none to partake with me in good or evil. 1 came hither alone.

ARTHUR ^fERVYN. 203

How ? exclaimed I. Whom did I hear in the room above ? Some one answered my interrogations and intreaties, whom I too certainly recognized. Why does he remain?

You heard no one but myself. The design that brought me hither, was to be accomplished without a witness. I desired to escape detection, and repelled your solicitations for admission in a counterfeited voice.

That voice belonged to one from whom I had lately parted. What his merits or demerits are, I know not. He found me wandering in the forests of New-Jersey. He took me to his home. When seized by a lingering malady, he nursed me v;ith fi.lelity, and tenderness. When somewhat recovered, I speeded hither; but^ur ignorance of each others character and views was mutual and profound.

I deemed it useful to assume a voice different from my own. This was the last which I had heard, and this arbitrary and casual circumstance decided my choice.

This imitation was too perfect, and had influenced my fears too strongly, to be easily credited. I suspected Welbeck of some new artifice to baffle my conclusions and mislead my judgment. This suspicion, however, yielded to his earnest and repeated declarations. If Colvill were not here, where had he made his abode? How came friendship and intercourse between Welbeck and him? By what miracle escaped the former from the river, into which I had imagined him for- ^ ever sunk?

I will answer you, said he, with candour. You know already too much for me to have any interest in concealing any part of my life. You have discovered my existence, and the causes that rescued me from destruction maybe told without detriment to my person or fame.

When I leaped into the river, I'intended to perish. I harboured no previous doubts of my ability to execute my fatal purpose. In this respect I was deceived. Suffocation would not come at my bidding. My muscles and limbs rebelled against my will. There was a mechanical repug

104 ARTHUR IMERVYN.

nance to the lois of life which I could not vanquish. My struggles might thrust nie below the surface, but my lips were spontaneously shut and excluded the torrent from my lungs. When my breath was exhausted, the efforts that kept me at the bottom were involuntarily remitted, and I rose to the surface.

I cursed my own pusillanimity. Thrice I plung'ed to the bottom and as often rose again. My aversion to life swiftly diminished, and at length, I consented to make use of niy skill in swimming, which has seldom been exceeded, to prolong my existence. I landed in a few minutes on the Jersey shore.

This scheme being frustr.ited, I sunk into dreariness and Inactivity. 1 felt as if no dependence could be pb.ced upon my courage, as if any effort 1 should make for self-destruction would be fruitless ; yet existence was as void as ever of enjoyment and embellishment. My means of living were annihilated. I saw no path before me. To shun the presence of mankind was my sovereign wish. Since I could not die, by my own hands. T must be content to crawl upon tlie surface, till a superior fate should permit me to perish.

I wandered into the centre of the wood. I stretched myself on the mossy verge of a brook, and gazed at the stars till they dis;ippeared. The next day ^vas spent with little variation. The cravings of hunger were felt, and the sensation was a joyous one, since it afforded me the practicable means of death. To refr.iin from food was easy, since some efforts woidd be needful to procure it, and these efforts should not be made. Thus was the sweet oblivion for which I so earnestly panted, placed within my-^each.

Three days of abstinence, and reverie, and solitude succeeded. On the ev( ning of the fourth, I was seated on a rock, with my face buried in my hands. Some one laid his hand upon my slioukler. I started and looked up. I beheld a face, beaming with compassion and benignity. He endea

ARTHUR MERVVN. 205

voured to extort from me the cause of my solitude and sorrow. I disregarded his intreaties, and was obstinately silent.

Finding me invincible in this respect, he invited me to his college, which was hard by. I repelled him at first, with impatience and anger, but he was not to be discouraged or intimidated. To elude his persuasions I was obliged to comply. My strength was gone and the vital fabric was crumbling into jDieces. A fever raged in my veins, and I was consoled by reflecting that my life was at once assailed by famine and disease.

Meanwhile, my gloomy meditations experienced no respite. I incessantly ruminated on the events of my past life. The long series of my crimes arose daily and afresh to my imagination. Tiie image of Lodi was recalled, his expiring looks and tiie directions which were mutually given respecting his sisters and his property.

As I perpetually revolved these incidents, they assumed new forms, and vvere linked with new associations. The volume written by his father, and transferred to me by tokens, which were now remembered to be more emphatic than the nature of the composition seem.ed to justify, was likewise remembered. It came attended by recollections respecting a volume which I filled, when a youth, with extracts from the Roman and Greek poets. Besides this literary purpose I likewise used to preserve the bank-bills, with the keeping or carriage of which I chanced to be intrusted. This image led me back to the leather-case containing Lodi's property, which was put into my hands at the same tinie with the volume.

These images now gave birth to a third conception, whicti darted on my benighted understanding like an electrical flash. Was it possible that part of Lodi's property might be inclosed within the leaves of this volume ? In hastily turning it over. I recoUeced to have noticed leaves wliose edges by accident or design adhered to each other. Lodi, in speaking of the sale of his father's West-Indian property, mentioned that T

2c6 ARTHUR MERVYN.

the sum obtained for it, was forty thousand dollars. Half only of this sum had been discovered by me. How had the remainder been appropriated? Surely this volume contained it.

The influence of this thought was like the infusion of a new soul into my frame. From torpid and desperate, from inflexible averson to medicine and food. I was changed in a moment into vivacity and hope, into ravenous avidity for whatever could contribute to my restoration to health.

I was not without pungent regrets and racking fears. That this volume would be ravished away by creditors or plunderers, was possible. Every hour might be that which decided my fate. The first impulse was to seek my dwelling and search for this precious deposit.

Meanwhile, my perturbations and impatience only exasperated my disease. While chained to my bed, the rumour of pestilence was spread abroad. This event, however, generally calamitous, was propitious to me, and was hailed with satisfaction. It multiplied the chances that my house and its furniture would be unmolested.

My friend was assiduous and indefatigable in his kindness. My deportment, before and subsequent to the revival of my hopes, was incomprehensible, and argued nothing less than insanity. My thoughts were carefully concealed from him, and all that he witnessed was contradictory and unintelligible.

At length, my strength was sufficiently restored. I resisted all my protector's Importunities, to postpone my departure till the perfect confirmation of my health. I designed to enter the city at midniglit, that prying eyes might be eluded; to bear with me a candle and the means of lighting it, to explore my way to my ancient study, and to ascertain my *Mture claim to existence and felicity.

1 crossed the river this morning. My impatience would not suffer me to wait till evening. Considering the desolation of the ci'.y. I thought I might venture to approach thus near, without hazard of detection. The house, at all

ARTHUR .AIERVYN. 207

its avenues was closed. I stole into the back-court. A window-shutter proved to be unfastened. I entered, and discovered closets and cabinets, unfastened and emptied of all their contents. At this spectacle my heart sunk. My books, doubtless, had shared the common destiny. My blood throbbed with painful vehemence as I approached the study and opened the door.

My hopes, that languished for a moment, were revived by the sight of my shelves, furnished as formerly. I had lighted my candle below, for I desired not to awaken observation and suspicion, by unclosing the windows. My eye eagerly sought the spot where I remembered to have left the volume. Its place was empty. The object of all my hopes had eluded my grasp, and disappeared forever.

To paint my confusion, to repeat my execrations on the infatuation, which had rendered, during so long a time, that it was in my possession, this treasure useless to me, and my curses of the fatal interference which had snatched away this prize, would be only aggravations of my disappointment and my sorrow. You found me in this state, and know what fellowedi.

[ 2cS ]

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER ZXII.

r-n~%

1 HIS narrative tlirew new light on the character of Welbeck. If accident had given him possession of this treasure, it was easy to predict on what schemes of luxury and selfishness it would have been expended. The same dependence ou the world's erroneous estimation, the same devotion to imposture, and thoughtlessness of futurity, would have constituted the picture of his future life, as had distingulslied the past.

I'his money was another's. To retain it for his own use was criminal. Of this crime he appeared to be as insensible as ever. His own gratification was the supreme law of his actions. To be subjected to the necessity of honest labour, was the heaviest of all evils, and one from which he was w illing to escape by the commission of suicide.

The volume which he sought was mine. It was my duty to restore it to the rightful owner, or, if the legal claimant could not be found, to employ it in the promotion of virtue and happinefs. To give it to Welbeck was to consecrate it to the purpose of selfishness and misery. My right, legally considered, was as valid as his.

But if I intended not to resign it to him, was it proper to disclose the truth, and explain by whom the volume was purloined from the shelf ? 'I'he first impulse was to hide this truth : but my understanding had been taught, by recent occurrences, to cjuestlon the justice, and deny the usefulness

ARTHUPv MERVYN. 209

of secrecy in an/ case. My principles were true ; my motives were pure : Why shoull I scruple to avow my principles, and vindicate my actions ?

Welbeck had ceased to be dreaded or revered. That awe which was once created by his superiority of age, refinement of manners and dignity of garb, had vanished. I was a boy in years, an indigent and uneducated rustic, but I was able to discern the illusions of power and riches, and abjured every claim to esteem that was not founded on integrity. There was no tribunal before which I should faulter in asserting-the truth, anJ no species of martyrdom which I would not cheerfully embrace in Its cause.

After some pause, I said: cannot you conjecture in what way this volume has disappeared ?

No: he answered with a sigh. Why, of all his volumes, this only should have vanished, was an inexplicable enigma.

Perhaps, said I, it is less important to know how it was removed, than by whom it is now possessed.

Unquestionably: and yet, unless that knowledge enables me to regain the possession it will be useless.

Useless then it will be, for the present possessor will never return it to you.

Indeed, replied he, in a tone of dejection, your conjecture is moft probable. Such a prize is of too much value to be given up.

What I have said, flows not from conjecture, but from knowledge. I know that it will never be restored to you.

At these words, W^elbeck looked at me with anxiety and doubt—You knovj that it will not! Have you any knowledge of the book! Can you tell me what has b^fcome of it?

Yes, after our separation on the river, I returned to this house. I found this volume and secured it, you rightly suspected its contents. The money was there.

Welbeck started as if he had trodden on a mine of gold. His first emotion was rapturous, but was immediately chasT2

-10 ARTHUR MERVYN.

tised by some degree of doubt. What has become of It? Havci

you got it ? Is it entire ? Have you it with you ?

It is unimpaired. 1 have got it, and shall hold it as a sacred trust for the rightful proprietor.

The tone with which this declaration was accompanied, shook the new born confidence of Welbeck. The r\g-htful Proprietor! true, but I am he. To me onlr it belongs and to me, you are, doubtless, willing to restore it.

Mr Welbeck! It is not my desire to give you perplexity or angu'sh; to sport with your passions. On the supposition of your death, I deemed it no infraction of justice to take this manuscript. Accident unfolded its contents. I could not hesitate to chuse my path. The natural and legal successor of Vincentio Lodi is his sister. To her, therefore, this property belongs, and to her only will I give it.

Presumptuous boy! And this is your sage decision. I tell you that I am the owner, and to me you lliull render it. Who is this girl! childish and ignorant! Unable to consult and to act for herself on the most trivial occasion. Am I not, by the appointment of her dying brother, h,er protector and guardian ? Her age produces a legal incapacity of property. Do you imagine that so obvious an expedient, as that of procuring my legal appointment as her guardian, was overlooked by me? If it were neglected, still my title to provide her subsistance and enjoyment is unquestionable.

Did I not rescue her from poverty and prostitution and infamy? Have I not supplied all her wants with incessant solicitude? Whatever her condition required has been plcnteously supplied. This dwelling and its furniture, was hers, as far as a rigid jurisprudence would permit. To prescribe ber expences and govern her family, was the province of her guardian.

YoU^have heard the tale of my ancuish and despair. WhenC'e did they flow but from the frustration of scliemes, projected for her benefit, as they were executed with her KODcy and by mciuis which the authority of her guardian

ARTHUR MERVYN. 211

fully justifted. Why have I encountered this contagious atmosphere, and explored my way, like a thief, to this recess, but with a view to rescue her from poverty and restore to her, her own?

Your scruples are ridiculous and criminal. I treat them with less severity, because your youth is raw and your conceptions crude. But if, after this proof of the justice of my claim, you hesitate to restore the money, I shall treat you as a robber, who has plundered my cabinet and refused to refund his spoil.

These reasonings were powerful and new. I v/as acquainted with the rights of guardianship. Welbeck had, in some respects, acted as the friend of this lady. To vest himself with this office, was the conduct which her youth and helplessness prescribed to her friend. His title to this money, as her guardian, could not be denied.

But how was this statement compatible with former representations? No mention had then been made of guardianship. By thus acting, he would have thwarted all his schemes for winning the esteem of mankind, and fostering the belief which the world entertained of his opulence and independence.

I was thrown, by these thoughts, into considerable perplexity. If his statement were true, his claim to this'money was established, but I questioned its truth. To intimate my doubts of his veracity, would be to provoke abhorrence and outrage.

His last insinuation was peculiarly momentous. Suppose him the fraudulent possessor of this money, shall I be justified in taking it away by violence under pretence of restoring it to the genuine proprietor, who, for aught I know, may be dead, or with whom, at least, I may never procure a meeting? But will not my behaviour on this occasion, be deemcd^llicit? I entered Welbeck's habitation at midnight, proceeded to his closet, possessed myself of portable property,

2 13 ARTHUR MERVYN.

and retired unobserved. Is not guilt inputable to an action

like this?

Welbeck waited with impatience for a conclusion to my pause. My perplexity and indecision did not abate, and my silence continued. At length, he repeated his demands, With new vehemence. I was compelled to answer. I told him, in few words, that his reasonings had not convinced me of the equity of bis claim, and that my determination was unaltered.

He had not expected this inflexibility from one in my situation. The folly of opposition, when my feebleness and loneliness were contrasted with his activity and resources, appeared to him monstrous and glaring, but his contempt was converted into rage and fear when he reflected that this folly might finally defeat his hopes. He had probably determined to obtain the money, let the purchase cost what it would, but was willing to exhaust pacific expedients before he should resort to force. He might likewise question whether the money was within his reach: 1 had told him that I had it, but whether it was now about me, was somewhat dubious; yet, though he used no direct inquiries, he chose to proceed on the supposition of its being at hand. His angry tones were now changed into those of remonstrance and persuasion.

Your present behaviour, Mervyn, does not justify the expectation I had formed of you. You have been guilty of a base theft. To this you have added the deeper crime of ingratitude, but your infatuation and folly are, at least, as glaring as your guilt. Do you think I can credit your.assertions that you keep this money for another, when I recollect that six weeks have passed since you carried it off? Whyhave you not sought the owner and restored it to her ? If your intentions had been honest, would you have suifered so long a time to elapse without doing this ? It is plain, that you designed to keep it for your own use. t •,

But whether this were your purpose or not, you have no longer power to restore it or retain it. You say that you

ARTHUR MKRV^-T^T. 213

came hltlier to die. If so, v.'hat is to be tlie fate of the mo"ney ? Tn your present situation you cannot gain access to the lady. Some other must inherit this wealth. Next to Signora Lodi^ whose right can he put in competition with mine ? But if you will not give it to me, on my own account, let it be g-iven in tnist for her. Let me be the bearer of it to her own hands. I have already shewn you that my claim to it, as her guardian, is legal and incontrovertible, but this claim, I wave. I will merely be the executor of your will. 1 will bind myself to comply with your directions by any oath, however solemn and tremendous, which you shall prescribe.

As long-as my own heart acquitted me, these imputations of dishonesty affected me but little. They excited no anger, because they originated in ignorance, and were rendered plausible to Welbeck, by such facts as were known to him. It was needless to confute the charge by elaborate and circumstantial details.

It was true that my recovery was, in the highest degree, improbable, and that my death would put an end to my power over this money; but had I not determined to secure its useful application, in case of my death ? This project •was obstmcted by the presence of Welbeck, but I hoped that his love of life would induce him to fly. He might wrest this volume from me by violence, or he might wait till my deaths hculd give him peaceable possession. But these, though probable events, were not certain, and would, by no means, justify the voluntary surrender. His strength, if employed for this end, could not be resisted; but then it would be a sacrifice, not to choice, but necessity.

Promises were easily given, but were surely not to be confided in, Welbeck's own tale, in which it could not be imagined that he had aggravated his defects, attested the frailty of his virtue. To put into his hands, a sum like this, in expectation of his delivering it to another, when my death would cover the transaction with impenetrable secrecy,

214 ARTHUR MERVYN.

would be, indeed, aproof of that infatuation which he thought

proper to impute to me.

These thoughts influenced my resolutions, but they were revolved in silence. To state them verbally was useless. They would not justify my conduct in his eyes. They would only exasperate dispute, and impel him to those acts of violence which I was desirous of preventing. The sooner this controversy should end, and my measure be freed from the obstruction of his company, the better.

Mr. Welbeck, said I, my regard to your safety compells me to wish that this Interview should terminate. At a different time, I should not be unwilling to discuss this matter. Now it will be fruitless. My conscience points out to me too clearly the path 1 should pursue for me to mistake it. As long as I have power over this money I shall keep it for the use of the unfortunate lady, whom I have seen in this house. I shall exert myself to find her, but if that be impossible, I shall appropriate it in a way, in which you shall have no participation.

I will not repeat the contest that succeeded between my forbearance and his passions. I listened to the dictates of his rage and his avarice in s;lence. Astonishment, at my Inflexibility, was blf-nded with his anger. By turns he commented on the guilt and on the folly of u^y resolutions. Sometimes his emotions would mount into fury, and he would approach me in a menacing attitude, and lift his hand i»s if he would exterminate me at a blow. My languid eyes, my cheeks glowing, and my temples throbbing with fever, and my total pas^iveness, attracted his attention and arrested his stroke. Compassion would take plate of rage, and the belief be revived that remonstrances and arguments would answer his puqaose.

[ ^^5 1

ARTHUR MERVYN.

CHAPTER ZZIIL

1 HIS scene lasted, I know not how long. Insensibly the passions and reasonings of Welbeck assumed a ne\r form. A grief, mingled with perplexity, overspread his countenance. He ceased to contend or to speak. His regards were withdrawn from me, on whom they had hitherto been fixed; and wandering or vacant, testified a conflict of mind, terrible beyond any that my young imagination had ever conceived.

For a time, he appeared to be unconscious of my presence. He moved to and fro with unequal steps, and with gesticulations, that possessed an horrible but indistinct significance. Occasionally he struggled for breath, and his efforts were directed to remove some choaking impediment.

No test of my fortitude had hitherto occurred equal to that to which it v/as now subjected. The suspicion which this deportment suggested was vague and formless. The tempest which I witnessed was the prelude of horror. These were throes which would terminate in the birth of some gigantic and sanguinary purpose. Did he meditate to offer a bloody sacrifice? Was his own death or was mine to attest the magnitude of his despair, or the impetuosity of his. vengeance ?

Suicide was familiar to his thoughts. He had consented to live but on one condition: that of regaining possession of this money. Sho>'ld 1 be justified in driving him, by ray

zi6 ARTHUR MERVYN.

obstinate refusal, to this fatal consummation of his crimes? Yet my fear of this catastrophe was groundless. Hitherto he had argued and persuaded, but this method was pursued Dscause it was more eligible than the employment of force, or than procrastination.

No. These were tokens that pointed to me. Some unknown instigation was at work within him, to tear away his remnant of humanity, and fit him for the office of my murderer. I knew not how the accumulation of guilt could contribute to his gratification or security. His actions had been partiiilly exhibited and vaguely seen. What extenuations or omissions had vitiated his former or recent narrative;,hovr far his actual performances were congenial with the deed which was now to be perpetrated, I knew not.

These thoughts lent new rapidity to my blood. I raised my head from the pillow, and watched the deportment of tliis man, with deeper attention. The paroxysm which controlled him, at length, in some degree subsided. He muttered. Yes. It must come. My last humiliation must cover me. My last confession must be made. To die, and leave behind me this train of enormous perils, must not be.

OGlemenza! O Mervynl Ye have not merited that I should leave you a legacy of persecution and death. Your safety must be purchased at what price my malignant destiny will set upon it. The cord of the executioner, the note of •verlasting infamy, is betier than to leave you beset by the consequences of my guilt. It must not be.

Saying this, Welbeck cast fearful glances at the windows and door. He examined every avenue and listened. Thrice he repeated this scrutiny. Having, as it seemed, ascertained that no one lurked within audience, he approached the bed. He put his mouth close to my face. He attempted to speak, but once more examined the apartment with suspicious glances.

He drew closer, and at length, in a tone, scarcely articulate and suITocatcd with emotion, he spoke: Excellent but

ARTHUR MERVYN. a i T

fatally obstinate youth 1 Know at least the cause of my importunity. Know at least the depth of my infatuation and the enormity of my guilt.

The bills—Surrender them to me, and save yourself from persecution and disgrace. Save the woman whom you wish to benefit, from the blackest imputations; from hazard to her life and her fame; from languishing in dungeons; from expiring on the gallows I—

The bills—O save me from the bitterness of death. Let the evils, to which my miserable life has given birth terminate here and in myself. Surrender them to me, for—

There he stopped. His utterance was choaked by terror. Rapid glances were again darted at the windows and door. The silence was uninterrupted except by far-off sounds, produced by some moving carnage. Once more, he summoned resolution, and spoke:

Surrender them to me, for—they are forged. Formerly 1 told you, that a scheme of forgery had been conceived. Shame would not suffer me to add, that my scheme was carried into execution. The bills were fashioned, but my fears contended against my necessities, and forbade me to attempt to exchange them. The interview with Lodi saved me from the dangerous experiment. I enclosed them in that volume, as the means of future opulence, to be used when all other, and less hazardous resources should fail.

In the agonies of my remorse, at the death of Watson, they were forgotten. They afterwards recurred to recollection. My wishes pointed to the grave; but the stroke that should deliver me from life, was suspended only till 1 could hasten hither, get possession of thefe papers, and destroy them. When 1 thought upon the chances that should give them an ov/ner; bring them into circulation; load the innocent with suspicion; and lead them to trial, and, perhaps, to death, my sensations were fraught with agony: earnestly as I panted for death, it was necessarily deferred till I had gained possession of and destroyed these papers.

U

2i8 ARTHUR MERVYN.

What now remains? You liave found them. Happily they have not been used. Give them, therefore, to me, that I may crush at once the brood of mischiefs which they could not but generate.

This disclosure was strange. It was accompanied with every token of sincerity. How had 1 tottered on the brink of destruction 1 If I had made use of this money, in what a labrynth of misery might I not have been involved! My innocence could never have been proved. An alliance with Welbeck could not have failed to be inferred. My career would have found an ignominious close; or, if my punishment had been transmuted into slavery and toil, would the testimony of my conscience have supported me ?

I shuddered at the view of those disasters from wliich I •was rescued by the miraculous chance which led me to this house. Welbeck's request was salutary to me, and honourable to himself. I coulJ not hesitate a moment in compliance. The notes were enclosed in paper, and deposited in a fold of my clothes. I put my hand upon them.

My motion and attention was arrested at the instant, by a noise which arose in the ftreet. Footsteps were heard upon the pavement before the door, and voices, as if busy in discourse. Tliis incident was adapted to infuse the deepest alarm into myself and my companien. The motives of our trepidation were, indeed, different, and were infinitely more powerful in my case than in his. It portended to me nothing less .than the loss of my asylum, and condemnation to an hospital.

Welbsck hurried to the door, to listen to the conversation below. Thifi interval was pregnant with thought. That impulse which led my reflections from Welbeck to my own state, past away in a moment, and suffered me to meditate anew upon the terms of Chat confession which had just been ■made.-^

. Plorror at the fate which this interview had enabled me m shun, was uppermost in my conceptions. I was eager to

ARTHUR ^lERVYN. 219

Surrender these fatal bills. I held them for that purpose in my hand, and was impatient for Welbeck's return. He continued at the door; stooping, with his face averted, and eagerly attentive to the conversation in the street.

All the circumstances of my present situation tended to arrest the progress of thought, and chain my contemplations to one image; but even now there was room for foresight and deliberation. Welbeck intended to destroy these bills. Perhaps he had not been sincere; or, if his purpose had been honestly disclosed, this purpose might change when the bills were in his possession. iHis poverty and sanguiness of temper, might pronipt him to use them.

That this conduct was evil and would only multiply his miseries, could not be questioned. \Vhy should I subject his frailty to this tem.ptation? The destruction of these bills was the loudest injunction of my duty; was demanded by ever)' sanction v;hich bound me to promote the welfare o£ mankind.

The meanjs of riestructlon were easy. A lighted candle stood on a table, at the distance of a few yards. Why should I hesitate a moment to annihilate so powerful a cause of error and guilt. A passing instant was sufficient. A momeiiirary lingering might change the circumstances ,^hat surrounded me, and frustrate my project.

My languors were suspended by the urgencies of this occasion. I started from my bed and glided to the table. Seizing the notes with my right hand, I held them in the flame of the candle, and then threw them, blazing, on the floor.

The sudden illumination was perceived by Welbeck. The cause of it appeared to suggest itself as soon. He turned, and marking the paper where it lay, leaped to the spot, and extinguished the fire with his foot. His interposition was too late. Only enough of them remained to inform him of the nature of the sacrifice.

Welbeck now stood, with limbs trembling, features'aghafl:, and eyes glaring upon me. For a time he was without speech.

a2o ARTHUR MERVYN.

The storm was gathering in silence, and at length burst upon

jiie. In a tone menacing and lend, he exclaimed :

Wretch I What have you done ?

1 have done justly. These notes -were false. You desired to destroy them that they miglit not betray the innocent. I applauded your purpose, and have saved you froiu the danger of temptation by destroying them mys-lf.

Maniac ! Miscreant 1 To be fooled by so gross an artifice i The notes were genuine. The tale of their forgery was false, and meant only to wrest them from you. Execrable and perverse idiot 1 Your deed has sealed my perdition. It has sealed your ovv'n. You shall pay for it with your blood. I will slay you by inches. I will stretch you as you have stretched me, on the rack.

During this speech, all was frenzy and storm in the countenance and features of Welbeck. Nothing less could be expected than that the scene would terminate in some bloody catastrophe. I bitterly regretted the facility with which I bad been deceived, and the precipitation of my sacrifice. The act, however lamentable, could not be revoked. What remained, but to encounter or endure its consequences with unshrinking firmness?

The contest was too unequal. It is possible that the frenzy "¥v-hich actuated Welbeck might have speedily subsided. It is more likely that his passions would have been satiated •with nothing but my death. This event was precluded by loud knocks at the strtet-door, and calls by some one on tl.e pavement without, of—Who is w'tUin? Is any one within?

These noises gave a new direction to Welbeck's thoughts. They are coming said he. They will treat you as a sick man and a theif. 1 cannot desire you to suffer a worse evil than they will inflict. I Uave you to your fate. So saying, he rushed out of the room.

Though confounded and stunned by this rapid succession •f events, I was yet able to pursue measures for eluding these detested visitants. I first extinguished the light, and then,

ARTHUR MERVYN. iii

ebserving that the parley in the street continued and grew louder, I sought an asylum in the remotest corner of the house. During my former abode here, I noticed, that a trap door opened in the ceiling of the third story, to which you were conducted by a movable stair or ladder. I considered that this, propably, was an opening into a narrow and darksome nook, formed by the angle of the roof. By ascending, drawing after me the ladder, and closing the door, I should escape the most vigilant search.

Enfeebled as I was by my disease, my resolution rendered me strenuous. I gained the uppermost room, and mounting the ladder, found myself at a sufficient distance from suspicion. The stair was hastily drawn up, and the door closed. In a few minutes, however, my new retreat proved to be worse than any for which it was possible to change it. The air was musty, stagnant, and scorchingiy hot. My breathing became difficult, and I saw that to remain here ten minutes, would unavoidably produce suffocation.

My terror of intruders had rendered me blind to the consequences of immuring myself in this chearless recess. It was incumbent on me to extricate myself as speedily as possible. I attempted to lift the door. My first effort was succe-sless. Every inspiration was quicker, and more difficult than the former. As my terror, so my strength and my exertions increased. Finally my trembling hand lighted on a nail that was imperfectly driven into the wood, and which by affording me a firmer hold, enabled me at length to raise it, and to inhale the air from beneath.

Relieved from my new peril, by this situation, I bent an attentive ear through the opening with a view to ascertain if the house had been entered or if the outer door was still beset, but could hear nothing. Hence I was authorized to conclude, that the people had departed, and that I might resume my former station without hazard.

Before I descended, however, I cast a curious eye over this recess—It was large enough to accommodate an human

222 ARTHUR MERVYN.

being. The means by which it was entered were easily concealed. Though narrow and low, it was long, and were it possible to contrive some inlet for the air, one studious of concealment, might rely on its protection with unbounded confidence.

My scrutiny was imperfect by reason of the faint light which found its way through the opening, yet it was sufficient to set me afloat on a sea of new wonders and subject my fortitude to a new test—

Here Mervyn paused in his narrative. A minute passed in silence and seeming indecision. His perplexities gradually disappeared, and he continued.

I have promised to relate the momentous incidents of my life, and have hitherto been faithful in my enumeration. There is nothing which I more detest than equivocation and mystery. Perhaps, however, I shall now incur some imputation of that kind. I would willingly escape the accusation, but confess that I am hopeless of escaping it.

I might indeed have precluded your guesses and surmises by omitting to relate what befcl me from the time of my leaving my chamber till I regained it. 1 might deceive you by asserting that nothing remarkable occurred, but this would be false, and every sacrifice is trivial which is made upon the altar of sincerity. Beside, the time may come when no inconvenience will arise from minute descriptions of the objects which I now saw and of the reasonings and inferences v/hich they suggested to my understanding. At present, it appears to be my duty to p&ss them over in silence, but it ■would be needless to conceal from you that the interval, though short, and the scrutiny, though hasty, furnished matter which my curiosity devoured with unspeakable eagerness, and from which consequences may hereafter flow, deciding on my peace and my life.

Nothing however occui red which could detain me long in this spot. I once niore sought the lower story and threw myself on the bed which 1 had left. My mind was thronged

ARTHUR MERVl^N. 123

with ,the iinag-es flowing from my late adventnres. My fever had gradcilly incre-iscd, and my thou^'hts were deformed by inaccui-acy and confusion.

My heart did not sink when I reverted to my own condition. Th?.t I should quickly be disabled from moving, was readily perceived. The foresight of my destiny was stedfast and clear. To linger for days in this comfortless solitude, to ask in vain, not for powerful restoratives or alleviating cordials, but for water to moisten my burning lips, and abate the torments of thirst; ultimately, to expire in torpor or phrenzy, was the fate to which I looked forward, yet I was not terrified. I seemed to be sustained by a preternatural energy. I felt as if the opportunity of combating such evils was an enviable privilege, and though none would witness my victorious magnanimity, yet to be conscious that praise was my due, was all that my ambition required.

These sentiments were do^ibtless tokens of delirium. The excruciating agonies which now seized upon my head, and the cord which seemed to be drawn across my breast, and which, as my fancy imagined, was tightened by some forcible hand, with a view to strangle me, were incompatible with sober and coherent views.

Thirst was the evil which chiefly oppressed me. The means of relief were pointed out by nature and habit. I rose and determined to replenish my pitcher at the well. It was easier, however, to descend than to return. My limbs refused to bear me, and I sat down upon the lower step of the staircase. Several hours had elapsed since my entrance into this dwelling, and it was now night.

My imagination now suggested anew expedient. Medlicote was a generous and fearless spirit. To put myself under his protection, if I could walk as far as his lodgings, was the wisest proceeding which 1 could adopt. From this design, my incapacity to walk thus far, and the consequences of being discovered in the street, had hitherto deterred me. These impediments were no.r, in the confusion of my under

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2i4 ARTHUR MERVYN.

standing, overlooked or dispised, and I forthwith set out

upon this hopeless expedition.

The doors communicating with the court, and through the court, with the street, were fastened by inside bolts. These were easily withdrawn, and I issued forth with alacrity and confidence. My perturbed senses and the darkness hindered me from discerning the right way. I was conscious of this difficulty, but was not disheartened. I proceeded, as 1 have sinc€ discovered, in a direction different from the true, but hesitated not, till my powers were exhausted, and I sunk upon the ground. I closed my eyes, and dismissed all fear, and all foresight of futurity. In this situation I remained some hours, and should probably have expired on this spot, had not I attracted your notice, and been provided under this roof, with all that medical skill, and the tenderest humanity could suggest.

In consequence of your care, I have been restored to life and to health. Your conduct was not influenced by the prospect of pecuniary recompence, of service, or of gratitude. It is only in one way that I am able to heighten the gratification which must flow from reflection on your conduct—by shewing that the being whose life you have prolonged, though uneducated, ignorant and poor, is not profligate and worthless, and will not dedicate that life which your bounty has given, to mischievous or contemptible purpofcs.

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Arthur Mervyn; or, Memoirs of the year 1793...