 CHAPTER XXV While musing upon these facts I could not but reflect with astonishment on the narrow escapes which Mervyn's virtue had experienced. I was by no means certain that his fame or his life was exempt from all danger, or that the suspicions which had already been formed respecting him could possibly be wiped away. Nothing but his own narrative repeated with that simple but nervous eloquence which we had witnessed could rescue him from the most heinous charges. Was there any tribunal that would not acquit him on merely hearing his defence? Surely the youth was honest. His tale could not be the fruit of invention, and yet what are the bounds of fraud? Nature has set no limits to the combinations of fancy. A smooth exterior, a show of virtue, and a specious tale are a thousand times exhibited in human intercourse by craft and subtlety. Motives are endlessly varied while actions continue the same, and an acute penetration may not find it hard to select and arrange motives suited to exempt from censure any action that a human being can commit. Had I heard Mervyn's story from another, or read it in a book, I might perhaps found it possible to suspect the truth, but as long as the impression made by his tones, gestures, and looks remained in my memory, this suspicion was impossible. Wickedness may sometimes be ambiguous, its mask may puzzle the observer, our judgement may be made to falter and fluctuate, but the face of Mervyn is the index of an honest mind. Calm or vehement, doubting or confident, it is full of benevolence and candour. He that listens to his words may question their truth, but he that looks upon his countenance when speaking cannot withhold his faith. It was possible, however, to find evidence supporting or confuting his story. I chanced to be acquainted with a family by name Allthorpe, who were natives of that part of the country where his father resided. I paid them a visit and, after a few preliminaries mentioned, as if by accident, the name of Mervyn. They immediately recognized this name as belonging to one of their ancient neighbours. The death of the wife and sons and the seduction of the only daughter by Coalville, with many pathetic incidents connected with the fate of this daughter, were mentioned. This intelligence induced me to inquire of Mrs. Allthorpe, a sensible and candid woman, if she were acquainted with the recent or present situation of this family. I cannot say much, she answered, of my own knowledge. Since my marriage I am used to spend a few weeks of summer at my father's, but I am less inquisitive than I once was into the concerns of my old neighbours. I recollect, however, when there, last year, during the fever, to have heard that Sonny Mervyn had taken a second wife, that his only son, a youth of eighteen, had thought proper to be highly offended with his father's conduct and treated the new mistress of the house with insult and contempt. I should not much wonder at this scene children are so apt to deem themselves unjustly treated by a second marriage of their parent, but it was hinted that the boy's jealousy and discontent were excited by no common cause. The new mother was not much older than himself and had been a servant of the family and a criminal intimacy had subsisted between her while in that condition and the son. Her marriage with his father was justly accounted by their neighbours a most profligate and odious transaction. The son perhaps had, in such a case, a right to scold, but he ought not to have carried his anger to such extremes as have been imputed to him. He is said to have grinned upon her with contempt and even to have called her a strumpet in the presence of his father and of strangers. It was impossible for such a family to keep together. Arthur took leave one night to possess himself of all his father's cash, mount the best horse in his meadow and elope. For a time no one knew whither he had gone. At last one was said to have met with him in the streets of this city, metamorphosed from a rustic lad into a fine gentleman. Nothing could be quicker than this change, for he left the country on a Saturday morning and was seen in a French frock and silk stockings going into Christ's church the next day. I suppose he kept it up with a high hand as long as his money lasted. My father paid us a visit last week and, among other country news, told us that Sonny Mervin had sold his place. His wife had persuaded him to try his fortune in the western country. The price of his hundred acres here would purchase a thousand there, and the man, being very gross and ignorant and, with all quite a simpleton, found no difficulty in perceiving that a thousand are ten times more than a hundred. He was not aware that a root of ground upon school-kill is tenfold better than an acre on the Tennessee. The woman turned out to be an artful profligate. Having sold his ground and gotten his money, he placed it in her keeping and, she, to enjoy it with the more security, ran away to the city, leaving him to prosecute his journey to Kentucky, moneyless and alone. After some time Mr. Althorp and I were at the play when he pointed out to me a group of females in an upper box, one of whom was no other than Betty Lawrence. It was not easy to recognize, in her present gaudy trim, all flaunting with ribbons and shining with trinkets, the same Betty who used to deal out pecks of potatoes and superintend her basket of cantaloupes in the Jersey Market, in paste-board bonnet and Lindsay Petticoat. Her companions were of the infamous class. If Arthur were still in the city there is no doubt that the mother and son might renew the ancient terms of their acquaintance. The old man, thus robbed and betrayed, sought consolation in the bottle of which he had been at all times overfond. He wandered from one tavern to another till his credit was exhausted and then was sent to jail, where I believe he is likely to continue till his death. Such, my friend, is the history of the Mervins. What proofs that I have you of the immoral conduct of the son, of his mistreatment of his mother and his elopement with his father's horse and money? I have no proof but the unanimous report of Mervins' neighbors. Respectable and honest men have affirmed in my hearing that they had been present when the boy treated his mother in the way that I have described. I was, besides once in company with the old man, and heard him bitterly in vain against his son, and charged him with the fact of stealing his horse and money. I well remember that tears rolled from his eyes while talking on the subject. As to his being seen in the city the next day after his elopement dressed in a most costly and fashionable manner, I can doubt that as little as the rest, for he that saw him was my father, and you who know my father know what credit is due to his eyes and his word. He had seen Arthur often enough not to be mistaken and described his appearance with great exactness. The boy is extremely handsome, give him his due, has dark hazel eyes, auburn hair, and very elegant proportions. His air and gait have nothing of the clown in them. Take away his jacket and trousers, and you have as spruce a fellow as ever came from dancing school or college. He is the exact picture of his mother and the most perfect contrast to the sturdy legs, squat figure, and broad, unthinking, sheepish face of the father that can be imagined. You must confess that his appearance here is a pretty strong proof of the father's assertions. The money given for these clothes could not possibly have been honestly acquired. It is to be presumed that they were bought or stolen, for how else should they have been gotten? What was this lad's personal deportment during the life of his mother and before his father's second marriage? Very little to the credit of his heart or his intellects. Being the youngest son, the only one who at length survived and having a powerful resemblance to herself, he became the mother's favorite. His constitution was feeble, and he loved to stroll in the woods more than to plow or so. This idleness was much against his father's inclination and judgment, and indeed it was the foundation of all his vices. When he could be prevailed upon to do anything, it was in a bungling manner, so as to prove that his thoughts were fixed on anything except his business. When his assistance was wanted, he was never to be found at hand. They were compelled to search for him among the rocks and bushes, and he was generally discovered sauntering along the bank of a river or lolling in the shade of a tree. This disposition to inactivity and laziness in so young a man was very strange. Persons of his age are rarely fond of work, but then they are addicted to company and sports and exercises. They ride or shoot or frolic, but this being moped away his time and solitude, never associated with any other young people, never mounted a horse but when he could not help it, and never fired a gun or angled for a fish in his life. Some people supposed him to be half an idiot, or at least not to be in his right mind, and indeed his conduct was so very perverse and singular that I do not wonder at those who accounted for it in this way. But surely, said I, he had some object of pursuit. Perhaps he was addicted to books. Far from it, on the contrary, his aversion to school was as great as his hatred of the plow. He never could get his lessons or bear the least constraint. He was so much indulged by his mother at home that tasks and discipline of any kind were intolerable. He was a perpetual truant till, the master one day attempting to strike him, he ran out of the room and never entered it more. The mother excused and countenanced his forwardness, and the foolish father was obliged to give way. I do not believe he had two months schooling in his life. Perhaps, said I, he preferred studying by himself and at liberty. I have known boys endowed with great curiosity and aptitude to learning who never could endure set tasks and spurned at the pedagogue in his rod. I have known such likewise, but this was not one of them. I know not whence he could derive his love of knowledge or the means of acquiring it. The family were totally illiterate. The father was a scotch peasant whose ignorance was so great that he could not sign his name. His wife, I believe, could read and might sometimes decipher the figures in an almanac, but that was all. I am apt to think that the son's ability was not much greater. You might as well look for silver platters or marble tables in his house as for a book or a pen. I remember calling at their house one evening in the winter before last. It was intensely cold, and my father, who rode with me, having business with Sonny Mervyn, we stopped a minute at his gate, and while the two old men were engaged in conversation, I begged leave to warm myself by the kitchen fire. Here, in the chimney-corner, seated on a block, I found Arthur busily engaged in knitting stockings. I thought this a whimsical employment for an active young man. I told him so, for I wanted to put him to the blush, but he smiled in my face and answered without the least discomposure. Just as whimsical a business for a young active woman. Pray, did you never knit a stocking? Yes, but that was from necessity. Were I of a different sex, or did I possess the strength of a man I should rather work in my field or study my book? Rejoice that you are a woman, then, and are at liberty to pursue that which costs least labor and demands most skill. You see, though a man, I use your privilege, and prefer knitting yarn to threshing my brain with a book or the barn-floor with a flail. I wonder, said I, contemptuously, you do not put on the petticoat as well as handle the needle. Do not wonder, he replied, it is because I hate a petticoat encumbrance as much as I love warm feet. Look there, offering the stocking to my inspection, is it not well done? I did not touch it, but sneeringly said, excellent, I wonder you do not apprentice yourself to a tailor. He looked at me with an air of ridiculous simplicity and said, how prone the woman is to wonder. You call the work excellent, and yet wonder that I do not make myself a slave to improve my skill. Did you learn needlework from seven years squatting on the tailor's board? Had you come to me, I would have taught you in a day. I was taught at school, and paid your instructor, to be sure. Twas liberty and money thrown away, send your sister if you have one to me, and I will teach her without either rod or wages, will you? You have an old and violent antipathy, I believe, to anything like a school. True, it was early and violent. Had not you? No, I went to school with pleasure, for I thought to read and write were accomplishments of some value. Indeed, then I misunderstood you just now. I thought you said that had you the strength of a man you should prefer the plow and the book to the needle. Once supposing you a female, I inferred that you had a woman's love for the needle, and a fool's hatred of books. My father, calling me from without, I now made a motion to go. Stay, continued he, with great earnestness, throwing aside his knitting apparatus, and beginning in great haste to pull off his stockings. Draw these stockings over your shoes. They will save your feet from the snow while walking to your horse. Half angry and half laughing, I declined the offer. He had drawn them off, however, and holding them in his hand. Be persuaded, said he, only lift your feet, and I will slip them on in a trice. Finding me positive in my refusal, he dropped the stockings, and, without more ado, caught me up in his arms, rushed out of the room, and running barefoot through the snow, set me fairly on my horse. All was done in a moment, and before I had time to reflect on his intentions, he then seized my hand, and kissing it with great fervor exclaimed, A thousand thanks to you for not accepting my stockings. You have thereby saved yourself and me the time and toil of drawing on and drawing off. Since you have taught me to wonder, let me practice the lesson in wondering at your folly in wearing worsted shoes and silk stockings at a season like this. Take my counsel and turn your silk into worsted, and your worsted into leather. Then may you hope for warm feet and dry. What? Leave the gate without a blessing on your counselor? I spurred my horse into a gallop, glad to escape from so strange a being. I could give you many instances of behavior equally singular, and which betrayed a mixture of shrewdness and folly, of kindness and impudence, which justified perhaps the common notion that his intellects were unsound. Nothing was more remarkable than his impenetrability to ridicule and censure. You might revile him for hours, and he would listen to you with invincible composure. To awaken anger or shame in him was impossible. He would answer, but in such a way as to show him totally unaware of your true meaning. He would afterwards talk to you with all the smiling affability and freedom of an old friend. Everyone despised him for his idleness and folly, no less conspicuous in his words than his actions, but no one feared him, and few were angry with him, till after the detection of his commerce with Betty and his inhuman treatment of his father. Have you good reasons for supposing him to have been illicitly connected with that girl? Yes, such as cannot be discredited. It would not be proper for me to state these proofs. Nay, he never denied it. When reminded on one occasion of the inference which every impartial person would draw from the appearances, he acknowledged with his usual placid effrontery that the inference was unavoidable. He even mentioned other concurring and contemporary incidents which had eluded the observation of a censurer which added still more force to the conclusion. He was studious to palliate the vices of this woman as long as he was her only paramour, but after her marriage with his father the tone was changed. He confessed that she was tidy, notable, industrious, but then she was a prostitute. When charged with being instrumental in making her such, and when his companions dwelt upon the depravity of reviling her for vices which she owed to him. True, he would say, there is depravity and folly in the conduct you describe. Make me out, if you please, to be a villain. What then? I was talking not of myself but of Betty. Still, this woman is a prostitute. If it were I that made her such, with more confidence, may I make the charge. But think not that I blame Betty. Place me in her situation, and I should have acted just so. I should have formed just such notions of my interest and pursued it by the same means. Still, say I, I would feign have a different woman for my father's wife and the mistress of his family. End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 of Arthur Mervin. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Arthur Mervin by Charles Brockton Brown Chapter 26 This conversation was interrupted by a messenger from my wife who desired my return immediately. I had some hopes of meeting with Mervin some days having now elapsed since his parting from us and not being conscious of any extraordinary modus for delay. It was wordly, however, and not Mervin to whom I was called. My friend came to share with me his suspicions and inquietudes respecting Welbeck and Mervin. An accident had newly happened which had awakened these suspicions afresh. He desired a patient audience while he explained them to me. These were his words. Today a person presented me a letter from a mercantile friend at Baltimore. I easily discerned the bearer to be a sea captain. He was a man of sensible and pleasing aspect and was recommended to my friendship and counsel in the letter which he brought. The letter stated that a man by name Amos Watson, by profession a mariner and a resident at Baltimore, had disappeared in the summer of last year in a mysterious and incomprehensible manner. He was known to have arrived in this city from Jamaica and to have intended an immediate journey to his family who lived at Baltimore, but he never arrived there and no trace of his existence has since been discovered. The bearer had come to investigate if possible the secret of his fate, and I was earnestly entreated to afford him all the assistance and advice in my power in the prosecution of his search. I expressed my willingness to serve the stranger whose name was Williams, and after offering him entertainment at my house which was thankfully accepted he proceeded to unfold to me the particulars of this affair. His story was this. On the twentieth of last June I arrived, said he, from the West Indies in company with Captain Watson. I commanded the ship in which he came as a passenger, his own ship being taken and confiscated by the English. We had long lived in habits of strict friendship, and I loved him for his own sake as well as because he had married my sister. We landed in the morning and went to dine with Mr. Kisler, since dead, but who then lived in Water Street. He was extremely anxious to visit his family, and having a few commissions to perform in the city which would not demand more than a couple of hours he determined to set out next morning in the stage. Meanwhile I had engagements which required me to repair with the utmost expedition to New York. I was scarcely less anxious than my brother to reach Baltimore where my friends also reside, but there was an absolute necessity of going eastward. I expected, however, to return hither in three days and then to follow Watson home. Shortly after dinner we parted, he to execute his commissions and I to embark in the mail stage. In the time prefixed I returned. I arrived early in the morning and prepared to depart again at noon. Meanwhile I called at Kisler's. This is an old acquaintance of Watson's and mine, and in the course of talk he expressed some surprise that Watson had so precipitately deserted his house. I stated the necessity there was for Watson's immediate departure southward, and added that no doubt my brother had explained this necessity. Why, said Kisler, it is true, Captain Watson mentioned his intention of leaving town early next day, but then he gave me reason to expect that he would sup and lodge with me that night, whereas he has not made his appearance since. Besides, his trunk was brought to my house. This, no doubt, he intended to carry home with him, but here it remains still. It is not likely that in the hurry of departure his baggage was forgotten. Hence, I inferred that he was still in town and have been puzzling myself these three days with conjectures as to what has become of him. What surprises me more is that, on inquiring among the few friends which he has in this city, I find them as ignorant of his motions as myself. I have not indeed been holy without apprehensions that some accident or other has befallen him. I was not a little alarmed by this intimation. I went myself agreeably to Kisler's directions to Watson's friends and made anxious inquiries, but none of them had seen my brother since his arrival. I endeavored to recollect the commissions which he designed to execute, and, if possible, to trace him to the spot where he last appeared. He had several packets to deliver, one of which was addressed to Walter Thetford. Him, after some inquiry, I found out, but unluckily he chanced to be in the country. I found, by questioning a clerk who transacted his business in his absence, that a person who answered the minute description which I gave of Watson had been there on the day on which I parted with him, and had left papers relative to the capture of one of Thetford's vessels by the English. This was the sum of the information he was able to afford me. I then applied to three merchants for whom my brother had letters. They all acknowledged the receipt of these letters, but they were delivered through the medium of the post office. I was extremely anxious to reach home. Urgent engagements compelled me to go on without delay. I had already exhausted all the means of inquiry within my reach, and was obliged to acquiesce in the belief that Watson had preceded Homeward at the time appointed, and left, by forgetfulness or accident, his trunk behind him. On examining the books kept at the stage offices, his name nowhere appeared, and no conveyance by water had occurred during the last week. Still the only conjecture I could form was that he had gone Homeward. Arriving at Baltimore I found that Watson had not yet made his appearance. His wife produced a letter which, by the postmark, appeared to have been put into the office at Philadelphia on the morning after our arrival, and on which he had designed to commence his journey. This letter had been written by my brother in my presence, but I had dissuaded him from sending it, since the same coach that should bear the letter was likewise to carry himself. I had seen him put it unwavered in his pocket-book, but this letter unaltered in any part, and containing money which he had at first intended to enclose in it, was now conveyed to his wife's hand. In this letter he mentioned his design of setting out for Baltimore on the twenty-first, yet on that day the letter itself had been put into the office. We hoped that a short time would clear up this mystery and bring the fugitive home, but from that day till present no atom of intelligence has been received concerning him. The yellow fever which quickly followed in this city and my own engagements have hindered me till now, from coming hither and resuming the search. My brother was one of the most excellent of men. His wife loved him to distraction, and together with his children depended for subsistence upon his efforts. You will not therefore be surprised that his disappearance excited in us, the deepest consternation and distress, but I have other and peculiar reasons for wishing to know his fate. I gave him several bills of exchange on merchants of Baltimore which I had received in payment of my cargo in order that they might as soon as possible be presented and accepted. These have disappeared with the bearer. There is likewise another circumstance that makes his existence of no small value. There is an English family who formerly resided in Jamaica, and possessed an estate of great value, but who for some years have lived in the neighborhood of Baltimore. The head of this family died a year ago and left a widow and three daughters. The lady thought it eligible to sell her husband's property in Jamaica, the island becoming hourly more exposed to the chances of war and revolution, and transfer it to the United States where she purposes henceforth to reside. Watson had been her husband's friend, and his probity and disinterestedness being well known, she entrusted him with legal powers to sell his estate. This commission was punctually performed, and the purchase money was received. In order to confer on it the utmost possible security, he rolled up four bills of exchange drawn upon opulent merchants of London in a thin sheet of lead, and depositing this roll in a leathern girdle fastened it round his waist and under his clothes, a second set he gave to me, and a third dispatched to Mr. Keisler by a vessel which sailed a few days before him. On our arrival in this city we found that Keisler had received those transmitted to him, and which he had been charged to keep till our arrival. They were now produced, and together with those which I had carried were delivered to Watson. By him they were joined to those in the girdle which he still wore conceiving this method of conveyance to be safer than any other, and at the same time imagining it needless in so short a journey as remained to be performed, to resort to other expedience. The sum which he thus bore about him was no less than ten thousand pounds sterling. It constituted the whole patrimony of a worthy and excellent family, and the loss of it reduces them to beggary. It is gone with Watson, and wither Watson has gone it is impossible even to guess. You may now easily conceive, sir, the dreadful disasters which may be connected with this man's fate, and with what immeasurable anxiety his family and friends have regarded his disappearance. That he is alive can scarcely be believed, for in what situation could he be placed in which he would not be able and willing to communicate some tidings of his fate to his family? Our grief has been unspeakably aggravated by the suspicions which Mrs. Morris and her friends have allowed themselves to admit. They do not scruple to insinuate that Watson, tempted by so great a prize, has secretly embarked for England in order to obtain payment for these bills and retain the money for his own use. No man was more impatient of poverty than Watson, but no man's honesty was more inflexible. He murmured at the destiny that compelled him to sacrifice his ease and risk his life upon the ocean in order to procure the means of subsistence, and all the property which he had spent the best part of his life in collecting had just been ravished away from him by the English, but if he had yielded to this temptation at any time it would have been on receiving these bills at Jamaica. Instead of coming hither it would have been infinitely more easy and convenient to have embarked directly for London, but none who thoroughly knew him can, for a moment, harbor a suspicion of his truth. If he be dead and the bills are not to be recovered, yet to ascertain this will at least serve to vindicate his character. As long as his fate is unknown his fame will be loaded with the most flagrant imputations, and if these bills be ever paid in London these imputations will appear to be justified. If he has been robbed the robber will make haste to secure the payment, and the morises may not unreasonably conclude that the robber was Watson himself. Many other particulars were added by the stranger to show the extent of the evils flowing from the death of his brother and the loss of the papers which he carried with him. I was greatly at a loss, continued wartly, what directions or advice to afford this man. Keisler, as you know, died early of the pestilence, but Keisler was the only resident in this city with whom Williams had any acquaintance. On mentioning the propriety of preventing the sale of these bills in America, by some public notice he told me that this caution had been early taken, and I now remembered seeing the advertisement in which the bills had been represented as having been lost or stolen in this city, and a reward of a thousand dollars was offered to anyone who should restore them. This caution had been published in September, and all the trading towns from Portsmouth to Savannah, but had produced no satisfaction. I accompanied Williams to the mayor's office in hopes of finding in the records of his proceedings during the last six months some traces of Watson, but neither these records nor the memory of the magistrate afforded us any satisfaction. Watson's friends had drawn up likewise a description of the person and dress of the fugitive, an account of the incidents attending his disappearance, and of the papers which he had in his possession with the manner in which these papers had been secured. These had been already published in the southern newspapers and have been just reprinted in our own. As the former notice had availed nothing, this second expedient was thought necessary to be employed. After some reflection it occurred to me that it might be proper to renew the attempt which Williams had made to trace the footsteps of his friend to the moment of his final disappearance. He had pursued Watson to Thetford's, but Thetford himself had not been seen, and he had been contented with the vague information of his clerk. Thetford and his family, including his clerk, had perished, and it seemed as if this source of information was dried up. It was possible, however, that old Thetford might have some knowledge of his nephew's transactions, by which some light might chance to be thrown upon this obscurity. I therefore called on him, but found him utterly unable to afford me the light that I wished. My mention of the packet which Watson had brought to Thetford containing documents respecting the capture of a certain ship reminded him of the injuries which he had received from Welbeck, and excited him to renew his menaces and imputations on that wretch. Having somewhat exhausted this rhetoric, he proceeded to tell me what connection there was between the remembrance of his injuries and the capture of this vessel. This vessel and its cargo were, in fact, the property of Welbeck. They had been sent to a good market, and had been secured by an adequate insurance. The value of this ship and cargo and the validity of the policy he had taken care to ascertain by means of his two nephews, one of whom had gone out supercargo. This had formed his inducement to lend his three notes to Welbeck in exchange for three other notes, the whole amount of which included the equitable interest of five percent per month on his own loan. For the payment of these notes he, by no means, relied, as the world foolishly imagined, on the seeming opulence and secret funds of Welbeck. These were illusions too gross to have any influence on him. He was too old a bird to be decoyed into the net by such chaff. No, his nephew, the supercargo, would of course receive the produce of the voyage, and so much of this produce as would pay his debt he had procured the owner's authority to intercept its passage from the pocket of his nephew to that of Welbeck. In case of loss he had obtained a similar security upon the policy. Jameson's proceedings had been the same with his own, and no affair in which he had ever engaged had appeared to be more free from hazard than this. Their calculations, however, though plausible, were defeated. The ship was taken and condemned for a cause which rendered the insurance ineffectual. I bestowed no time in reflecting on this tissue of extortions and frauds, and on that course of events which so often disconcerts the stratagems of cunning. The names of Welbeck and Watson were thus associated together, and filled my thoughts with restlessness and suspicion. Welbeck was capable of any weakness. It was possible an interview had happened between these men, and that the fugitive had been some way instrumental in Watson's fate. These thoughts were mentioned to Williams, whom the name of Welbeck threw into the utmost perturbation. On finding that one of this name had dwelt in the city and that he had proved a villain, he instantly admitted the most dreary forebodings. I have heard, said Williams, the history of this Welbeck a score of times from my brother. There formerly subsisted a very intimate connection between them. My brother had conferred upon one whom he had thought honest innumerable benefits, but all his benefits had been repaid by the blackest treachery. Welbeck's character and guilt had often been made the subject of talk between us, but on these occasions my brother's placid and patient temper foresoaked him. His grief for the calamities which had sprung from this man and his desire of revenge burst all bounds and transported him to a pitch of temporary frenzy. I often inquired in what manner he intended to act if a meeting should take place between them. He answered that doubtless he should act like a maniac in defiance of his sober principles and of the duty which he owed his family. What, said I, would you stab or pistol him? No, I was not born for an assassin. I would upbraid him in such terms as the furious moment might suggest and then challenge him to a meeting from which either he or I should not part with life. I would allow him time to make his peace with heaven and for me to blast his reputation upon earth and to make such provision for my possible death as duty and discretion would prescribe. Now, nothing is more probable than that Wellbeck and my brother have met. Thetford would, of course, mention his name and interest in the captured ship, and hence the residence of this detested being in this city would be made known. Their meeting could not take place without some dreadful consequence. I am fearful that to that meeting we must impute the disappearance of my brother. Here was new light thrown upon the character of Wellbeck, and new food administered to my suspicions. No conclusion could be more plausible than that which Williams had drawn, but how should it be rendered certain? Walter Thetford or some of his family had possibly been witnesses of something which, added to our previous knowledge, might strengthen or prolong that clue, one end of which seemed now to be put into our hands, but Thetford's father-in-law was the only one of his family who, by seasonable flight from the city, had escaped the pestilence. To him who still resided in the country, I repaired with all speed accompanied by Williams. The old man, being reminded by a variety of circumstances of the incidence of that eventful period, was, at length, enabled to relate that he had been present at the meeting which took place between Watson and his son Walter, when certain packets were delivered by the former, relative, as he quickly understood, to the condemnation of a ship in which Thomas Thetford had gone supercargo. He had noticed some emotion of the stranger occasioned by his sons mentioning the concern which Wellbeck had in the vessel. He likewise remembered the strangers declaring his intentions of visiting Wellbeck and requesting Walter to afford him directions to his house. Next morning at breakfast-table, continued the old man, I converted to yesterday's incidence and asked my son how Wellbeck had borne the news of the loss of his ship. He bore it, said Walter, as a man of his wealth ought to bear so trivial a loss. But there was something very strange in his behavior, says my son, when I mentioned the name of the captain who brought in the papers, and when I mentioned the captain's design of paying him a visit, he stared upon me for a moment as if he were fried out of his wits, and then snatching up his hat ran furiously out of the house. This was all my son set upon that occasion. But, as I have since heard, it was on that very night that Wellbeck absconded from his creditors. I have this moment returned from this interview with old Thetford. I come to you because I thought it possible that Mervin, agreeably to your expectations, had returned, and I had wanted to see the lad once more. My suspicions with regard to him have been confirmed, and a warrant was this day issued for apprehending him as Wellbeck's accomplice. I was startled by this news. My friend, said I, be cautious how you act I beseech you. You know not in what evils you may involve the innocent. Mervin I know to be blameless, but Wellbeck is indeed a villain. The latter I shall not be sorry to see brought to justice, but the former, instead of meriting punishment, is entitled to rewards. So you believe, on the mere assertion of the boy, perhaps his plausible lies might produce the same effect upon me, but I must stay till he thinks proper to exert his skill. The suspicions to which he is exposed will not be easily obviated, but if he has anything to say in his defense his judicial examination will afford him the suitable opportunity. Why are you so much afraid to subject his innocence to this test? It was not till you heard his tale that your own suspicions were removed allow me the same privilege of unbelief. But you do me wrong in deeming me the cause of his apprehension. It is Jameson and Thetford's work, and they have not proceeded on shadowy surmises and the impulses of mere revenge. Facts have come to light of which you are wholly unaware, and which, when known to you, will conquer even your incredulity as to the guilt of Mervin. Facts? Let me know them I beseech you. If Mervin has deceived me, then there is an end to my confidence in human nature. All limits to dissimulation and all distinctness between vice and virtue will be afaced. No man's word nor force of collateral evidence shall weigh with me a hair. It was time, replied my friend, that your confidence in smooth features and fluent accents should have ended long ago, till I gained from my present profession some knowledge of the world a knowledge which was not gained in a moment and has not cost a trifle, I was equally wise in my own conceit, and in order to decide upon the truth of any one's pretensions needed only a clear view of his face and distinct hearing of his words. My folly in that respect was only to be cured, however, by my own experience, and I suppose your credulity will yield to no other remedy. These are the facts. Mrs. Wentworth, the proprietor of the house in which Wellbeck lived, has furnished some intelligence respecting Mervin whose truth cannot be doubted and which furnishes the strongest evidence of a conspiracy between this lad and his employer. It seems that, some years since, a nephew of this lady left his father's family clandestinely and has not been heard of since. This nephew was intended to inherit her fortunes, and her anxieties and inquiries respecting him have been endless and incessant. These, however, have been fruitless. Wellbeck, knowing these circumstances and being desirous of substituting a girl whom he had molded for his purpose in place of the lost youth in the affections of the lady while living, and in her testament when dead, endeavored to persuade her that the youth had died in some foreign country. For this end Mervin was to personate a kinsman of Wellbeck who had just arrived from Europe and who had been a witness of her nephew's death. A story was no doubt to be contrived where truth should be copied with the most exquisite dexterity, and the lady being prevailed upon to believe the story the way was cleared for accomplishing the remainder of the plot. In due time, and after the lady's mind had been artfully prepared by Wellbeck, the pupil made his appearance, and in a conversation full of studied ambiguities assured the lady that her nephew was dead. For the present he declined relating the particulars of his death and displayed a constancy and intrepidity in resisting her in treaties that would have been admirable in a better cause. Before she had time to fathom this painful mystery, Wellbeck's frauds were in danger of detection, and he and his pupil suddenly disappeared. While the plot was going forward there occurred an incident which the plotters had not foreseen or precluded, and which possibly might have created some confusion or impediment in their designs. A bundle was found one night in the street, consisting of some coarse clothes and containing in the midst of it the miniature portrait of Mrs. Wentworth's nephew. It fell into the hands of one of that lady's friends who immediately dispatched the bundle to her. Mervyn, in his interview with this lady, spied the portrait on the mantelpiece, led by some freak of fancy or some web of artifice. He introduced the talk, respecting her nephew, by boldly claiming it as his, but when the mode in which it had been found was mentioned, he was disconcerted and confounded and precipitately withdrew. This conduct and the subsequent flight of the lad afforded ground enough to question the truth of his intelligence, respecting her nephew, but it has since been confuted in a letter just received from her brother in England. In this letter she is informed that her nephew had been seen by one who knew him well in Charleston, that some intercourse took place between the youth and the bearer of the news, in the course of which the latter had persuaded the nephew to return to his family, and that the youth had given some tokens of compliance. The letter-writer, who was the father to the fugitive, had written to certain friends at Charleston and treating them to use their influence with the runaway to the same end, and at any rate to cherish and protect him. Thus I hope you will admit that the duplicity of Mervin is demonstrated. The facts which you have mentioned, said I, after some pause, partly correspond with Mervin's story, but the last particular is irreconcilably repugnant to it. Now for the first time I begin to feel that my confidence is shaken. I feel my mind bewildered and distracted by the multitude of new discoveries which have just taken place. I want time to revolve them slowly, to weigh them accurately, and to estimate their consequences fully. I am afraid to speak, fearing that in the present trouble of my thoughts I may say something which I may afterwards regret. I want a counselor, but you, Wortley, are unfit for the office. Your judgment is unfurnished with the same materials. Your sufferings have soured your humanity and biased your candor. The only one qualified to divide me from these cares and aid in selecting the best mode of action is my wife. She is mistress of Mervin's history, an observer of his conduct during his abode with us, and is hindered by her education and temper from deviating into rigor and malevolence. Will you pardon me, therefore, if I defer commenting on your narrative till I have had an opportunity of reviewing it and comparing it with my knowledge of the lad collected from himself and from my own observation? Wortley could not but admit the justice of my request and after some desultory conversation we parted. I hastened to communicate to my wife the various intelligence which I had lately received. Mrs. Althorp's portrait of the Mervin's contained lineaments which the summary detail of Arthur did not enable us to fully comprehend. The treatment which the youth has said to have given to his father, the illicit commerce that subsisted between him and his father's wife, the pillage of money and his father's horse, but ill accorded with the tale which we had heard, and disquieted our minds with doubts, though far from dictating our belief. What, however more deeply absorbed our attention, was the testimony of Williams and Mrs. Wentworth. That which was mysterious and inscrutable to Wortley and the Friends of Watson was luminous to us. The coincidence between the vague hints laboriously collected by these inquirers and the narrative of Mervin afforded the most cogent attestation of the truth of that narrative. Watson had vanished from all eyes, but the spot where rested his remains was known to us. The girdle spoken of by Williams would not be suspected to exist by his murderer. It was unmolested and was doubtless buried with him. That which was so earnestly sought and which constituted the subsistence of the morises would probably be found adhering to his body. What conduct was incumbent on me who possessed this knowledge? It was just to restore these bills to their true owner, but how could this be done without hazardous processes and tedious disclosures? To whom ought these disclosures to be made? By what authority or agency could these half-decade limbs be dug up and the lost treasure be taken from amidst the horrible corruption in which it was immersed? This ought not to be the act of a single individual. The act would entangle him in a maze of perils and suspicions of concealments and evasions from which he could not hope to escape with his reputation and violet. The proper method was through the agency of the law. It is to this that Mervyn must submit his conduct. The story which he told me he must tell to the world. Suspicions have fixed themselves upon him which allow him not the privilege of silence and obscurity. While he continued unknown and unthought of, the publication of his story would only give unnecessary birth to dangers, but now dangers are incurred which it may probably contribute to lessen if not to remove. Meanwhile the return of Mervyn to the city was anxiously expected. Day after day passed and no tidings were received. I had business of an urgent nature which required my presence in Jersey, but which in the daily expectation of the return of my young friend I postponed a week longer than rigid discretion allowed. At length I was obliged to comply with the exigence and left the city, but made such arrangements that I should be apprised by my wife of Mervyn's return with all practicable expedition. These arrangements were superfluous, for my business was dispatched and my absence at an end before the youth had given us any tokens of his approach. I now remembered the warnings of Wortley and his assertions that Mervyn had withdrawn himself forever from our view. The event had hitherto unwelcomely coincided with these predictions and a thousand doubts and misgivings were awakened. One evening while preparing to shake off gloomy thoughts by a visit to a friend, someone knocked at my door and left a billet containing these words. Dr. Stevens is requested to come immediately to the debtor's apartments in Prune Street. This billet was without signature. The handwriting was unknown, and the precipitate departure of the bearer left me wholly at a loss with respect to the person of the rider, or the end for which my presence was required. This uncertainty only hastened my compliance with the summons. The evening was approaching, a time when the prison doors are accustomed to be shut and strangers to be excluded. This furnished an additional reason for dispatch. As I walked swiftly along I revolved the possible motives that might have prompted this message. A conjecture was soon formed which led to apprehension and inquietude. One of my friends, by name Carlton, was embarrassed with debts which he was unable to discharge. He had lately been menaced with arrest by a creditor not accustomed to remit any of his claims. I dreaded that this catastrophe had now happened, and called to mind the anguish with which this untoward incident would overwhelm his family. I knew his incapacity to take away the claim of his creditor by payment, or to soothe him into clemency by supplication. So prone is the human mind to create for itself distress that I was not aware of the uncertainty of this evil till I arrived at the prison. I checked myself at the moment when I opened my lips to utter the name of my friend, and was admitted without particular inquiries. I supposed that he by whom I had been summoned hither would meet me in the common room. The apartment was filled with pale faces and withered forms. The marks of negligence and poverty were visible in all, but few betrayed in their features or gestures any symptoms of concern on account of their condition. Ferocious gaiety or stupid indifference seemed to sit on every brow. The vapor from a heated stove mingled with the fumes of beer and tallow that were spilled upon it, and with the tainted breath of so promiscuous a crowd loaded the stagnant atmosphere. At my first transition from the cold and pure air without to this noxious element I found it difficult to breathe. A moment, however, reconciled me to my situation, and I looked anxiously round to discover some face which I knew. Almost every mouth was furnished with a cigar and every hand with a glass of porter. Conversation carried on with much emphasis of tone and gesture was not wanting. Sundry groups in different corners were beguiling the tedious hours at wist. Others, unemployed, were strolling to and fro and testified their vacancy of thought and care by humming or whistling a tune. I fostered the hope that my prognostics had deceived me. This hope was strengthened by reflecting that the billet received was written in a different hand from that of my friend. Meanwhile I continued my search. Seated on a bench, silent and aloof from the crowd, his eyes fixed upon the floor and his face half concealed by his hand, a form was at length discovered which verified all my conjectures and fears. Carlton was he. My heart drooped and my tongue faltered at this sight. I surveyed him for some minutes in silence. At length approaching the bench on which he sat, I touched his hand and awakened him from his reverie. He looked up. A momentary gleam of joy and surprise was succeeded by a gloom deeper than before. It was plain that my friend needed consolation. He was governed by an exquisite sensibility to disgrace. He was impatient of constraint. He shrunk with fastidious abhorrence from the contact of the vulgar and the profligate. His constitution was delicate and feeble. Impure heirs restraint from exercise, unusual element, unwholesome or incommodious accommodations, and perturbed thoughts were, at any time, sufficient to generate disease and to deprive him of life. To these evils he was now subjected. He had no money wherewith to purchase food. He had been dragged hither in the morning. He had not tasted a morsel since his entrance. He had not provided a bed on which to lie or inquired in what room or with what companions the night was to be spent. Fortitude was not among my friend's qualities. He was more prone to shrink from danger than encounter it and to yield to the flood rather than sustain it. But it is just to observe that his anguish on the present occasion arose not wholly from selfish considerations. His parents were dead and two sisters were dependent on him for support. One of these was nearly of his own age. The other was scarcely emerged from childhood. There was an intellectual as well as a personal resemblance between my friend and his sisters. They possessed his physical infirmities, his vehement passions and refinements of taste, and the misery of his condition was ten fold increased by reflecting on the feelings which would be awakened in them by the knowledge of his state and the hardships to which the loss of his succor would expose them. CHAPTER XXVIII It was not in my power to release my friend by the payment of his debt, but by contracting with the keeper of the prison for his board I could save him from famine and by suitable exertions could procure him lodging as convenient as the time would admit. I could promise to console and protect his sisters and by cheerful tones and frequent visits to spell some part of the evil which encompassed him. After the first surprise had subsided he inquired by what accident this meeting had been produced. Conscious of my incapacity to do him any essential service and unwilling to make me a partaker in his miseries he had foreborn to inform me of his condition. This assurance was listened to with some wonder. I showed him the billet. It had not been written by him. He was a stranger to the penmanship. None but the attorney and officer were apprised of his fate. It was obvious to conclude that this was the interposition of some friend who, knowing my affection for Carlton, had taken this mysterious method of calling me to his sucker. Conjectures as to the author and motives of this interposition were suspended by more urgent considerations. I requested an interview with the keeper and inquired how Carlton could be best accommodated. He said that all his rooms were full but one, which, in consequence of the dismission of three persons in the morning, had at present but one tenant. This person had lately arrived, was sick, and had with him at this time one of his friends. Carlton might divide the chamber with this person. No doubt his consent would be readily given, though this arrangement being the best must take place whether he consented or not. This consent I resolved immediately to seek, and for that purpose desired to be led to the chamber. The door of the apartment was shut. I knocked for admission. It was instantly opened, and I entered. The first person who met my view was Arthur Mervin. I started with astonishment. Mervin's countenance betrayed nothing but satisfaction at the interview. The traces of fatigue and anxiety gave place to tenderness and joy. It readily occurred to me that Mervin was the writer of the note which I had lately received. To meet him within these walls and at this time was the most remote and undesirable of all contingencies. The same hour had thus made me acquainted with the kindred and unwelcome fate of two beings whom I most loved. I had scarcely time to return his embrace when, taking my hand, he led me to a bed that stood in one corner. There was stretched upon it one whom a second glance enabled me to call by his name, though I had never before seen him. The vivid portrait which Mervin had drawn was conspicuous in the sunken and haggard visage before me. This face had indeed proportions and lines which could never be forgotten or mistaken. Wellbeck, when once seen or described, was easily distinguished from the rest of mankind. He had stronger motives than other men for abstaining from guilt, the difficulty of concealment or disguise being tenfold greater in him than in others, by reason of the indelible and eye-attracting marks which nature had set upon him. He was pallid and emaciated. He did not open his eyes on my entrance. He seemed to be asleep, but before I had time to exchange glances with Mervin or to inquire into the nature of the scene he awoke. On seeing me he started and cast a look of upbraiding on my companion. The latter comprehended his emotion and endeavored to appease him. This person, said he, is my friend. He is likewise a physician, and perceiving your state to require medical assistance I ventured to send for him. Wellbeck replied in a contemptuous and indignant tone, Thou mistakeest my conditioned boy. My disease lies deeper than his scrutiny will ever reach. I had hoped Thou were't gone. Thy importunities are well meant, but they aggravate my miseries. He now rose from the bed and continued in a firm and resolute tone. You are intruders into this apartment. It is mine, and I desire to be left alone. Mervin returned at first. No answer to this address. He was immersed in perplexity. At length, raising his eyes from the floor, he said, My intentions are indeed honest, and I am grieved that I want the power of persuasion. Tomorrow, perhaps, I may reason more cogently with your despair, or your present mood may be changed. To aid my own weakness I will entreat the assistance of this friend. These words roused a new spirit in Wellbeck. His confusion and anger increased. His tongue faltered as he exclaimed, Good God, what mean you? Head long and rash as you are, you will not share with this person your knowledge of me! Here he checked himself, conscious that the words he had already uttered tended to the very end which he dreaded. This consciousness added to the terror of more ample disclosures which the simplicity and rectitude of Mervin might prompt him to make chained up his tongue and covered him with dismay. Mervin was not long in answering. I comprehend your fears and your wishes. I am bound to tell you the truth. To this person your story has already been told. Whatever I have witnessed under your roof, whatever I have heard from your lips, have been faithfully disclosed to him. The countenance of Wellbeck now betrayed a mixture of incredulity and horror. For a time his utterance was stifled by his complicated feelings. It cannot be. So enormous a deed is beyond thy power. Thy qualities are marvelous. Every new act of thine outstrips the last and belies the newest calculations. But this, this perfidy exceeds, this outrage upon promises, this violation of faith, this blindness to the future is incredible. There he stopped, while his looks seemed to call upon Mervin for a contradiction of his first assertion. I know full well how inexpeably stupid or wicked my act will appear to you, but I will not prevaricate or lie. I repeat that everything is known to him. Your birth, your early fortunes, the incidents at Charleston and Wilmington, your treatment of the brother and sister, your interview with Watson, and the fatal issue of that interview I have told him all, just as it was told to me. Here the shock that was felt by Wellbeck overpowered his caution and his strength. He sunk upon the side of the bed. His air was still incredulous, and he continued to gaze upon Mervin. And he continued to gaze upon Mervin. He spoke in a tone less vehement. And hast thou then betrayed me? Hast thou shut every avenue to my return to honor? Am I known to be a seducer and assassin? To have meditated all crimes and to have perpetrated the worst? Infamy and death are my portion. I know they are reserved for me, but I did not think to receive them at thy hands, and under that innocent guise there lurked a heart treacherous and cruel. But go, leave me to myself. This stroke has exterminated my remnant of hope. Leave me to prepare my neck for the halter and my lips for this last and bitterest cup. Mervin struggled with his tears and replied, All this was foreseen, and all this I was prepared to endure. My friend and I will withdraw as you wish, but tomorrow I return, not to vindicate my faith or my humanity, not to make you recant your charges or forgive the faults which I seem to have committed, but to extricate you from your present evil, or to arm you with fortitude. So saying he led the way out of the room. I followed him in silence. The strangeness and abruptness of this scene left me no power to assume a part in it. I looked on with new and indescribable sensations. I reached the street before my recollection was perfectly recovered. I then reflected on the purpose that had led me to Wellbeck's chamber. This purpose was yet unaccomplished. I desired Mervin to linger a moment while I returned into the house. I once more inquired for the keeper, and told him I should leave to him the province of acquainting Wellbeck with the necessity of sharing his apartment with a stranger. I speedily rejoined Mervin in the street. I lost no time in requiring an explanation of the scene that I had witnessed. How became you once more the companion of Wellbeck? Why did you not inform me by letter of your arrival at Malverton and of what occurred during your absence? What is the fate of Mr. Hadwin and of Wallace? Alas! said he. I perceive that though I have written you have never received my letters. The tale of what has occurred since we parted is long and various. I am not only willing but eager to communicate the story, but this is no suitable place. Have patience till we reach your house. I have involved myself in perils and embarrassments from which I depend upon your counsel and aid to release me. I had scarcely reached my own door when I was overtaken by a servant whom I knew to belong to the family in which Carlton and his sisters resided. Her message, therefore, was readily guessed. She came, as I expected, to inquire for my friend who had left his home in the morning with a stranger and had not yet returned. His absence had occasioned some inquietude and his sister had sent this message to me to procure what information respecting the cause of his detention I was able to give. My perplexity hindered me for some time from answering. I was willing to communicate the painful truth with my own mouth. I saw the necessity of putting an end to her suspense and of preventing the news from reaching her with fallacious aggravations or at an unseasonable time. I told the messenger that I had just parted with Mr. Carlton, and that he was well, and that I would speedily come and acquaint his sister with the cause of his absence. Though burning with curiosity respecting Mervin and Welbeck, I readily postponed its gratification till my visit to Miss Carlton was performed. I had rarely seen this lady, my friendship for her brother, though ardent, having been lately formed and chiefly matured by interviews at my house. I had designed to introduce her to my wife, but various accidents had hindered the execution of my purpose. Now consolation and counsel were more needed than ever, and delay or reluctance in bestowing it would have been, in a high degree, unpardonable. I therefore parted with Mervin, requesting him to await my return and promising to perform the engagement which compelled me to leave him with the utmost dispatch. On entering Miss Carlton's apartment I assumed an air of as much tranquility as possible. I found the lady seated at a desk with pen in hand and parchment before her. She greeted me with affectionate dignity and caught from my countenance that cheerfulness of which on my entrance she was destitute. You come, said she, to inform me what has made my brother a truant to-day. Till your message was received I was somewhat anxious. This day he usually spends in rambling through the fields, but so bleak and stormy an atmosphere I suppose would prevent his excursion. I praise her. What is it detains him? To conquer my embarrassment and introduce the subject by indirect and cautious means I eluded her question and, casting an eye at the parchment, How now, said I, this is strange employment for a lady. I knew that my friend pursued this trade and lived by binding fast the bargains which others made, but I knew not that the pen was ever usurped by his sister. The usurpation was prompted by necessity. My brother's impatient temper and delicate frame unfitted him for the trade. He pursued it with no less reluctance than diligence, devoting to the task three nights in the week and the whole of each day. It would long ago have killed him had I not bethought myself of sharing his tasks. The pen was irksome and toilsome at first, but use has made it easy and far more eligible than the needle which was formerly my only tool. This arrangement affords my brother opportunities of exercise and recreation without diminishing our profits, and my time, though not less constantly, is more agreeably as well as more lucratively employed than formerly. I admire your reasoning. By this means provision is made against untoward accidents. If sickness should disable him you are qualified to pursue the same means of support. At this words the ladies countenance changed. She put her hand on my arm and said, in a fluttering and hurried accent, Is my brother sick? No, he is in perfect health. My observation was a harmless one. I am sorry to observe your readiness to draw alarming inferences. If I were to say that your scheme is useful to supply deficiencies not only when your brother is disabled by sickness but when thrown by some inhuman creditor into jail, no doubt you would perversely and hastily infer that he is now in prison. I had scarcely ended the sentence when the piercing eyes of the lady were anxiously fixed upon mine. After a moment's pause she exclaimed, The inference indeed is too plain. I know his fate. It has long been foreseen and expected and I have summoned up my equanimity to meet it. Would to heaven that he may find the calamity as light as I should find it. But I fear his too irritable spirit. When her fears were confirmed she started out into no vehemence of exclamation. She quickly suppressed a few tears which would not be withheld and listened to my narrative of what had lately occurred with tokens of gratitude. Formal consolation was superfluous. Her mind was indeed more fertile than my own in those topics which take away its keenest edge from affliction. She observed that it was far from being the heaviest calamity which might have happened. The creditor was perhaps vencible by arguments and supplications. If these should succeed the disaster would not only be removed but that security from future molestation be gained to which they had for a long time been strangers. Should he be obdurate their state was far from being hopeless. Carlton's situation allowed him to pursue his profession. His gains would be equal and his expenses would not be augmented by their mutual industry they might hope to amass sufficient to discharge the debt at no very remote period. What she chiefly dreaded was the pernicious influence of dejection and sedentary labor on her brother's health, yet this was not to be considered as inevitable. Fortitude might be inspired by exhortation and example, and no condition precluded us from every species of bodily exertion. The less inclined he should prove to cultivate the means of deliverance and happiness within his reach the more necessary it became for her to stimulate and fortify his resolution. If I were captivated by the charms of this lady's person in carriage my reverence was excited by these proofs of wisdom and energy. I zealously promised to concur with her in every scheme she should adopt for her own or her brother's advantage, and after spending some hours with her took my leave. I now regretted the ignorance in which I had hitherto remained respecting this lady, that she was in an eminent degree feminine and lovely was easily discovered, but intellectual weakness had been rashly inferred from external frailty. She was accustomed to shrink from observation and reserve was mistaken for timidity. I called on Carlton only when numerous engagements would allow, and when by some accident his customary visits had been intermitted. On those occasions my stay was short and my attention chiefly confined to her brother. I now resolved to atone for my ancient negligence, not only by my own assiduities but by those of my wife. On my return home I found Mervin and my wife in earnest discourse. I anticipated the shock which the sensibility of the latter would receive from the tidings which I had to communicate respecting Carlton. I was unwilling and yet perceived the necessity of disclosing the truth. I desired to bring these women as soon as possible to the knowledge of each other, but the necessary prelude to this was an acquaintance with the disaster that had happened. Scarcely had I entered the room when Mervin turned to me and said with an air of anxiety and impatience, Pray, my friend, have you any knowledge of Francis Carlton? The mention of this name by Mervin produced some surprise. I acknowledged my acquaintance with him. Do you know in what situation he now is? In answer to this question I stated by what singular means his situation had been known to me and the purpose from the accomplishment of which I had just returned. I inquired in my turn whence originated this question. He had overheard the name of Carlton in the prison. Two persons were communing in a corner, an accident enabled him to catch this name, though uttered by them in a half whisper, and to discover that the person talked about had lately been conveyed hither. This name was not now heard for the first time. It was connected with remembrances that made him anxious for the fate of him to whom it belonged. In discourse with my wife this name chanced to be again mentioned, and his curiosity was roused afresh. I was willing to communicate all that I knew, but Mervin's own destiny was too remarkable not to absorb all my attention, and I refused to discuss any other theme till that were fully explained. He postponed his own gratification to mine and consented to relate the incidents that had happened from the moment of our separation till the present. CHAPTER XXIX At parting with you my purpose was to reach the abode of the had-winds as speedily as possible. I travelled therefore with diligence. Setting out so early I expected, though on foot, to reach the end of my journey before noon. The activity of muscles is no obstacle to thought. So far from being inconsistent with intense musing it is, in my own case, propitious to that state of mind. Probably no one had stronger motives for ardent meditation than I. My second journey to the city was prompted by reasons and attended by incidents that seemed to have a present existence. To think upon them was to view more deliberately and thoroughly objects and persons that still hovered in my sight. Instead of their attributes being already seen and their consequences at an end, it seemed as if a series of numerous years and unintermitted contemplation were requisite to comprehend them fully and bring in to existence their most momentous effects. If men be chiefly distinguished from each other by the modes in which attention is employed, either on external and sensible objects or merely on abstract ideas and the creatures of reflection, I may justly claim to be enrolled in the second class. My existence is a series of thoughts rather than of motions. Ratiosination and deduction leave my senses unemployed. The fullness of my fancy renders my eye vacant and inactive. Sensations do not proceed and suggest, but follow and are secondary to the acts of my mind. There was one motive, however, which made me less inattentive to the scene that was continually shifting before and without me than I am want to be. The loveliest form which I had hitherto seen was that of Clemencelodi. I recalled her condition as I had witnessed it as Wellbeck had described and as you had painted it. The past was without remedy, but the future was, in some degree, within our power to create and to fashion. Her state was probably dangerous. She might already be forlorn, beset with temptation or with anguish, or danger might only be approaching her and the worst evils be impending ones. I was ignorant of her state. Could I not remove this ignorance? Would not some benefit redown to her from beneficent and seasonable interposition? You had mentioned that her abode had lately been with Mrs. Villars and that this lady still resided in the country. The residence had been sufficiently described, and I perceived that I was now approaching it. In a short time I spied its painted roof and five chimneys through an avenue of Catalpus. When opposite the gate which led into this avenue I paused. It seemed as if this moment were to decide upon the liberty and innocence of this being. In a moment I might place myself before her, ascertain her true condition, and point out to her the path of honor and safety. This opportunity might be the last. Longer delay might render interposition fruitless. But how was I to interpose? I was a stranger to her language, and she was unacquainted with mine. To obtain access to her it was necessary only to demand it. But how should I explain my views and state my wishes when an interview was gained? And what expedient was it in my power to propose? Now, said I, I perceive the value of that wealth which I have been accustomed to despise. The power of eating and drinking, the nature and limits of existence and physical enjoyment are not changed or enlarged by the increase of wealth. Our corporeal and intellectual wants are supplied at little expense, but our own wants are the wants of others, and that which remains after our own necessities are obviated, it is always easy and just to employ in relieving the necessity of others. There are no superfluities in my store. It is not in my power to supply this unfortunate girl with decent raiment and honest bread. I have no house to which to conduct her. I have no means of securing her from famine and cold. Yet, though indigent and feeble, I am not destitute of friends and of home. Can not she be admitted to the same asylum to which I am now going? This thought was sudden and new. The more it was revolved, the more plausible it seemed. This was not merely the sole expedient but the best that could have been suggested. The had ones were friendly, hospitable, unsuspicious. Their board, though simple and uncouth, was wholesome and plenteous. Their residence was sequestered and obscure, and not obnoxious to impertinent inquiries and malignant animadversion. Their frank and ingenuous temper would make them easy of persuasion, and their sympathies were prompt and overflowing. I am nearly certain, continued I, that they will instantly afford protection to this desolate girl. Why shall I not anticipate their consent, and present myself to their embraces and their welcomes in her company? Slight reflection showed me that this precipitation was improper. Whether Wallace had ever arrived at Malverton, whether Mr. Hadwin had escaped infection, whether his house were the abode of security and quiet, or a scene of desolation, were questions yet to be determined. The obvious and best proceeding was to hasten forward to afford the Hadwins, if in distress, the feeble consolations of my friendship, or, if their state were happy, to procure their concurrence to my scheme respecting Clemenza. Actuated by these considerations, I resumed my journey. Looking forward, I perceived a chaise and horse standing by the left-hand fence at the distance of some hundred yards. This object was not uncommon or strange, and therefore it was scarcely noticed. When I came near, however, me thought I recognized in this carriage the same in which my importunities had procured a seat for the languishing Wallace in the manner which I have formerly related. It was a crazy vehicle, and old-fashioned. When one scene it could scarcely be mistaken or forgotten, the horse was held by his bridle to a post, but the seat was empty. My solicitude with regard to Wallace's destiny, of which he, to whom the carriage belonged, might possibly afford me some knowledge, made me stop and reflect on what measures it was proper to pursue. The rider could not be at a great distance from this spot. His absence would probably be short. By lingering a few minutes an interview might be gained, and the uncertainty and suspense of some hours be thereby precluded. I therefore waited, and the same person whom I had formerly encountered made his appearance in a short time from under a copse that skirted the road. He recognized me with more difficulty than attended my recognition of him. The circumstances, however, of our first meeting were easily recalled to his remembrance. I eagerly inquired when and where he had parted with the youth who had been, on that occasion, entrusted to his care. He answered that on leaving the city and inhaling the pure air of the fields and woods, Wallace had been, in a wonderful degree, invigorated and refreshed. An instantaneous and total change appeared to have been wrought in him. He no longer languished with fatigue or fear, but became full of gaiety and talk. The suddenness of this transition, the levity with which he related and commented on his recent dangers and evils, excited the astonishment of his companion, to whom he not only communicated the history of his disease, but imparted many anecdotes of a humorous kind. Some of these my companion repeated. I heard them with regret and dissatisfaction. They betokened a mind vitiated by intercourse with the thoughtless and depraved of both sexes, and particularly with infamous and profligate women. My companion proceeded to mention that Wallace's exhilaration lasted but for a short time, and disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. He was seized with deadly sickness and insisted upon leaving the carriage, whose movements shocked his stomach and head to an insupportable degree. His companion was not void of apprehensions on his own account, but was unwilling to desert him and endeavored to encourage him. His efforts were in vain. Though the nearest house was at the distance of some hundred yards, and though it was probable that the inhabitants of this house would refuse to accommodate one in his condition, yet Wallace could not be prevailed on to proceed and, in spite of persuasion and remonstrance, left the carriage and threw himself on the grassy bank beside the road. This person was not unmindful of the hazard which he incurred by contact with the sick man. He conceived himself to have performed all that was consistent with duty to himself and to his family, and Wallace persisting in affirming that, by attempting to ride further, he should merely hasten his death, was at length left to his own guidance. These were unexpected and mournful tidings. I had fondly imagined that his safety was put beyond the reach of untoward accidents. Now, however, there was reason to suppose him to have perished by a lingering and painful disease rendered fatal by the selfishness of mankind, by the want of seasonable remedies and exposure to inclement heirs. Some uncertainty, however, rested on his fate. It was my duty to remove it and to carry to the hadwins no mangled and defective tale. Where, I asked, had Wallace and his companion parted. It was about three miles further onward. The spot and the house within view from the spot were accurately described. In this house it was possible that Wallace had sought an asylum, and some intelligence respecting him might be gained from its inhabitants. My informant was journeying to the city so that we were obliged to separate. In consequence of this man's description of Wallace's deportment and the proofs of a dissolute and thoughtless temper which he had given, I began to regard his death as an event less deplorable. Such a one was unworthy of a being so devoutly pure, so ardent in fidelity and tenderness as Susan had when. If he loved, it was probable that, in defiance of his vows, he would seek a different companion. If he adhered to his first engagements his motives would be sorted, and the disclosure of his latent defects might produce more exquisite misery to his wife than his premature death or treacherous desertion. The preservation of this man was my sole motive for entering the infected city and subjecting my own life to the hazards from which my escape may almost be esteemed miraculous. Was not the end disproportioned to the means? Was there arrogance in believing my life a price too great to be given for his? I was not indeed sorry for the past. My purpose was just, and the means which I selected were the best my limited knowledge supplied. My happiness should be drawn from reflecting on the equity of my intentions. That these intentions were frustrated by the ignorance of others or my own was the consequence of human frailty. Honest purposes, though they may not bestow happiness on others, will at least secure it to him who fosters them. By these reflections my regrets were dissipated and I prepared to rejoice alike whether Wallace should be found to have escaped or to have perished. The house to which I had been directed was speedily brought into view. I inquired for the master or mistress of the mansion and was conducted to a lady of a plain and house-wifely appearance. My curiosity was fully gratified. Wallace, whom my description easily identified, had made his appearance at her door on the evening of the day on which he had left the city. The dread of the fever was descanted on with copious and rude eloquence. I supposed her eloquence on this theme to be designed to apologize to me for her refusing entrance to the sick man. The peroration, however, was different. Wallace was admitted and suitable attention paid to his wants. Happily the guest had nothing to struggle with but extreme weakness. Repose, nourishing diet, and salubrious heirs restored him in a short time to health. He lingered under this roof for three weeks and then, without any professions of gratitude or offers of pecuniary remuneration or information of the course which he determined to take, he left them. These facts added to that which I had previously known through no advantageous light upon the character of Wallace. It was obvious to conclude that he had gone to Malverton and dither there was nothing to hinder me from following him. Perhaps one of my grossest defects is a precipitate temper. I choose my path suddenly and pursue it with impetuous expedition. In the present instance my resolution was conceived with unhesitating zeal and I walked the faster that I might the sooner executed. Miss Hadwin deserved to be happy. Love was in her heart the all-absorbing sentiment. A disappointment there was a supreme calamity. Depravity and folly must assume the guise of virtue before it can claim her affection. This disguise might be maintained for a time, but its detection must inevitably come and the sooner this detection takes place the more beneficial it must prove. I resolved to unbosom myself with equal and unbounded confidence to Wallace and his mistress. I would choose, for this end, not the moment when they were separate but that in which they were together. My knowledge and the sources of my knowledge relative to Wallace should be unfolded to the lady with simplicity and truth. The lover should be present to confute, to extenuate, or to verify the charges. During the rest of the day these images occupied the chief place in my thoughts. The road was myry and dark and my journey proved to be more tedious and fatiguing than I expected. At length, just as the evening closed, the well known habitation appeared in view. Since my departure winter had visited the world and the aspect of nature was desolate and dreary. All around this house was vacant, negligent, forlorn. The contrast between these appearances and those which I had noticed on my first approach to it when the ground and the trees were decked with the luxuriance and vivacity of summer was mournful and seemed to foretoken ill. My spirits drooped as I noticed the general inactivity and silence. I entered without warning the door that led into the parlor. No face was to be seen or voice heard. The chimney was ornamented as in summer with evergreen shrubs. Though it was now the second month of frost and snow, fire did not appear to have lately been kindled on this hearth. This was a circumstance from which nothing good could be deduced. Had there been those to share its comforts, who had shared them on former years, this was the place and hour at which they commonly assembled. A door on one side led through a narrow entry into the kitchen. I opened this door and passed towards the kitchen. No one was there but an old man squatted in the chimney corner. His face, though wrinkled, denoted undecayed health and an unbending spirit. A home-spun coat, leathern britches wrinkled with age, and blue yarn hose were well-suited to his lean and shriveled form. On his right knee was a wooden bowl which he had just replenished with a pipkin of hasty pudding, still smoking on the coals, and in his left hand a spoon which he had at that moment plunged into a bottle of molasses that stood beside him. This action was suspended by my entrance. He looked up and exclaimed, Hey, Day, who's this that comes into other people's houses without so much as saying by your leave? What's the business? Who's the want? I had never seen this personage before. I supposed it to be some new domestic and inquired for Mr. Hadwin. Ah, replied he with a sigh. William Hadwin, is it him the wants? Poor man, he has gone to rest many days since. My heart sunk within me at these tidings. Dead, said I. Do you mean that he is dead? This exclamation was uttered in a tone of some vehemence. It attracted the attention of someone who was standing without who immediately entered the kitchen. It was Eliza Hadwin. The moment she beheld me she shrieked aloud and rushing into my arms fainted away. The old man dropped his bowl and, starting from his seat, stared alternately at me and at the breathless girl. My emotion, made up of joy and sorrow and surprise, rendered me for a moment powerless as she. At length he said, I understand this, I know who thee is, and I will tell her thee's come. So saying he hastily left the room. End of Chapter 29