 39 I am glad, my friend, thy nimble pen has got so far upon its journey. What remains of my story may be dispatched in a trice. I have just now some vacant hours which might possibly be more usefully employed, but not in an easier manner or more pleasant, so let me carry on thy thread. First, let me mention the resolutions I had formed at the time I parted with my friend. I had several objects in view. One was a conference with Mrs. Wentworth. Another was an interview with her whom I met with at Villars's. My heart melted when I thought upon the desolate condition of Clemenza and determined me to direct my first efforts for her relief. For this end I was to visit the female who had given me a direction to her house. The name of this person is Asha Fielding, and she lived, according to her own direction, at No. 40 Walnut Street. I went thither without delay. She was not at home. Having gained information from the servant as to when she might be found, I proceeded to Mrs. Wentworth's. In going thither my mind was deeply occupied in meditation, and, with my usual carelessness of forms, I entered the house and made my way to the parlor where an interview had formerly taken place between us. Having arrived I began, though somewhat unseasonably, to reflect upon the topics with which I should introduce my conversation, and particularly the manner in which I should introduce myself. I had opened doors without warning and traversed passages without being noticed. This had arisen from my thoughtlessness. There was no one within hearing or sight. What was next to be done? Should I not return softly to the outer door and summon the servant by knocking? Preparing to do this I heard a footstep in the entry which suspended my design. I stood in the middle of the floor, attentive to these movements, when presently the door opened, and there entered the apartment Mrs. Wentworth herself. She came, as it seemed, without expectation of finding any one there. When, therefore, the figure of a man caught her vagrant attention, she started and cast a hasty look towards me. Pray, in a peremptory tone, how came you here, sir, and what is your business? Neither arrogance on the one hand nor humility on the other had any part in modeling my deportment. I came not to deprecate anger or exult over distress. I answered, therefore, distinctly, firmly, and erectly. I came to see you, madam, and converse with you, but, being busy with other thoughts, I forgot to knock at the door. No evil was intended by my negligence, though propriety has certainly not been observed. Will you pardon this intrusion and condescend to grant me your attention? To what? What have you to say to me? I know you only as the accomplice of a villain in an attempt to deceive me. There is nothing to justify your coming hither, and I desire you to leave the house with as little ceremony as you entered it. My eyes were lowered at this rebuke, yet I did not obey the command. Your treatment of me, madam, is such as I appear to you to deserve. Appearances are unfavorable to me, but those appearances are false. I have concurred in no plot against your reputation or your fortune. I have told you nothing but the truth. I came hither to promote no selfish or sinister purpose. I have no favor to entreat, and no petition to offer, but that you will suffer me to clear up those mistakes which you have harbored respecting me. I am poor. I am destitute of fame and of kindred. I have nothing to console me in obscurity and indigence, but the approbation of my own heart and the good opinion of those who know me as I am. The good may be led to despise and condemn me. Their aversion and scorn shall not make me unhappy, but it is my interest and my duty to rectify their error if I can. I regard your character with esteem. You have been mistaking and condemning me as a liar and imposter, and I came to remove this mistake. I came, if not to procure your esteem, at least to take away hatred and suspicion. But this is not all my purpose. You are in an error in relation not only to my character, but to the situation of your nephew clavoring. I formerly told you that I saw him die, that I assisted at his burial, but my tale was incoherent and imperfect, and you have since received intelligence to which you think proper to trust and which assures you that he is still living. All I now ask is your attention, while I relate the particulars of my knowledge. Proof of my veracity or innocence may be of no value in your eyes, but the fate of your nephew ought to be known to you. Certainty on this head may be of much importance to your happiness and to the regulation of your future conduct. To hear me patiently can do you no injury and may benefit you much. Will you permit me to go on? In this address little abatement of resentment and scorn was visible in my companion. I will hear you, she replied. Your invention may amuse if it does not edify, but I pray you let your story be short. I was obliged to be content with this ungraceful concession and proceeded to begin my narration. I described the situation of my father's dwelling. I mentioned the year, month, day, and hour of her nephew's appearance among us. I expatiated minutely on his form, features, dress, sound of his voice and repeated his words. His favorite gestures and attitudes were faithfully described. I had gone but a little way in my story when the effects were visible in her demeanor which I expected from it. Her knowledge of the youth and of the time and manner of his disappearance made it impossible for me with so minute a narrative to impose upon her credulity. Every word, every incident related attested my truth by their agreement with what she herself previously knew. Her suspicious and angry watchfulness was quickly exchanged for downcast looks and stealing tears and sighs difficultly repressed. Meanwhile, I did not pause but describe the treatment he received from my mother's tenderness, his occupations, the freaks of his insanity and, finally, the circumstances of his death and funeral. Thence I hastened to the circumstances which brought me to the city which placed me in the service of Wellbeck and obliged me to perform so ambiguous a part in her presence. I left no difficulty to be solved and no question unanticipated. I have now finished my story, I continued, and accomplished my design in coming hither. Whether I have vindicated my integrity from your suspicions, I know not. I have done what in me lay to remove your error and in that have done my duty. But more remains. Any inquiries you are pleased to make, I am ready to answer. If there be none to make, I will comply with your former commands and leave the house with as little ceremony as I entered it. Your story, she replied, has been unexpected. I believe it fully, and I am sorry for the hard thoughts which past appearances have made me entertain concerning you. Here she sunk into mournful silence. The information, she at length resumed, which I have received from another quarter respecting that unfortunate youth, astonishes and perplexes me. It is inconsistent with your story, but it must be founded on some mistake which I am at present unable to unravel. Wellbeck, whose connection has been so unfortunate to you. Unfortunate, dear madam, how unfortunate! It has done away a part of my ignorance of the world in which I live. It has led me to the situation in which I am now placed. It has introduced me to the knowledge of many good people. It has made me the witness and the subject of many acts of beneficence and generosity. My knowledge of Wellbeck has been useful to me. It has enabled me to be useful to others. I look back upon that allotment of my destiny which first led me to his door with gratitude and pleasure. Would to heaven, continued I, somewhat changing my tone, intercourse with Wellbeck had been as harmless to all others as it has been to me, that no injury to fortune and fame and innocence and life had been incurred by others greater than has fallen upon my head. There is one being whose connection with him has not been utterly dissimilar in its origin and circumstances to mine, though the catastrophe has indeed been widely and mournfully different. And yet within this moment a thought has occurred from which I derive some consolation and some hope. You, dear madam, are rich. These spacious apartments, this plentiful accommodation, are yours. You have enough for your own gratification and convenience and somewhat despair. Will you take into your protecting arms, to your hospitable roof, an unhappy girl whom the arts of Wellbeck have robbed of fortune, reputation and honor, who is now languishing in poverty, weeping over the lifeless remains of her babe, surrounded by the agents of vice and trembling on the verge of infamy? What can this mean, replied the lady, of whom do you speak? You shall know her. You shall be apprised of her claims to your compassion. Her story, as far as is known to me, I will faithfully repeat to you. She is a stranger, an Italian. Her name is Clemenza Lodi. Clemenza Lodi, good heaven! exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth. Why, surely it cannot be! And yet is it possible that you are that person? I do not comprehend you, madam. A friend has related a transaction of a strange sort. It is scarcely an hour since she told it me. The name of Clemenza Lodi was mentioned in it, and a young man of a most singular deportment was described. But tell me how you were engaged on Thursday morning. I was coming to this city from a distance. I stopped ten minutes at the house of Mrs. Villars? The same. Perhaps you know her and her character. Perhaps you can confirm or rectify my present opinions concerning her. It is there that the unfortunate Clemenza abides. It is dense that I wish her to be speedily removed. I have heard of you, of your conduct upon that occasion. Of me? answered I eagerly. Do you know that woman? So saying, I produced the card, which I had received from her, and on which her name was written. I know her well. She is my countrywoman and my friend. Your friend, then she is good, she is innocent, she is generous. Will she be a sister, a protectress to Clemenza? Will you exhort her to a deed of charity? Will you be yourself an example of beneficence? Talk me to Miss Fielding, I beseech you. I have called on her already, but in vain, and there is no time to be lost. Why are you so precipitant? What would you do? Take her away from that house instantly, and bring her hither. Place her under your protection. Give her Mrs. Wentworth for a counsellor, a friend, a mother. Shall I do this? Shall I high hither today, this very hour, now? Give me your consent, and she shall be with you before noon. By no means, replied she with earnestness, you are too hasty. An affair of so much importance cannot be dispatched in a moment. There are many difficulties and doubts to be first removed. Let them be reserved for the future, withhold not your helping hand till the struggle has disappeared forever. Think on the gulf that is already gaping to swallow her. This is no time to hesitate and falter. I will tell you her story, but not now. We will postpone it till to-morrow, and first secure her from impending evils. She shall tell it to you herself. In an hour I will bring her hither, and she herself shall recount to you her sorrows. Will you let me? Your behaviour is extraordinary. I can scarcely tell whether this simplicity be real or affected. One would think that your common sense would show you the impropriety of your request. To admit under my roof a woman notoriously dishonoured, and from an infamous house. My dearest madam, how can you reflect upon the situation without irresistible pity? I see that you are thoroughly aware of her past calamity and her present danger. Do not these urge you to make haste to her relief? Can any lot be more deplorable than hers? Can any state be more perilous? Poverty is not the only evil that oppresses or threatens her. The scorn of the world and her own compunction, the death of the fruit of her error, and the witness of her shame, are not the worst. She is exposed to the temptations of the profligate while she remains with Mrs. Villars. Her infamy accumulates. Her further debasement is facilitated. Her return to reputation and to virtue is obstructed by new bars. How know I that her debasement is not already complete and irremediable? She is a mother, but not a wife. How came she thus? Is her being Wellbeck's prostitute no proof of her guilt? Alas, I know not. I believe her not very culpable. I know her to be unfortunate to have been robbed and betrayed. You are a stranger to her history. I am myself imperfectly acquainted with it. But let me tell you the little that I know. Perhaps my narrative may cause you to think of her as I do. She did not object to this proposal, and I immediately recounted all that I had gained from my own observations, or from Wellbeck himself respecting this for Lorne girl. Having finished my narrative, I proceeded thus. Can you hesitate to employ that power which was given you for good ends to rescue this sufferer? Take her to your home, to your bosom, to your confidence. Keep aloof those temptations which beset her in her present situation. Restore her to that purity which her desolate condition, her ignorance, her misplaced gratitude and the artifices of a skillful dissembler have destroyed, if it be destroyed, for how know we under what circumstances her ruin was accomplished, with what pretenses or appearances or promises she was one to compliance? True, I confess my ignorance, but ought not that ignorance to be removed before she makes part of my family? Oh no, it may be afterwards removed. It cannot be removed before. By bringing her hither you shield her, at least, from future and possible evils. Here you can watch her conduct and sift her sentiments conveniently and at leisure. Should she prove worthy of your charity, how justly may you congratulate yourself on your seasonable efforts in her cause? If she prove unworthy, you may then demean yourself according to her demerits. I must reflect upon it. Tomorrow, let me prevail on you to admit her at once and without delay, this very moment may be the critical one. Today we may exert ourselves with success, but tomorrow all our efforts may be fruitless. Why fluctuate, why linger, when so much good may be done, and no evil can possibly be incurred? It requires but a word from you. You need not move a finger. Your house is large, you have chambers vacant and convenient. Consent only that your door shall not be barred against her, that you will treat her with civility, to carry your kindness into effect, to persuade her to attend me hither and to place herself in your care shall be my province. These and many similar entreaties and reasonings were ineffectual. Her general disposition was kind, but she was unaccustomed to strenuous or sudden exertions. To admit the persuasions of such an advocate to so uncommon a scheme as that of sharing her house with a creature thus previously unknown to her, thus loaded with suspicion and with obliquy, was not possible. I at last forebore importunity and requested her to tell me when I might expect to meet with Mrs. Fielding at her lodgings. Inquiry was made, to what end I sought an interview. I made no secret of my purpose. "'Are you mad, young man?' she exclaimed. Mrs. Fielding has already been egregiously imprudent. On the faith of an ancient slight acquaintance with Mrs. Villars in Europe she suffered herself to be decoyed into a visit. Instead of taking warning by numerous tokens of the real character of that woman in her behaviour and in that of her visitance, she consented to remain there one night. The next morning took place that astonishing interview with you which she has since described to me. She is now warned against the like in discretion. And pray, what benevolent scheme would you propose to her? Does she property is she rich? She is, unhappily perhaps for her, she is absolute mistress of her fortune, and has neither guardian nor parent to control her in the use of it. Has she virtue? Does she know the value of affluence and fair fame? And will she not devote a few dollars to rescue a fellow-creature from indigence and infamy and vice? Surely she will. She will hazard nothing by the boon. I will be her almoner. I will provide the wretched stranger with food and raiment and dwelling. I will pay for all if Mrs. Fielding from her superfluity will supply the means. Clemenza shall owe life and honour to your friend till I am able to supply the needful sum from my own stock. While thus speaking my companion gazed at me with steadfastness. I know not what to make of you. Your language and ideas are those of a lunatic. Are you acquainted with Mrs. Fielding? Yes, I have seen her two days ago. She has invited me to see her again. And on the strength of this acquaintance you expect to be her almoner? To be the medium of her charity? I desire to save her trouble, to make charity as light and as easy as possible. Twill be better if she perform those offices herself. She will redound more to the credit of her reason and her virtue, but I solicit her benignity only in the cause of Clemenza. For her only do I wish it present to call forth her generosity and pity. And do you imagine she will entrust her money to one of your age and sex whom she knows so imperfectly to administer to the wants of one whom she found in a house such as Mrs. Villers'? She never will. She mentioned her imprudent engagement to meet you, but she is now warned against the folly of such confidence. You have told me plausible stories of yourself and of this Clemenza. I cannot say I disbelieve them, but I know the ways of the world too well to bestow implicit faith so easily. You are an extraordinary young man. You may possibly be honest. Such a one as you, with your education and address, may possibly have passed all your life in a hovel, but it is scarcely credible let me tell you. I believe most of the facts respecting my nephew because my knowledge of him before his flight would enable me to detect your falsehood, but there must be other proofs besides an innocent brow and a valuable tongue to make me give full credit to your pretensions. I have no claim upon Wellbeck which can embarrass you. On that score you are free from any molestation from me or my friends. I have suspected you of being an accomplice in some vile plot and am now inclined to acquit you, but that is all you must expect from me till your character be established by other means than your own assertions. I am engaged at present and must therefore request you to put an end to your visit. This strain was much unlike the strain which preceded it. I imagined, by the mildness of her tone and manners, that her unfavorable prepositions were removed, but they seemed to have suddenly regained their pristine force. I was somewhat disconcerted by this unexpected change. I stood for a minute silent in irresolute. Just then a knock was heard at the door and presently entered that very female whom I had met with at Mrs. Villars. I caught her figure as I glanced through the window. Mrs. Wentworth darted at me many significant glances, which commanded me to withdraw, but with this object in view it was impossible. As soon as she entered her eyes were fixed upon me. Certain recollections naturally occurred at that moment and made her cheeks glow. Some confusion reigned for a moment, but that was quickly dissipated. She did not notice me, but exchanged salutations with her friend. All this while I stood near the window in a situation not a little painful. Certain tremors which I had not been accustomed to feel and which seemed to possess a mystical relation to the visitant disabled me at once from taking my leave or from performing any useful purpose by staying. At length, struggling for composure, I approached her and, showing her the card she had given me, said, Agreeably to this direction I called an hour ago at your lodgings. I found you not. I hope you will permit me to call once more. Then shall I expect to meet you at home? Her eyes were cast on the floor. A kind of indirect attention was fixed on Mrs. Wentworth serving to intimidate and check her. At length she said, in an irresolute voice, I shall be home this evening. And this evening replied I, I will call to see you. So saying, I left the house. This interval was tedious, but was to be endured with equanimity. I was impatient to be gone to Baltimore and hoped to be able to set out by dawn of the next day. Meanwhile, I was necessarily to perform something with respect to Clemenza. After dinner I accompanied Mrs. Stevens to visit Miss Carlton. I was eager to see a woman who could bear adversity in the manner which my friend had described. She met us at the door of her apartment. Her seriousness was not abated by her smiles of affability and welcome. My friend, whispered I, how truly lovely is this Miss Carlton. Are the heart and the intelligence within worthy of these features? Yes they are. The accounts of her employments, of her resignation to the ill fate of the brother whom she loves, proves that they are. My eyes were riveted to her countenance in person. I felt uncontrollable eagerness to speak to her and to gain her good opinion. You must know this young man, my dear Miss Carlton, said my friend, looking at me. He is my husband's friend and professes a great desire to be yours. You must not treat him as a mere stranger, for he knows your character and situation already, as well as that of your brother. She looked at me with benignity. I accept his friendship willingly and gratefully, and shall endeavour to convince him that his good opinion is not misplaced. There now ensued a conversation somewhat general, in which this young woman showed a mind vigorous from exercise and unembarrassed by care. She affected no concealment of her own condition, of her wants or her comforts. She laid no stress upon misfortunes, but contrived to deduce some beneficial consequence to herself and some motive for gratitude to heaven from every wayward incident that had befallen her. This demeanor emboldened me at length to inquire into the cause of her brother's imprisonment and the nature of his debt. She answered frankly and without hesitation. It is a debt of his father's for which he made himself responsible during his father's life. The act was generous but imprudent as the event has shown, though at the time the unhappy effects could not be foreseen. My father, continued she, was arrested by his creditor at a time when the calmness and comforts of his own dwelling were necessary to his health. The creditor was obdurate and would release him upon no condition but that of receiving a bond from my brother by which he engaged to pay the debt at several successive times and in small portions. All these instalments were discharged with great difficulty indeed, but with sufficient punctuality except the last, to which my brother's earnings were not adequate. How much is the debt? Four hundred dollars. And is the state of the creditor such as to make the loss of four hundred dollars of more importance to him than the loss of liberty to your brother? She answered smiling. That is a very abstract view of things. On such a question you and I might, perhaps, easily decide in favour of my brother, but would there not be some danger of deciding partially? His conduct is a proof of his decision and there's no power to change it. Will not argument change it? Me thinks in so plain a case I should be able to convince him. You say he is rich and childless. His annual income is ten times more than this sum. Your brother cannot pay the debt while in prison, whereas if at liberty he might slowly and finally discharge it. If his humanity would not yield, his avarice might be brought to acquiesce. But there is another passion which you would find it somewhat harder to subdue and that is his vengeance. He thinks himself wronged and imprisons my brother not to enforce payment but to inflict misery. If you could persuade him that there is no hardship in imprisonment you would speedily gain the victory, but that could not be attempted consistently with truth. In proportion to my brother's suffering is his gratification. You draw an odious and almost incredible portrait. And yet such a one would serve for the likeness of almost every second man we meet. And is such your opinion of mankind? Your experience must surely have been of a rueful tenor to justify such hard thoughts of the rest of your species. By no means it has been what those whose situation disables them from looking further than the surface of things would regard as unfortunate, but if my goods and evils were equitably balanced the former would be the wadiest. I have found kindness and goodness in great numbers, but have likewise met prejudice and ranker in many. My opinion of Farquhar is not lightly taken up. I saw him yesterday and the true nature of his motives in the treatment of my brother was plain enough. Here the topic was succeeded by others and the conversation ceased not till the hour had arrived on which I had preconcerted to visit Mrs. Fielding. I left my two friends for this purpose. I was admitted to Mrs. Fielding's presence without scruple or difficulty. There were two females in her company and one of the other sex, well-dressed, elderly and sedate persons. Their discourse turned upon political topics with which, as you know, I have but slight acquaintance. They talked of fleets and armies, of robespierre and pit, of whom I had only a newspaper knowledge. In a short time the women rose and, huddling on their cloaks, disappeared in company with a gentleman. Being thus left alone with Mrs. Fielding, some embarrassment was mutually betrayed. With much hesitation which, however, gradually disappeared my companion at length began the conversation. You met me lately in a situation, sir, on which I look back with trembling and shame, but not with any self-condemnation. I was led into it without any fault, unless a too hasty confidence may be styled a fault. I had known Mrs. Villers in England, where she lived with an untainted reputation at least, and the sight of my countrywoman in a foreign land awakened emotions in the indulgence of which I did not imagine there was either any guilt or any danger. She invited me to see her at her house with so much urgency and warmth, and solicited me to take a place immediately in a shez in which she had come to the city that I too unconsciously complied. You are a stranger to me, and I am unacquainted with your character. What little I have seen of your deportment, and what little I have lately heard concerning you from Mrs. Wentworth do not produce unfavorable impressions. But the apology I have made was due to my own reputation, and should have been offered to you whatever your character had been. There she stopped. I came not hither, said I, to receive an apology. Your demeanor on our first interview shielded you sufficiently from any suspicions or surmises that I could form. What you have now mentioned was likewise mentioned by your friend, and was fully believed upon her authority. My purpose in coming related not to you but to another. I desired merely to interest your generosity and justice on behalf of one whose destitute and dangerous condition may lay claim to your compassion and your sucker. I comprehend you, said she, with an air of some perplexity. I know the claims of that person. And will you comply with them? In what manner can I serve her? By giving her the means of living. Does she not possess them already? She is destitute. Her dependence was wholly placed upon one that is dead, by whom her person was dishonored and her fortune embezzled. But she still lives. She is not turned into the street. She is not destitute of home. But what a home! Such as she may choose to remain in. She cannot choose it. She must not choose it. She remains through ignorance or through the incapacity of leaving it. But how shall she be persuaded to a change? I will persuade her. I will fully explain her situation. I will supply her with a new home. You will persuade her to go with you and to live at a home of your providing and on your bounty? Certainly. Would that change be worthy of a cautious person? Would it benefit her reputation? Would it prove her love of independence? My purposes are good. I know not why she should suspect them. But I am only anxious to be the instrument. Let her be indebted to one of her own sex of unquestionable reputation. Admit her into this house. Admit her to your arms. Cherish and console her as your sister. Before I am convinced that she deserves it, and even then what regard shall I, young, unmarried, independent, affluent, pay to my own reputation in harboring a woman in these circumstances? But you need not act yourself. Make me your agent and ulmener. Only supply her with the means of subsistence through me. Would you have me act a clandestine part, hold meetings with one of your sex, and give him money for a purpose which I must hide from the world? Is it worthwhile to be a dissimbler and imposter, and will not such conduct incur more dangerous surmises and suspicions than would arise from acting openly and directly? You will forgive me for reminding you, likewise, that it is particularly incumbent upon those in my situation to be circumspect in their intercourse with men and with strangers. This is the second time that I have seen you. My knowledge of you is extremely dubious and imperfect, and such as would make the conduct you prescribed to me in a high degree rash and culpable. You must not therefore expect me to pursue it. These words were delivered with an air of firmness and dignity. I was not insensible to the truth of her representations. I confess, said I, what you have said makes me doubt the propriety of my proposal, yet I would feign be of service to her. Can you not point out some practicable method? She was silent and thoughtful, and seemed indisposed to answer my question. I had set my heart upon success in this negotiation, continued I, and could not imagine any obstacle to its success. But I find my ignorance of the world's ways much greater than I had previously expected. You defraud yourself of all the happiness redounding from the act of making others happy. You sacrifice substance to show, and are more anxious to prevent unjust dispersions from lighting on yourself than to rescue a fellow creature from guilt and infamy. You are rich and abound in all the conveniences and luxuries of life. A small portion of your superfluity would obviate the wants of a being not less worthy than yourself. It is not avarice or aversion to labour that makes you withhold your hand. It is dread of the sneers and surmises of malevolence and ignorance. I will not urge you further at present. Your determination to be wise should not be hasty. Think upon the subject calmly and sedately, and form your resolution in the course of three days. At the end of that period I will visit you again. No saying, and without waiting for comment or answer, I withdrew. End of Chapter 39 Chapter 40 I mounted the stagecoach at daybreak the next day in company with a sallow Frenchman from Santo Domingo, his fiddle-case, an ape, and two female blacks. The Frenchman, after passing the suburbs, took out his violin and amused himself with humming to his own tweedle-tweedle. The monkey now and then munched an apple, which was given to him from a basket by the blacks, who gazed with stupid wonder and an exclamatory la-la upon the passing scenery, or chattered to each other in a sort of open-mouthed, half-articulate monotonous sing-song jargon. The man looked seldom either on this side or that, and spoke only to rebuke the frolics of the monkey with a tenet dominique prenegard diabnoir. As to me my thought was busy in a thousand ways. I sometimes gazed at the faces of my four companions and endeavored to discern the differences and samenesses between them. I took an exact account of the features, proportions, looks and gestures of the monkey, the congolese and the creole gall. I compared them together and examined them apart. I looked at them in a thousand different points of view and pursued, untired and unsatiated, those trains of reflections which began at each change of tone, feature and attitude. I marked the country as it successively arose before me and found endless employment in examining the shape and substance of the fence, the barn and the cottage, the aspect of the earth and of heaven. How great are the pleasures of health and of mental activity! My chief occupation, however, related to the scenes into which I was about to enter. My imaginations were, of course, crude and inadequate, and I found an uncommon gratification in comparing realities as they successively occurred with the pictures which my wayward fancy had depicted. I will not describe my dreams. My proper task is to relate the truth. Neither shall I dwell upon the images suggested by the condition of the country through which I passed. I will confine myself to mentioning the transactions connected with the purpose of my journey. I reached Baltimore at night. I was not so fatigued but that I could ramble through the town. I intended at present merely the gratification of a stranger's curiosity. My visit to Mrs. Watson and her brother I designed should take place on the morrow. The evening of my arrival I deemed an unseasonable time. While roving about, however, it occurred to me that it might not be impolitic to find the way to their habitation even now. My purposes of general curiosity would equally be served whichever way my steps were bent and to trace the path to their dwelling would save me the trouble of inquiries and interrogations to-morrow. When I looked forward to an interview with the wife of Watson and to the subject which would necessarily be discussed at that interview I felt a trembling and misgiving at my heart. Really thought I, it will become me to exercise immeasurable circumspection and address, and yet how little are these adapted to the impetuosity and candor of my nature. How am I to introduce myself? What am I to tell her that I was a sort of witness to the murder of her husband, that I received from the hand of his assassin the letter which I afterwards transmitted to her, and from the same hands the bills contained in his girdle? How will she start and look aghast? What suspicions will she harbour? What inquiries shall be made of me? How shall they be disarmed and eluded or answered? Deep consideration will be necessary before I trust myself to such an interview. The coming night shall be devoted to reflection upon this subject. From these thoughts I proceeded to inquiries for the street mentioned in the advertisement where Mrs. Watson was said to reside. The street and, at length, the habitation was found. Having reached a station opposite I paused and surveyed the mansion. It was a wooden edifice of two stories, humble but neat. She ascended to the door by several stone steps. Of the two lower windows the shutters of one were closed, but those of the other were open. Though late in the evening there was no appearance of light or fire within. Beside the house was a painted fence through which was a gate leading to the back of the building. Guided by the impulse of the moment I crossed the street to the gate and, lifting the latch, entered the paved alley, on one side of which was a paled fence, and on the other the house, looking through two windows into the alley. The first window was dark like those in the front, but at the second a light was discernible. I approached it and, looking through, beheld a plain but neat apartment in which parlor, kitchen, and nursery seemed to be united. A fire burned cheerfully in the chimney over which was a tea kettle. On the hearth sat a smiling and playful cherub of a boy, tossing something to a black girl who sat opposite, and whose innocent and regular features wanted only a different hue to make them beautiful. Near it, in a rocking chair with a sleeping babe in her lap, sat a female figure in plain but neat and becoming attire. Her posture permitted half her face to be seen, and saved me from any danger of being observed. This countenance was full of sweetness and benignity, but the sadness that veiled its luster was profound. Her eyes were now fixed upon the fire and were moist with the tears of remembrance while she sung in low and scarcely audible strains an artless lullaby. This spectacle exercised a strange power over my feelings. While occupied in meditating on the features of the mother, I was unaware of my conspicuous situation. The black girl, having occasioned to change her situation in order to reach the ball which was thrown at her, unluckily caught a glance of my figure through the glass. In a tone of half-surprise and half-terror she cried out, Oh, see there, a man! I was tempted to draw suddenly back, but on second thought showed me the impropriety of departing thus abruptly and leaving behind me some alarm. I felt a sort of necessity for apologizing for my intrusion into these precincts and hastened to a door that led into the same apartment. I knocked. A voice somewhat confused bade me enter. It was not till I opened the door and entered the room that I fully saw in what embarrassments I had unconsciously involved myself. I could scarcely obtain sufficient courage to speak and gave a confused assent to the question, Have you business with me, sir? She offered me a chair and I sat down. She put the child, not yet awakened, into the arms of the black who kissed it and rocked it in her arms with great satisfaction and, resuming her seat, looked at me with inquisitiveness mingled with complacency. After a moment's pause I said, I was directed to this house as the abode of Mr. Ephraim Williams. Can he be seen, madam? He is not in town at present. If you will leave a message with me I will punctually deliver it. The thought suddenly occurred whether any more was needful than merely to leave the bills suitably enclosed as they already were in a packet. Thus all painful explanations might be avoided and I might have reason to congratulate myself on his seasonable absence. Actuated by these thoughts I drew forth the packet and put it into her hand saying, I will leave this in your possession and must earnestly request you to keep it safe until you can deliver it into his own hands. Scarcely had I said this before new suggestions occurred. Was it right to act in this clandestine and mysterious manner? Should I leave these persons in uncertainty respecting the fate of a husband and a brother? But perplexities, misunderstandings, and suspenses might not grow out of this uncertainty. And ought they not to be precluded at any hazard to my own safety or good name? These sentiments made me involuntarily stretch forth my hand to retake the packet. This gesture and other significances in my manners joined to a trembling consciousness in herself filled my companion with all the tokens of confusion and fear. She alternately looked at me and at the paper. Her trepidation increased and she grew pale. These emotions were counteracted by a strong effort. At length she said falteringly, I will take good care of them and will give them to my brother. She rose and placed them in a drawer after which she resumed her seat. On this occasion all my wariness forsook me. I cannot explain why my perplexity and the trouble of my thoughts were greater upon this than upon similar occasions. However, it be, I was incapable of speaking and fixed my eyes upon the floor. A sort of electrical sympathy pervaded my companion, and terror and anguish were strongly manifested in the glances which she sometimes stole at me. We seemed fully to understand each other without the aid of words. This imbecility could not last long. I gradually recovered my composure and collected my scattered thoughts. I looked at her with seriousness and steadfastly spoke. Are you the wife of Amos Watson? She started. I am indeed. Why do you ask? Do you know anything of—? There her voice failed. I replied with quickness. Yes, I am fully acquainted with his destiny. Good God! She exclaimed in a paroxysm of surprise and bending eagerly forward. My husband is then alive. This packet is from him. Where is he? When have you seen him? Tis a long time since. Where—where is he now? Is he well? Will he return to me? Never. Merciful Heaven! Looking upwards and clasping her hands, I thank thee at least for his life. But why has he forsaken me? Why will he not return? For a good reason, said I, with augmented solemnity, he will never return to thee. Long ago was he laid in the cold grave. She shrieked, and at the next moment sunk in a swoon upon the floor. I was alarmed. The two children shrieked, and ran about the room terrified and unknowing what they did. I was overwhelmed with somewhat like-terror, yet I involuntarily raised the mother in my arms and cast about for the means of recalling her from this fit. Come to effect this had not elapsed when several persons, apparently Mrs. Watson's neighbors, and raised by the outcries of the girls, hastily entered the room. They looked at me with mingled surprise and suspicion, but my attitude, being not that of an injurer but helper, my countenance, which showed the pleasure at their entrance, at this critical moment, afforded me and my words in which I besought their assistance, and explained in some degree, and briefly, the cause of those appearances, removed their ill thoughts. Presently the unhappy woman, being carried by the newcomers into a bedroom adjoining, recovered her sensibility. I only waited for this. I had done my part. More information would be useless to her, and not to be given by me, at least in the present audience, without embarrassment and peril. I suddenly determined to withdraw, and this, the attention of the company being otherwise engaged, I did without notice. I returned to my inn and shut myself up in my chamber. Such was the change which, undesigned, unforeseen, half an hour had wrought in my situation. My cautious projects had perished in their conception. That which I had deemed so arduous, to require such circumspect approaches, such well-concerted speeches, was done. I had started up before this woman as if from the pores of the ground. I had vanished with the same celerity, but had left her in possession of proofs sufficient that I was neither specter nor demon. I will visit her, said I, again. I will see her brother, and know the full effect of my disclosure. I will tell them all that I myself know. Ignorance would be no less injurious to them than to myself, but first I will see the Morris's. CHAPTER 41 Next morning I arose betimes and equipped myself without delay. I had eight or ten miles to walk, so far from the town being the residence of these people, and I forthwith repaired to their dwelling. The persons whom I desired to see were known to me only by name and by their place of abode. It was a mother and her three daughters to whom I now carried the means not only of competence but riches, means which they, no doubt, had long ago disparate of regaining, and which among all possible messengers, one of my ageing guys, would be the least suspected of being able to restore. I arrived through intricate ways at eleven o'clock at the house of Mrs. Morris. It was a neat dwelling, in a very fanciful and rustic style, in the bosom of a valley which, when decorated by the verger and blossoms of the coming season, must possess many charms. At present it was naked and dreary. As I approached it through a long avenue, I observed two female figures walking arm and arm and slowly to and fro in the path in which I now was. These, said I, are daughters of the family, graceful, well-dressed, fashionable girls they seem at this distance. May they be deserving of the good tidings which I bring. Seeing them turn towards the house, I mended my pace that I might overtake them and request their introduction of me to their mother. As I more nearly approached, they again turned and, perceiving me, they stood as if in expectation of my message. I went up to them. A single glance cast at each made me suspect that they were not sisters, but somewhat to my disappointment there was nothing highly prepossessing in the countenance of either. They were what is every day met with, though less embellished by brilliant drapery and turban in markets and streets. An air somewhat haughty, somewhat supercilious lessened still more their attractions. These defects, however, were nothing to me. I inquired of her that seemed to be the elder of the two for Mrs. Morris. She is indisposed, was the cold reply. That is unfortunate. Is it not possible to see her? No, with still more gravity. I was somewhat at a loss how to proceed. A pause ensued. At length the same lady resumed, What's your business? You can leave your message with me. With nobody but her, if she be not very indisposed, she is very indisposed, interrupted she peevishly. If you cannot leave your message, you may take it back again, for she must not be disturbed. This was a singular reception. I was disconcerted and silent. I knew not what to say. Perhaps, I at last observed, some other time. No, with increasing heat, no other time. She is more likely to be worse than better. Come, Betsy, said she, taking hold of her companion's arm. And, highing into the house, shut the door after her and disappeared. I stood at the bottom of the steps, confounded at such strange and unexpected treatment. I could not withdraw till my purpose was accomplished. After a moment's pause, I stepped to the door and pulled the bell. A negro came, of a very unpropitious aspect, and opening the door looked at me in silence. To my question was Mrs. Morris to be seen. He made some answer in a jargon which I could not understand, but his words were immediately followed by an unseen person within the house. Mrs. Morris can't be seen by anybody. Come in, Cato, and shut the door. This injunction was obeyed by Cato without ceremony. Here was a dilemma. I came with ten thousand pounds in my hands to bestow freely on these people, and as such was the treatment I received. I must adopt, said I, a new mode. I lifted the latch, without a second warning, and, Cato, having disappeared, went into a room, the door of which chanced to be open, on my right hand. I found within the two females whom I had accosted in the portico. I now addressed myself to the younger. This intrusion, when I have explained the reason of it, will, I hope, be forgiven. I come, madam. Yes interrupted the other with a countenance suffused by indignation. I know very well whom you come from, and what it is that prompts this insolence, but your employer shall see that we have not sunk so low as he imagines. Cato! Bob! I say. My employer, madam, I see you labor under some great mistake. I have no employer. I come from a great distance. I come to bring intelligence of the utmost importance to your family. I come to benefit and not to injure you. By this time Bob and Cato, two sturdy blacks, entered the room. Turn this person, said the imperious lady, regardless of my explanations, out of the house. Don't you hear me? She continued, observing that they looked one upon the other and hesitated. Surely, madam, said I, you are precipitant. You are treating like an enemy, one who will prove himself your mother's best friend. Will you leave the house? She exclaimed, quite beside herself with anger. Villains, why don't you do as I bid you? The blacks looked upon each other as if waiting for an example. Their habitual difference for everything white, no doubt, held their hands from what they regarded as a profanation. At least Bob said, in a whining, beseeching tone, Why, Missy, Massa Bocca want to go for due, Dan he want to go for we. The lady now burst into tears of rage. She held out her hand menacingly. Will you leave the house? Not willingly, said I, in a mild tone, I came too far to return with the business that brought me unperformed. I am persuaded, madam. You mistake my character and my views. I have a message to deliver your mother which deeply concerns her and your happiness if you are her daughter. I merely wished to see her and leave her with a piece of important news, news in which her fortune is deeply interested. The words had a wonderful effect upon the young lady. Her anger was checked. Good God! she exclaimed. Are you Watson? No, I am only Watson's representative and could come to do all that Watson could do if he were present. She was now important to know my business. My business lies with Mrs. Morris. Advertisements which I have seen direct me to her and to this house, and to her only shall I deliver my message. Perhaps, said she with a face of apology, I have mistaken you. Mrs. Morris is my mother. She is really indisposed, but I can stand in her place on this occasion. You cannot represent her in this instance. If I cannot have access to her now I must go, and shall return when you are willing to grant it. Nay, replied she, she is not perhaps so very sick but that I will go and see if she will admit you. So saying, she left me for three minutes, and returning said her mother wished to see me. I followed upstairs at her request, and, entering an ill-furnished chamber, found, seated in an arm-chair, a lady seemingly in ears, pale and visibly infirm. The lines of her countenance were far from laying claim to my reverence. It was too much like the daughters. She looked at me at my entrance with great eagerness, and said in a sharp tone, Pray friend, what is it that you want with me? Make haste, tell your story, and be gone. My story is a short one, and easily told. Amos Watson was your agent in Jamaica. He sold an estate belonging to you, and received the money. He did, said she, attempting ineffectually to rise from her seat, and her eyes beaming with the significance that shocked me. He did, the villain, and purloined the money to the ruin of me and my daughters. But if there be justice on earth it will overtake him. I trust I shall have the pleasure one day. I hope to hear he's hanged. Well, but go on, friend. He did sell it, I tell you. He sold it for ten thousand pounds, I resumed, and invested this sum in bills of exchange. Watson is dead. These bills came into my hands. I was lately informed by the public papers who were the real owners, and have come from Philadelphia with no other view than to restore them to you. There they are, continued I, placing them in her lap, entire and untouched. She seized the papers, and looked at me and her daughter by turns, with an air of one suddenly bewildered. She seemed speechless, and growing suddenly more ghastly pale, and her head back upon the chair. The daughter screamed, and hastened to support the languid parent, who difficultly articulated, Oh, I am sick! Sick to death! Put me on the bed! I was astonished and affrighted at this scene. Some of the domestics of both colors entered, and gazed at me with surprise. Involuntarily I withdrew and returned to the room below, into which I had first entered and which I now found deserted. I was for some time at a loss to guess at the cause of these appearances. At length it occurred to me that joy was the source of the sickness that had seized Mrs. Morris. The abrupt recovery of what had probably been deemed irretrievable would naturally produce this effect on a mind of a certain texture. I was deliberating whether to stay or go when the daughter entered the room, and, after expressing some surprise at seeing me, whom she supposed to have retired, told me that her mother wished to see me again before my departure. In this request there was no kindness. All was cold, supercilious, and sullen. I obeyed the summons without speaking. I found Mrs. Morris seated in her arm-chair, much in her former guise. Not desiring me to be seated or relaxing ought in her asperity of looks and tones, pray, friend, how did you come by these papers? I assure you, madam, they were honestly come by, answered I, sedately and with half a smile. But if the whole is there that was missing, the mode and time in which they came to me is a matter of concern only to myself. Is there any deficiency? I am not sure. I don't know much of these matters. There may be less. I daresay there is. I shall know that soon. I expect a friend of mine every minute, who will look them over. I don't doubt you can give a good account of yourself. I doubt not, but I can, to those who have a right to demand it. In this case curiosity must be very urgent indeed before I shall consent to gratify it. You must know this is a suspicious case. Watson to be sure embezzled the money. To be sure you are his accomplice. Certainly, said I, my conduct on this occasion proves that. What I have brought to you of my own accord, what I have restored to you fully and unconditionally, it is plain Watson embezzled, and that I was aiding in the fraud. To restore what was never stolen always betrays the thief. To give what might be kept without suspicion is without doubt. Without doubt errant navery. To be serious, madam, in coming thus far for this purpose I have done enough, and must now bid you farewell. Nay, don't go yet. I have something more to say to you. My friend, I am sure, will be here presently. There he is. Noticing appeal upon the bell? Polly, go down and see if that's Mr. Summers. If it is, bring him up. The daughter went. I walked to the window absorbed in my own reflections. I was disappointed and dejected. The scene before me was the unpleasing reverse of all that my fancy, while coming hither, had foreboded. I expected to find virtuous indigence and sorrow lifted by my means to affluence and exultation. I expected to witness the tears of gratitude and the caresses of affection. What had I found? Nothing but sordidness, stupidity, and illiberal suspicion. The daughter stayed much longer than the mother's patience could endure. She knocked against the floor with her heel. A servant came up. Where's Polly, you slut? It was not you, hussy, that I wanted. It was her. She is talking in the parlour with a gentleman. Mr. Summers, I suppose, hey, fool! Run with my compliments to him, wench. Tell him please walk up. It is not Mr. Summers, ma'am. No. Who then, sauce-box? What gentleman can have anything to do with Polly? I don't know, ma'am. Who said you did, impertinence? Run and tell her I want her this instant. The summons was not delivered, or Polly did not think proper to obey it. Full ten minutes of thoughtful silence on my part and of muttered vexation and impatience on that of the old lady elapsed before Polly's entrance. As soon as she appeared the mother began to complain bitterly of her inattention and neglect. But Polly, taking no notice of her, addressed herself to me and told me that a gentleman below wished to see me. I hastened down and found a stranger of a plain appearance in the parlor. His aspect was liberal and ingenuous, and I quickly collected from his discourse that this was the brother-in-law of Watson and the companion of his last voyage. CHAPTER 42 My eyes sparkled with pleasure at this unexpected interview, and I willingly confessed my desire to communicate all the knowledge of his brother's destiny which I possessed. He told me that returning late to Baltimore on the last evening he found his sister in much agitation and distress, which after a time she explained to him. She likewise put the packets I had left into his hands. I leave you to imagine, continued he, my surprise and curiosity at this discovery. I was, of course, impatient to see the bearer of such extraordinary tidings. This morning, inquiring for one of your appearance at the taverns I was at length, informed of your arrival yesterday in the stage, of your going out alone in the evening, of your subsequent return, and of your early departure this morning. Accidentally, I lighted on your footsteps, and, by suitable inquiries on the road, have finally traced you hither. You told my sister her husband was dead. You left with her papers that were probably in his possession at the time of his death. I understand from Miss Morris that the bills belonging to her mother have just been delivered to her. I presume you have no objection to clear up this mystery. To you I am anxious to unfold everything, at this moment or at any time, but the sooner the more agreeable to me I will do it. This, said he, looking around him, is no place. There is an inn, not a hundred yards, from this gate where I have left my horse. Will you go thither? I readily consented, and, calling for a private apartment, I laid before this man every incident of my life connected with Wellbeck and Watson. My full, circumstantial, and explicit story appeared to remove every doubt which he might have entertained of my integrity. In Williams I found a plain good man of a temper confiding and affectionate. My narration being finished he expressed by unaffected tokens his wonder and his grief on account of Watson's destiny. To my inquiries, which were made with frankness and fervor respecting his own and his sister's condition, he said that the situation of both was deplorable till the recovery of this property. They had been saved from utter ruin, from beggary and a jail, only by the generosity and lenity of his creditors, who did not suffer the suspicious circumstances attending Watson's disappearance to outweigh former proofs of his property. They had never relinquished the hopes of receiving some tidings of their kinsmen. I related what had just passed in the house of Mrs. Morris and requested to know from him the history and character of this family. They have treated you, he answered, exactly as anyone who knew them would have predicted. The mother is narrow, ignorant, bigoted, and avaricious. The eldest daughter whom you saw resembles the old lady in many things. Age, indeed, may render the similitude complete. At present, pride and ill-humour are her chief characteristics. The youngest daughter has nothing in mind or person in common with her family. Where they are irascible, she is patient. Where they are imperious, she is humble. Where they are covetous, she is liberal. Where they are ignorant and indolent, she is studious and skillful. It is rare, indeed, to find a young lady more amiable than Miss Fanny Morris, or has had more crosses and afflictions to sustain. The eldest daughter always extorted the supply of her wants from her parents by threats and importunities, but the younger could never be prevailed upon to employ the same means, and hence she suffered inconveniences which, to any other girl born to an equal rank, would have been, to the last degree, humiliating and vexatious. To her they only afforded new opportunities for the display of her most shining virtues, fortitude and charity. No instance of their sordidness or tyranny ever stole a murmur from her. For what they had given, existence and a virtuous education, she said they were entitled to gratitude. What they withheld was their own, in the use of which they were not accountable to her. She was not ashamed to owe her subsistence to her own industry, and was only held by the pride of her family. In this instance their pride was equal to their avarice, from seeking out some lucrative kind of employment. Since the shock which their fortune sustained by Watson's disappearance, she has been permitted to pursue this plan, and she now teaches music in Baltimore for a living. No one, however, in the highest rank, can be more generally respected and caressed than she is. But will not the recovery of this money make a favorable change in her condition? I can hardly tell, but I am inclined to think it will not. It will not change her mother's character. Her pride may be awakened anew, and she may oblige Miss Fanny to relinquish her new profession, and that will be a change to be deplored. What good has been done, then, by restoring this money? If pleasure be good you must have conferred a great deal on the morises, upon the mother and two of the daughters at least, the only pleasure indeed which their natures can receive. It is less than if you had raised them from absolute indigence, which has not been the case since they had wherewithal to live upon besides their Jamaica property. But how, continued Williams, suddenly recollecting himself, have you claimed the reward promised to him who should restore these bills? What reward? No less than a thousand dollars. It was publicly promised under the hands of Mrs. Morris and of Hemmings, her husband's executor. Really, said I. That circumstance escaped my attention, and I wonder that it did, but is it too late to repair the evil? And you have no scruple to accept the reward? Certainly not! Could you suspect me of so strange a punctilio as that? Yes, but I know not why. The store you have just finished taught me to expect some unreasonable refinement upon that head. To be hired, to be bribed, to do our duty is supposed by some to be degrading. This is no such bribe to me. I should have acted just as I have done had no recompense been promised. In truth this has been my conduct, for I never once thought of the reward, but now that you remind me of it I would gladly see it bestowed. To fulfill their engagements in this respect is no more than justice in the Morris's. To one in my condition the money will be highly useful. If these people were poor, or generous and worthy, or if I myself were already rich, I might less repine at their withholding it. But things being as they are with them and with me, it would, I think, be gross injustice in them to withhold and in me to refuse. That injustice, said Williams, will on their part I fear be committed. To his pity you first applied to Mrs. Morris. Nothing can be expected from her avarice unless it be rested from her by a lawsuit. That is a force which I shall never apply. Had you gone first to Hemmings you might, I think, have looked for payment. He is not a mean man. A thousand dollars he must know is not much to give for forty thousand. Perhaps indeed it may not yet be too late. I am well known to him, and if you please, will attend you to him in the evening and state your claim. I thankfully accepted this offer and went with him accordingly. I found that Hemmings had been with Mrs. Morris in the course of the day, had received from her intelligence of this transaction, and had entertained the expectation of a visit from me for this very purpose. While Williams explained to him the nature of my claim he scanned me with great intentness. His austere and inflexible brow afforded me little room to hope for success, and this hopelessness was confirmed by his silence and perplexity when Williams had made an end. To be sure, he said after some pause, the contract was explicit. To be sure the conditions on Mr. Mervin's side have been performed. Certain it is the bills are entire and complete, but Mrs. Morris will not consent to do her part, and Mrs. Morris, to whom the papers were presented, is the person by whom, according to the terms of the contract, the reward must be paid. But Mrs. Morris, you know, sir, may be legally compelled to pay, said Williams. Perhaps she may, but I tell you plainly that she never will do the thing without compulsion. Legal process, however, in this case, will have other inconveniences besides delay. Some curiosity will naturally be excited as to the history of these papers. Watson disappeared a twelve-month ago. Who can avoid asking, where have these papers been deposited all this while, and how came this person in possession of them? That kind of curiosity, said I, is natural and laudable, and gladly I would gratify it. Disclosure or concealment in that case, however, would no wise effect my present claim. Whether a bond, legally executed, shall be paid, does not depend upon determining whether the payer is fondest of boiled mutton or roast beef. Truth in the first case has no connection with truth in the second. So far from alluding this curiosity, so far from studying concealment, I am anxious to publish the truth. You are right, to be sure, said Hemmings. Curiosity is a natural, but only an incidental consequence in this case. I have no reason for desiring that it should be an unpleasant consequence to you. Well, sir, said Williams, you think that Arthur Mervin has no remedy in this case but the law? Mrs. Morris, to be sure, will never pay but on compulsion. Mervin should have known his own interest better. While his left hand was stretched out to give, his right should have been held forth to receive. As it is he must be contented with the aid of law. Any attorney will prosecute on condition of receiving half the sum when recovered. We now rose to take our leave when Hemmings, desiring us to pause a moment, said, To be sure, in the utmost strictness of the terms of our promise, the reward was to be paid by the person who received the papers, but it must be owned that your claim at any rate is equitable. I have money of the deceased Mr. Morris in my hands. These very bills are now in my possession. I will therefore pay you your due, and take the consequences of an act of justice on myself. I was prepared for you. Sign that receipt, and there is a check for the amount. CHAPTER 43 This unexpected and agreeable decision was accompanied by an invitation to supper at which we were treated by our host with much affability and kindness. Finding me the author of William's good fortune, as well as Mrs. Morris's, and being assured by the former of his entire conviction of the rectitude of my conduct, he laid aside all reserve and distance with regard to me. He inquired into my prospects and wishes, and professed his willingness to serve me. I dealt with equal unreserve and frankness. I am poor, said I, money for my very expenses hither I have borrowed from a friend, to whom I am in other respects much indebted, and whom I expect to compensate only by gratitude and future services. In coming hither I expected only an increase of my debts to sink still deeper into poverty, but happily the issue has made me rich. This hour has given me competence at least. What? Call you a thousand dollars competence? More than competence I call it an abundance. My own ingenuity while I enjoy health will enable me to live. Thus I regard as a fund, first to pay my debts, and next to supply deficiencies occasioned by untoward accidents or ill health, during the ensuing three or four years at least. We parted with this new acquaintance at a late hour, and I accepted William's invitation to pass the time I should spend at Baltimore under his sister's roof. There were several motives for prolonging this stay. But I had heard of Miss Fanny Morris' excited strong wishes to be personally acquainted with her. This young lady was affectionately attached to Mrs. Watson by whose means my wishes were easily accomplished. I never was in habits of reserve, even with those I had no reason to esteem. With those who claimed my admiration and affection it was impossible to be incommunicative. Before the end of my second interview both these women were mistresses of every momentous incident of my life and of the whole chain of my feelings and opinions in relation to every subject and particularly in relation to themselves. Every topic disconnected with these is comparatively lifeless and inert. I found it easy to win their attention and to render them communicative in their turn. As full disclosures as I had made without condition or request, my inquiries and example easily obtained from Mrs. Watson and Miss Morris. The former related every event of her youth and the circumstances leading to her marriage. She depicted the character of her husband and the whole train of suspenses and inquietudes occasioned by his disappearance. The latter did not hide from me her opinions on any important subject and made me thoroughly acquainted with her actual situation. This intercourse was strangely fascinating. My heart was buoyed up by a kind of intoxication. I now found myself exalted to my genial element and began to taste the delights of existence. In the intercourse of ingenuous and sympathetic minds I found a pleasure which I had not previously conceived. The time flew swiftly away and a fortnight passed almost before I was aware that a day had gone by. I did not forget the friends whom I had left behind but maintained a punctual correspondence with Stevens to whom I imparted all occurrences. The recovery of my friend's kinsmen allowed him in a few days to return home. His first object was the consolation and relief of Carleton whom, with much difficulty, he persuaded to take advantage of the laws in favor of insolvent debtors. Carleton's only debt was owing to his uncle and by rendering up every species of property except his clothes and the implements of his trade he obtained a full discharge. In conjunction with his sister he once more assumed the pen and, being no longer burdened with debts he was unable to discharge, he resumed, together with his pen, his cheerfulness. Their mutual industry was sufficient for their decent and moderate subsistence. The chief reason for my hasty return was my anxiety respecting Clemenza Lodi. This reason was removed by the activity and benevolence of my friend. He paid this unfortunate stranger a visit at Mrs. Villars. Access was easily obtained and he found her sunk into the deepest melancholy. The recent loss of her child, the death of Wellbeck, of which she was soon apprised, her total dependence upon those with whom she was placed who, however, had always treated her without barbarity or endocorum, were the calamities that weighed down her spirits. My friend easily engaged her confidence in gratitude and prevailed upon her to take refuge under his own roof. Mrs. Wentworth's scruples, as well as those of Mrs. Fielding, were removed by his arguments and in treaties, and they consented to take upon themselves and divide between them the care of her subsistence and happiness. They condescended to express much curiosity respecting me and some interest in my welfare and promised to receive me on my return on the footing of a friend. With some reluctance I at length bade my new friend's fair well and returned to Philadelphia. Nothing remained before I should enter on my projected scheme of study and employment under the guidance of Stevens, but to examine the situation of Eliza Hadwin with my own eyes, and, if possible, to extricate my father from his unfortunate situation. My father's state had given me the deepest concern. I figured to myself his condition besotted by brutal appetites reduced to beggary, shut up in a noisome prison, and condemned to that society which must foster all his depraved propensities. I revolved various schemes for his relief. A few hundreds would take him from prison, but how should he be afterwards disposed of? How should he be cured of his indolent habits? How should he be screened from the contagion of vicious society? By what means, consistently with my own wants and the claims of others, should I secure to him an acceptable subsistence? Exhortation and example were vain. Nothing but restraint would keep him at a distance from the haunts of brawling and debauchery. The want of money would be no obstacle to prodigality and waste. It would be resorted to as long as it would answer his demand. When that failed, he would once more be thrown into a prison, the same means to extricate him would have to be repeated, and money be thus put into the pockets of the most worthless of mankind, the agents of drunkenness and blasphemy, without any permanent advantage to my father, the principal object of my charity. Though unable to fix on any plausible mode of proceeding, I determined at least to discover his present condition. Perhaps something might suggest itself upon the spot suited to my purpose. Without delay I proceeded to the village of Newtown, and alighting at the door of the prison inquired from my father. �Sawney Mervin, you want, I suppose,� said the keeper. Poor fellow! He came into limbo in a crazy condition and has been a burden on my hands ever since. After lingering along for some time he was at last kind enough to give us the slip. It is just a week since he drank his last pint and died. I was greatly shocked at this intelligence. It was some time before my reason came to my aid and showed me that this was an event on the whole and on a disinterested and dispassionate view not unfortunate. The keeper knew not my relation to the deceased and readily recounted the behavior of the prisoner and the circumstances of his last hours. I shall not repeat the narrative. It is useless to keep alive the sad remembrance. He was now beyond the reach of my charity or pity and since reflection could answer no beneficial end to him it was my duty to divert my thoughts into different channels and live henceforth for my own happiness and that of those who were within the sphere of my influence. I was now alone in the world so far as the total want of kindred creates solitude. Not one of my blood nor even of my name was to be found in this quarter of the world. Of my mother's kindred I knew nothing. So far as friendship or service might be claimed from them to me they had no existence. I was destitute of all those benefits which flow from kindred in relation to protection, advice or property. My inheritance was nothing. Not a single relic or trinket in my possession constituted a memorial of my family. The scenes of my childish and juvenile days were dreary and desolate. The fields which I was want to traverse, the room in which I was born, retained no traces of the past. They were the property and residence of strangers who knew nothing of the former tenants and who, as I was now told, had hastened to new model and transform everything within and without the habitation. These images filled me with melancholy which, however, disappeared in proportion as I approached the abode of my beloved girl. This had endeared the image of my best, I love to call her so, to my soul. I could not think of her without a melting softness at my heart and tears in which pain and pleasure were unaccountably mingled. As I approached Curling's house I strained my sight in hopes of distinguishing her form through the evening dusk. I had told her of my purpose by letter. She expected my approach at this hour and was stationed with a heart throbbing within patience at the roadside near the gate. As soon as I alighted she rushed into my arms. I found my sweet friend less blithesome and contented than I wished. Her situation, in spite of the parental and sisterly regards which she received from the Curlings, was mournful and dreary to her imagination. Full business was irksome and insufficient to fill up her time. Her life was tiresome and uniform and heavy. I ventured to blame her discontent and pointed out the advantages of her situation. Wents, said I, can these dissatisfactions and repinings arise? I cannot tell, said she, I don't know how it is with me. I am always sorrowful and thoughtful. Perhaps I think too much of my poor father and of Susan, and yet that can't be it neither, for I think of them but seldom, not half as much as I ought, perhaps. I think of nobody almost but you. Instead of minding my business or chatting and laughing with Peggy Curling, I love to get by myself, to read over and over your letters, or to think how you were employed just then and how happy I should be if I were in Fannie Morse's place. But it is all over now. This visit rewards me for everything. I wonder how I could ever be sullen or moatful. I will behave better indeed, I will, and be always, as now, a most happy girl. The greater part of three days was spent in the society of my friend in listening to her relation of all that had happened during my absence and in communicating in my turn every incident which had befallen myself. After this I once more returned to the city. END OF CHAPTER 43 I now set about carrying my plan of life into effect. I began with ardent zeal and unweary diligence the career of medical study. I bespoke the counsels and instructions of my friend, attended him on his professional visits, and acted in all practicable cases as his substitute. I found this application of time more pleasurable than I had imagined. My mind gladly expanded itself, as it were, for the reception of new ideas. My curiosity grew more eager in proportion as it was supplied with food, and every day added strength to the assurance that I was no insignificant and worthless being, that I was destined to be something in this scene of existence, and might some time lay claim to the gratitude and homage of my fellow men. I was far from being, however, monopolized by these pursuits. I was formed on purpose for the gratification of social intercourse. To love and to be loved, to exchange hearts and mingle sentiments with all the virtuous and amiable whom my good fortune had placed within the circuit of my knowledge, I always esteemed my highest enjoyment and my chief duty. Carlton and his sister, Mrs. Wentworth and Asha Fielding, were my most valuable associates beyond my own family. With all these my correspondence was frequent and unreserved, but chiefly with the latter. This lady had dignity and independence, a generous and enlightened spirit beyond what her education had taught me to expect. She was circumspecting cautions in her deportment and was not prompt to make advances or accept them. She withheld her esteem and confidence until she had full proof of their being deserved. I am not sure that her treatment of me was fully conformable to her rules. My manners indeed, as she once told me, she had never met with in another. Ordinary rules were so totally overlooked in my behavior that it seemed impossible for anyone who knew me to adhere to them. No option was left but to admit my claims to friendship and confidence instantly or to reject them altogether. I was not conscious of this singularity. The internal and undiscovered character of another weighed nothing with me in the question whether they should be treated with frankness or reserve. I felt no scruple on any occasion to disclose every feeling and every event. Anyone who could listen found me willing to talk. Every talker found me willing to listen. Everyone had my sympathy and kindness without claiming it, but I claimed the kindness and sympathy of everyone. Asha Fielding's countenance bespoke, I thought, a mind worthy to be known and to be loved. The first moment I engaged her attention, I told her so. I related the little story of my family, spread out before her all my reasonings and determinations, my notions of right and wrong, my fears and wishes. All this was done with sincerity and fervor, with gestures, actions and looks in which I felt as if my whole soul was visible. Her superior age, sedateness and prudence gave my deportment a filial freedom and affection, and I was fond of calling her mama. I particularly dwelt upon the history of my dear country girl, painted her form and countenance, recounted our dialogues, and related all my schemes for making her wise and good and happy. On these occasions my friend would listen to me with the mutest attention. I showed her the letters I received, and offered her for her perusal those which I wrote in answer before they were sealed and sent. On these occasions she would look by turns on my face and away from me. A varying hue would play upon her cheek, and her eyes were fuller than was common of meaning. Such and such, I once said, are my notions. Now what do you think? Think, emphatically and turning somewhat aside, she answered, that you are the most strange of human creatures. But tell me, I resumed, following and searching her averted eyes. Am I right? Would you do thus? Can you help me to improve my girl? I wish you knew the bewitching little creature. How would that heart overflow with affection and with gratitude towards you? She should be your daughter. No, you are too nearly of an age for that. A sister. Her elder sister you should be. That when there is no other relation includes them all. Fond sisters you would be, and I, the fond brother of you both. My eyes glistened as I spoke. In truth I am in that respect a mere woman. My friend was more powerfully moved. After a momentary struggle she burst into tears. Good heavens, that I! What ails you? Are you not well? Her looks betrayed an unaccountable confusion from which she quickly recovered. It was folly to be thus affected. Something ailed me, I believe, but it is past. But come, you want some lines of finishing the description of the Boa in La Cepide. True, and I have twenty minutes to spare. Your Franks is very ill indeed, but he cannot be seen till nine. We'll read till then. Thus on the wings of pleasure and improvement passed my time, not without some hues occasionally of a darker tint. My heart was now and then detected in sighing. This occurred when my thoughts glanced at the poor Eliza and measured, as it were, the interval between us. We are too, too far apart, dot I. The best solace on these occasions was the company of Mrs. Fielding, her music, her discourse, or some book which she set me to rehearsing to her. One evening, when preparing to pay her a visit, I received the following letter from my best. To A. Mervin, Curlings, May 6th, 1794. Where does this letter you promised me stay all this while? Did Arthur you torment me more than I deserve, and more than I could ever find it in my heart to do to you? You treat me cruelly. I must say so though I offend you. I must write, though you do not deserve that I should, and though I fear I am in a humor not very fit for writing. I had better go to my chamber and weep. Weep at your unkindness, I was going to say, but perhaps it is only forgetfulness. Yet what can be more unkind than forgetfulness? I am sure I have never forgotten you. Sleep itself, which wraps all other images in forgetfulness, only brings you nearer and makes me see you more distinctly. But where can this letter stay? O that hush, foolish girl, if a word of that kind escapes I lips, Arthur will be angry with thee, and then indeed thou mightest weep in earnest. Then thou wouldst have some cause for thy tears. More than once already has he almost broken thy heart with his reproaches. Sore and weak as it is now, any new reproaches would assuredly break it quite. I will be content. I will be as good a housewife and dairywoman, stir about as briskly and sing as merrily as Peggy Curling. Why not? I am as young, as innocent, and enjoy as good health. Alas, she has reason to be merry. She has father, mother, brothers, but I have none. And he that was all these and more than all these to me has forgotten me. But perhaps it is some accident that hinders. Perhaps Oliver left the market earlier than he used to do, or you mistook the house, or perhaps some poor creature was sick, was taken suddenly ill, and you were busy in chafing his clay-cold limbs. It fell to you to wipe the clammy drops from his brow. Such things often happen, don't they, Arthur, to people of your trade, and some such thing has happened now. And that was the reason you did not write. And if so, shall I repine at your silence? Oh, no, at such a time the poor best might easily be and ought to be forgotten. She would not deserve your love if she could repine at a silence brought about this way. And oh, may it be so. May there be nothing worse than this. If the sick man, see, Arthur, how my hand trembles, can you read this scrawl? What is always bad? My fears make worse than ever. I must not think that. And yet, if it be so, if my friend himself be sick, what will become of me? Of me that ought to cherish you and comfort you, that ought to be your nurse. Endure you for your sickness when she cannot remove it. Oh, that I will speak out. Oh, that this strange scruple had never possessed you. Why should I not be with you? Who can love you and serve you as well as I? In sickness and health I will console and assist you. Why will you deprive yourself of such a comforter and such an aid as I would be to you? Dear Arthur, think better of it. Let me leave this dreary spot where indeed, as long as I am thus alone, I can enjoy no comfort. Let me come to you. I will put up with anything for the sake of seeing you, though it be but once a day. Any garret or cellar in the dirtiest lane or darkest alley will be good enough for me. I will think at a palace so that I can but see you now and then. Do not refuse. Do not argue with me. So fond you always are of arguing. My heart is set upon your compliance. And yet, dearly as I prize your company, I would not ask it if I thought there was anything improper. You say there is, and you talk about it in a way that I do not understand. For my sake you tell me you refuse, but let me entreat you to comply for my sake. Your pen cannot teach me like your tongue. You write me long letters, and tell me a great deal in them, but my soul droops when I call to mind your voice and your looks, and think how long a time must pass before I see you and hear you again. I have no spirit to think upon the words in paper before me. My eye and thought wander far away. I bethink me how many questions I might ask you, how many doubts you might clear up if you were but within hearing. If you were but close to me, but I cannot ask them here. I am too poor a creature at the pen, and somehow or another it always happens. I can only write about myself or about you. By the time I have said all this I have tired my fingers, and when I said about telling you how this poem and that story have affected me, I am at a loss for words. I am bewildered and bemazed as it were. It is not so when we talk to one another. With your arm about me and your sweet face close to mine, I can prattle forever. Then my heart overflows at my lips. After hours thus spent, it seems as if there were a thousand things still to be said. Then I can tell you what the book has told me. I can repeat scores of verses by heart, though I heard them only once read. But it is because you have read them to me. Then there is nobody here to answer my questions. They never look into books. They hate books. They think at a waste of time to read. Even Peggy, who you say has a naturally strong mind, wonders what I can find to amuse myself in a book. In her playful mood she is always teasing me to lay it aside. I do not mind her for I like to read, but if I did not like it before I could not help doing so ever since you told me that nobody could gain your love who was not fond of books. And yet though I like it on that account more than I did, I don't read somehow so earnestly and understand so well as I used to, when my mind was all at ease, always frolicsome and ever upon tiptoe, as I may say. How strangely have you not observed it? I am altered of late. I that was ever light of heart, the very soul of gaiety, brimful of glee, am now demure as our old Tabby and not half as wise. Tabby had wit enough to keep her paws out of the coals, whereas poor I have, but no matter what, it will never come to pass, I see that. So many reasons for everything. Such looking forward. Sir, are not men sometimes too wise to be happy? I am now so grave. Not one smile can Peggy sometimes get from me, though she tries for it the whole day. But I know how it comes. Strange indeed if losing father and sister and thrown upon the wide world, penniless and friendless too, now that you forget me, I should continue to smile. No, I shall never smile again. At least while I stay here, I never shall, I believe. If a certain somebody suffer me to live with him, near him, I mean, perhaps the sight of him as he enters the door, perhaps the sound of his voice asking, Where is my best? Might produce a smile. Such a one as the very thought produces now, yet not I hope so transient and so quickly followed by a tear. Women are born, they say, to trouble, and tears are given them for their relief. Tis all very true. Let it be as I wish, will you? If Oliver bring not back good tidings, if he bring not a letter from thee, or thy letter still refuses my request, I don't know what may happen. And if you love your poor girl, E.H. End of chapter 44.