Mervyn's pause allowed his auditors to reflect on the particulars of his
narration, and to compare them with the facts with a knowledge of which
their own observation had supplied them. My profession introduced me to
the friendship of Mrs. Wentworth, by whom, after the disappearance of
Welbeck, many circumstances respecting him had been mentioned. She
particularly dwelt upon the deportment and appearance of this youth, at
the single interview which took place between them, and her
representations were perfectly conformable to those which Mervyn had
himself delivered.
Previously to this interview, Welbeck had insinuated to her that a
recent event had put him in possession of the truth respecting the
destiny of Clavering. A kinsman of his had arrived from Portugal, by
whom this intelligence had been brought. He dexterously eluded her
entreaties to be furnished with minuter information, or to introduce
this kinsman to her acquaintance. As soon as Mervyn was ushered into her
presence, she suspected him to be the person to whom Welbeck had
alluded, and this suspicion his conversation had confirmed. She was at a
loss to comprehend the reasons of the silence which he so pertinaciously
maintained.
Her uneasiness, however, prompted her to renew her solicitations. On the
day subsequent to the catastrophe related by Mervyn, she sent a
messenger to Welbeck, with a request to see him. Gabriel, the black
servant, informed the messenger that his master had gone into the
country for a week. At the end of the week, a messenger was again
despatched with the same errand. He called and knocked, but no one
answered his signals. He examined the entrance by the kitchen, but
every avenue was closed. It appeared that the house was wholly deserted.
These appearances naturally gave birth to curiosity and suspicion. The
house was repeatedly examined, but the solitude and silence within
continued the same. The creditors of Welbeck were alarmed by these
appearances, and their claims to the property remaining in the house
were precluded by Mrs. Wentworth, who, as owner of the mansion, was
legally entitled to the furniture, in place of the rent which Welbeck
had suffered to accumulate.
On examining the dwelling, all that was valuable and portable,
particularly linen and plate, was removed. The remainder was distrained,
but the tumults of pestilence succeeded and hindered it from being sold.
Things were allowed to continue in their former situation, and the house
was carefully secured. We had no leisure to form conjectures on the
causes of this desertion. An explanation was afforded us by the
narrative of this youth. It is probable that the servants, finding their
master's absence continue, had pillaged the house and fled.
Meanwhile, though our curiosity with regard to Welbeck was appeased, it
was obvious to inquire by what series of inducements and events Mervyn
was reconducted to the city and led to the spot where I first met with
him. We intimated our wishes in this respect, and our young friend
readily consented to take up the thread of his story and bring it down
to the point that was desired. For this purpose, the ensuing evening was
selected. Having, at an early hour, shut ourselves up from all intruders
and visitors, he continued as follows.
* * * * *
I have mentioned that, by sunrise, I had gained the distance of many
miles from the city. My purpose was to stop at the first farm-house, and
seek employment as a day-labourer. The first person whom I observed was
a man of placid mien and plain garb. Habitual benevolence was apparent
amidst the wrinkles of age. He was traversing his buckwheat-field, and
measuring, as it seemed, the harvest that was now nearly ripe.
I accosted him with diffidence, and explained my wishes. He listened to
my tale with complacency, inquired into my name and family, and into my
qualifications for the office to which I aspired. My answers were candid
and full.
"Why," said he, "I believe thou and I can make a bargain. We will, at
least, try each other for a week or two. If it does not suit our mutual
convenience, we can change. The morning is damp and cool, and thy plight
does not appear the most comfortable that can be imagined. Come to the
house and eat some breakfast."
The behaviour of this good man filled me with gratitude and joy.
Methought I could embrace him as a father, and entrance into his house
appeared like return to a long-lost and much-loved home. My desolate and
lonely condition appeared to be changed for paternal regards and the
tenderness of friendship.
These emotions were confirmed and heightened by every object that
presented itself under this roof. The family consisted of Mrs. Hadwin,
two simple and affectionate girls, his daughters, and servants. The
manners of this family, quiet, artless, and cordial, the occupations
allotted me, the land by which the dwelling was surrounded, its pure
airs, romantic walks, and exhaustless fertility, constituted a powerful
contrast to the scenes which I had left behind, and were congenial with
every dictate of my understanding and every sentiment that glowed in my
heart.
My youth, mental cultivation, and circumspect deportment, entitled me to
deference and confidence. Each hour confirmed me in the good opinion of
Mr. Hadwin, and in the affections of his daughters. In the mind of my
employer, the simplicity of the husbandman and the devotion of the
Quaker were blended with humanity and intelligence. The sisters, Susan
and Eliza, were unacquainted with calamity and vice through the medium
of either observation or books. They were strangers to the benefits of
an elaborate education, but they were endowed with curiosity and
discernment, and had not suffered their slender means of instruction to
remain unimproved.
The sedateness of the elder formed an amusing contrast with the laughing
eye and untamable vivacity of the younger; but they smiled and they
wept in unison. They thought and acted in different but not discordant
keys. On all momentous occasions, they reasoned and felt alike. In
ordinary cases, they separated, as it were, into different tracks; but
this diversity was productive not of jarring, but of harmony.
A romantic and untutored disposition like mine may be supposed liable to
strong impressions from perpetual converse with persons of their age and
sex. The elder was soon discovered to have already disposed of her
affections. The younger was free, and somewhat that is more easily
conceived than named stole insensibly upon my heart. The images that
haunted me at home and abroad, in her absence and her presence,
gradually coalesced into one shape, and gave birth to an incessant train
of latent palpitations and indefinable hopes. My days were little else
than uninterrupted reveries, and night only called up phantoms more
vivid and equally enchanting.
The memorable incidents which had lately happened scarcely counterpoised
my new sensations or diverted my contemplations from the present. My
views were gradually led to rest upon futurity, and in that I quickly
found cause of circumspection and dread. My present labours were light,
and were sufficient for my subsistence in a single state; but wedlock
was the parent of new wants and of new cares. Mr. Hadwin's possessions
were adequate to his own frugal maintenance, but, divided between his
children, would be too scanty for either. Besides, this division could
only take place at his death, and that was an event whose speedy
occurrence was neither desirable nor probable.
Another obstacle was now remembered. Hadwin was the conscientious member
of a sect which forbade the marriage of its votaries with those of a
different communion. I had been trained in an opposite creed, and
imagined it impossible that I should ever become a proselyte to
Quakerism. It only remained for me to feign conversion, or to root out
the opinions of my friend and win her consent to a secret marriage.
Whether hypocrisy was eligible was no subject of deliberation. If the
possession of all that ambition can conceive were added to the
transports of union with Eliza Hadwin, and offered as the price of
dissimulation, it would have been instantly rejected. My external goods
were not abundant nor numerous, but the consciousness of rectitude was
mine; and, in competition with this, the luxury of the heart and of the
senses, the gratifications of boundless ambition and inexhaustible
wealth, were contemptible and frivolous.
The conquest of Eliza's errors was easy; but to introduce discord and
sorrow into this family was an act of the utmost ingratitude and
profligacy. It was only requisite for my understanding clearly to
discern, to be convinced of the insuperability of this obstacle. It was
manifest, therefore, that the point to which my wishes tended was placed
beyond my reach.
To foster my passion was to foster a disease destructive either of my
integrity or my existence. It was indispensable to fix my thoughts upon
a different object, and to debar myself even from her intercourse. To
ponder on themes foreign to my darling image, and to seclude myself from
her society, at hours which had usually been spent with her, were
difficult tasks. The latter was the least practicable. I had to contend
with eyes which alternately wondered at and upbraided me for my
unkindness. She was wholly unaware of the nature of her own feelings,
and this ignorance made her less scrupulous in the expression of her
sentiments.
Hitherto I had needed not employment beyond myself and my companions.
Now my new motives made me eager to discover some means of controlling
and beguiling my thoughts. In this state, the manuscript of Lodi
occurred to me. In my way hither, I had resolved to make the study of
the language of this book, and the translation of its contents into
English, the business and solace of my leisure. Now this resolution was
revived with new force.
My project was perhaps singular. The ancient language of Italy possessed
a strong affinity with the modern. My knowledge of the former was my
only means of gaining the latter. I had no grammar or vocabulary to
explain how far the meanings and inflections of Tuscan words varied
from the Roman dialect. I was to ponder on each sentence and phrase; to
select among different conjectures the most plausible, and to ascertain
the true by patient and repeated scrutiny.
This undertaking, fantastic and impracticable as it may seem, proved,
upon experiment, to be within the compass of my powers. The detail of my
progress would be curious and instructive. What impediments, in the
attainment of a darling purpose, human ingenuity and patience are able
to surmount; how much may be done by strenuous and solitary efforts; how
the mind, unassisted, may draw forth the principles of inflection and
arrangement; may profit by remote, analogous, and latent similitudes,
would be forcibly illustrated by my example; but the theme, however
attractive, must, for the present, be omitted.
My progress was slow; but the perception of hourly improvement afforded
me unspeakable pleasure. Having arrived near the last pages, I was able
to pursue, with little interruption, the thread of an eloquent
narration. The triumph of a leader of outlaws over the popular
enthusiasm of the Milanese and the claims of neighbouring potentates was
about to be depicted. The _Condottiero_ Sforza had taken refuge from his
enemies in a tomb, accidentally discovered amidst the ruins of a Roman
fortress in the Apennines. He had sought this recess for the sake of
concealment, but found in it a treasure by which he would be enabled to
secure the wavering and venal faith of that crew of ruffians that
followed his standard, provided he fell not into the hands of the
enemies who were now in search of him.
My tumultuous curiosity was suddenly checked by the following leaves
being glued together at the edges. To dissever them without injury to
the written spaces was by no means easy. I proceeded to the task, not
without precipitation. The edges were torn away, and the leaves parted.
It may be thought that I took up the thread where it had been broken;
but no. The object that my eyes encountered, and which the cemented
leaves had so long concealed, was beyond the power of the most
capricious or lawless fancy to have prefigured; yet it bore a shadowy
resemblance to the images with which my imagination was previously
occupied. I opened, and beheld--_a bank-note_!
To the first transports of surprise, the conjecture succeeded, that the
remaining leaves, cemented together in the same manner, might enclose
similar bills. They were hastily separated, and the conjecture was
verified. My sensations at this discovery were of an inexplicable kind.
I gazed at the notes in silence. I moved my finger over them; held them
in different positions; read and reread the name of each sum, and the
signature; added them together, and repeated to myself--"_Twenty
thousand dollars!_ They are mine, and by such means!"
This sum would have redeemed the fallen fortunes of Welbeck. The dying
Lodi was unable to communicate all the contents of this inestimable
volume. He had divided his treasure, with a view to its greater safety,
between this volume and his pocket-book. Death hasted upon him too
suddenly to allow him to explain his precautions. Welbeck had placed the
book in his collection, purposing some time to peruse it; but, deterred
by anxieties which the perusal would have dissipated, he rushed to
desperation and suicide, from which some evanescent contingency, by
unfolding this treasure to his view, would have effectually rescued him.
But was this event to be regretted? This sum, like the former, would
probably have been expended in the same pernicious prodigality. His
career would have continued some time longer; but his inveterate habits
would have finally conducted his existence to the same criminal and
ignominious close.
But the destiny of Welbeck was accomplished. The money was placed,
without guilt or artifice, in my possession. My fortune had been thus
unexpectedly and wondrously propitious. How was I to profit by her
favour? Would not this sum enable me to gather round me all the
instruments of pleasure? Equipage, and palace, and a multitude of
servants; polished mirrors, splendid hangings, banquets, and flatterers,
were equally abhorrent to my taste and my principles. The accumulation
of knowledge, and the diffusion of happiness, in which riches may be
rendered eminently instrumental, were the only precepts of duty, and the
only avenues to genuine felicity.
"But what," said I, "is my title to this money? By retaining it, shall I
not be as culpable as Welbeck? It came into his possession, as it came
into mine, without a crime; but my knowledge of the true proprietor is
equally certain, and the claims of the unfortunate stranger are as valid
as ever. Indeed, if utility, and not law, be the measure of justice, her
claim, desolate and indigent as she is, unfitted, by her past life, by
the softness and the prejudices of her education, for contending with
calamity, is incontestable.
"As to me, health and diligence will give me, not only the competence
which I seek, but the power of enjoying it. If my present condition be
unchangeable, I shall not be unhappy. My occupations are salutary and
meritorious; I am a stranger to the cares as well as to the enjoyment of
riches; abundant means of knowledge are possessed by me, as long as I
have eyes to gaze at man and at nature, as they are exhibited in their
original forms or in books. The precepts of my duty cannot be mistaken.
The lady must be sought and the money restored to her."
Certain obstacles existed to the immediate execution of this scheme. How
should I conduct my search? What apology should I make for withdrawing
thus abruptly, and contrary to the terms of an agreement into which I
had lately entered, from the family and service of my friend and
benefactor Hadwin?
My thoughts were called away from pursuing these inquiries by a rumour,
which had gradually swelled to formidable dimensions; and which, at
length, reached us in our quiet retreats. The city, we were told, was
involved in confusion and panic, for a pestilential disease had begun
its destructive progress. Magistrates and citizens were flying to the
country. The numbers of the sick multiplied beyond all example; even in
the pest-affected cities of the Levant. The malady was malignant and
unsparing.
The usual occupations and amusements of life were at an end. Terror had
exterminated all the sentiments of nature. Wives were deserted by
husbands, and children by parents. Some had shut themselves in their
houses, and debarred themselves from all communication with the rest of
mankind. The consternation of others had destroyed their understanding,
and their misguided steps hurried them into the midst of the danger
which they had previously laboured to shun. Men were seized by this
disease in the streets; passengers fled from them; entrance into their
own dwellings was denied to them; they perished in the public ways.
The chambers of disease were deserted, and the sick left to die of
negligence. None could be found to remove the lifeless bodies. Their
remains, suffered to decay by piecemeal, filled the air with deadly
exhalations, and added tenfold to the devastation.
Such was the tale, distorted and diversified a thousand ways by the
credulity and exaggeration of the tellers. At first I listened to the
story with indifference or mirth. Methought it was confuted by its own
extravagance. The enormity and variety of such an evil made it unworthy
to be believed. I expected that every new day would detect the absurdity
and fallacy of such representations. Every new day, however, added to
the number of witnesses and the consistency of the tale, till, at
length, it was not possible to withhold my faith.