I laid myself on the bed and wrapped my limbs in the folds of the
carpet. My thoughts were restless and perturbed. I was once more busy in
reflecting on the conduct which I ought to pursue with regard to the
bank-bills. I weighed, with scrupulous attention, every circumstance
that might influence my decision. I could not conceive any more
beneficial application of this property than to the service of the
indigent, at this season of multiplied distress; but I considered that,
if my death were unknown, the house would not be opened or examined till
the pestilence had ceased, and the benefits of this application would
thus be partly or wholly precluded.
This season of disease, however, would give place to a season of
scarcity. The number and wants of the poor, during the ensuing winter,
would be deplorably aggravated. What multitudes might be rescued from
famine and nakedness by the judicious application of this sum!
But how should I secure this application? To enclose the bills in a
letter, directed to some eminent citizen or public officer, was the
obvious proceeding. Both of these conditions were fulfilled in the
person of the present chief-magistrate. To him, therefore, the packet
was to be sent.
Paper and the implements of writing were necessary for this end. Would
they be found, I asked, in the upper room? If that apartment, like the
rest which I had seen, and its furniture, had remained untouched, my
task would be practicable; but, if the means of writing were not to be
immediately procured, my purpose, momentous and dear as it was, must be
relinquished.
The truth, in this respect, was easily and ought immediately to be
ascertained. I rose from the bed which I had lately taken, and proceeded
to the _study_. The entries and staircases were illuminated by a pretty
strong twilight. The rooms, in consequence of every ray being excluded
by the closed shutters, were nearly as dark as if it had been midnight.
The rooms into which I had already passed were locked, but its key was
in each lock. I flattered myself that the entrance into the _study_
would be found in the same condition. The door was shut, but no key was
to be seen. My hopes were considerably damped by this appearance, but I
conceived it to be still possible to enter, since, by chance or by
design, the door might be unlocked.
My fingers touched the lock, when a sound was heard as if a bolt,
appending to the door on the inside, had been drawn. I was startled by
this incident. It betokened that the room was already occupied by some
other, who desired to exclude a visitor. The unbarred shutter below was
remembered, and associated itself with this circumstance. That this
house should be entered by the same avenue, at the same time, and this
room should be sought, by two persons, was a mysterious concurrence.
I began to question whether I had heard distinctly. Numberless
inexplicable noises are apt to assail the ear in an empty dwelling. The
very echoes of our steps are unwonted and new. This, perhaps, was some
such sound. Resuming courage, I once more applied to the lock. The door,
in spite of my repeated efforts, would not open.
My design was too momentous to be readily relinquished. My curiosity and
my fears likewise were awakened. The marks of violence, which I had seen
on the closets and cabinets below, seemed to indicate the presence of
plunderers. Here was one who laboured for seclusion and concealment.
The pillage was not made upon my property. My weakness would disable me
from encountering or mastering a man of violence. To solicit admission
into this room would be useless. To attempt to force my way would be
absurd. These reflections prompted me to withdraw from the door; but the
uncertainty of the conclusions I had drawn, and the importance of
gaining access to this apartment, combined to check my steps.
Perplexed as to the means I should employ, I once more tried the lock.
The attempt was fruitless as the former. Though hopeless of any
information to be gained by that means, I put my eye to the keyhole. I
discovered a light different from what was usually met with at this
hour. It was not the twilight which the sun, imperfectly excluded,
produces, but gleams, as from a lamp; yet its gleams were fainter and
obscurer than a lamp generally imparts.
Was this a confirmation of my first conjecture? Lamplight at noonday, in
a mansion thus deserted, and in a room which had been the scene of
memorable and disastrous events, was ominous. Hitherto no direct proof
had been given of the presence of a human being. How to ascertain his
presence, or whether it were eligible by any means to ascertain it, were
points on which I had not deliberated.
I had no power to deliberate. My curiosity impelled me to call,--"Is
there any one within? Speak."
These words were scarcely uttered, when some one exclaimed, in a voice
vehement but half-smothered, "Good God!"--
A deep pause succeeded. I waited for an answer; for somewhat to which
this emphatic invocation might be a prelude. Whether the tones were
expressive of surprise, or pain, or grief, was, for a moment, dubious.
Perhaps the motives which led me to this house suggested the suspicion
which presently succeeded to my doubts,--that the person within was
disabled by sickness. The circumstances of my own condition took away
the improbability from this belief. Why might not another be induced
like me to hide himself in this desolate retreat? Might not a servant,
left to take care of the house, a measure usually adopted by the opulent
at this time, be seized by the reigning malady? Incapacitated for
exertion, or fearing to be dragged to the hospital, he has shut himself
in this apartment. The robber, it may be, who came to pillage, was
overtaken and detained by disease. In either case, detection or
intrusion would be hateful, and would be assiduously eluded.
These thoughts had no tendency to weaken or divert my efforts to obtain
access to this room. The person was a brother in calamity, whom it was
my duty to succour and cherish to the utmost of my power. Once more I
spoke:--
"Who is within? I beseech you answer me. Whatever you be, I desire to do
you good and not injury. Open the door and let me know your condition. I
will try to be of use to you."
I was answered by a deep groan, and by a sob counteracted and devoured
as it were by a mighty effort. This token of distress thrilled to my
heart. My terrors wholly disappeared, and gave place to unlimited
compassion. I again entreated to be admitted, promising all the succour
or consolation which my situation allowed me to afford.
Answers were made in tones of anger and impatience, blended with those
of grief:--"I want no succour; vex me not with your entreaties and
offers. Fly from this spot; linger not a moment, lest you participate my
destiny and rush upon your death."
These I considered merely as the effusions of delirium, or the dictates
of despair. The style and articulation denoted the speaker to be
superior to the class of servants. Hence my anxiety to see and to aid
him was increased. My remonstrances were sternly and pertinaciously
repelled. For a time, incoherent and impassioned exclamations flowed
from him. At length, I was only permitted to hear strong aspirations and
sobs, more eloquent and more indicative of grief than any language.
This deportment filled me with no less wonder than commiseration. By
what views this person was led hither, by what motives induced to deny
himself to my entreaties, was wholly incomprehensible. Again, though
hopeless of success, I repeated my request to be admitted.
My perseverance seemed now to have exhausted all his patience, and he
exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, "Arthur Mervyn! Begone. Linger but a
moment, and my rage, tiger-like, will rush upon you and rend you limb
from limb."
This address petrified me. The voice that uttered this sanguinary menace
was strange to my ears. It suggested no suspicion of ever having heard
it before. Yet my accents had betrayed me to him. He was familiar with
my name. Notwithstanding the improbability of my entrance into this
dwelling, I was clearly recognized and unhesitatingly named!
My curiosity and compassion were in no wise diminished, but I found
myself compelled to give up my purpose. I withdrew reluctantly from the
door, and once more threw myself upon my bed. Nothing was more
necessary, in the present condition of my frame; than sleep; and sleep
had, perhaps, been possible, if the scene around me had been less
pregnant with causes of wonder and panic.
Once more I tasked memory in order to discover, in the persons with whom
I had hitherto conversed, some resemblance, in voice or tones, to him
whom I had just heard. This process was effectual. Gradually my
imagination called up an image which, now that it was clearly seen, I
was astonished had not instantly occurred. Three years ago, a man, by
name Colvill, came on foot, and with a knapsack on his back, into the
district where my father resided. He had learning and genius, and
readily obtained the station for which only he deemed himself qualified;
that of a schoolmaster.
His demeanour was gentle and modest; his habits, as to sleep, food, and
exercise, abstemious and regular. Meditation in the forest, or reading
in his closet, seemed to constitute, together with attention to his
scholars, his sole amusement and employment. He estranged himself from
company, not because society afforded no pleasure, but because studious
seclusion afforded him chief satisfaction.
No one was more idolized by his unsuspecting neighbours. His scholars
revered him as a father, and made under his tuition a remarkable
proficiency. His character seemed open to boundless inspection, and his
conduct was pronounced by all to be faultless.
At the end of a year the scene was changed. A daughter of one of his
patrons, young, artless, and beautiful, appeared to have fallen a prey
to the arts of some detestable seducer. The betrayer was gradually
detected, and successive discoveries showed that the same artifices had
been practised, with the same success, upon many others. Colvill was the
arch-villain. He retired from the storm of vengeance that was gathering
over him, and had not been heard of since that period.
I saw him rarely, and for a short time, and I was a mere boy. Hence the
failure to recollect his voice, and to perceive that the voice of him
immured in the room above was the same with that of Colvill. Though I
had slight reasons for recognising his features or accents, I had
abundant cause to think of him with detestation, and pursue him with
implacable revenge, for the victim of his acts, she whose ruin was first
detected, was--_my sister_.
This unhappy girl escaped from the upbraidings of her parents, from the
contumelies of the world, from the goadings of remorse, and the anguish
flowing from the perfidy and desertion of Colvill, in a voluntary death.
She was innocent and lovely. Previous to this evil, my soul was linked
with hers by a thousand resemblances and sympathies, as well as by
perpetual intercourse from infancy, and by the fraternal relation. She
was my sister, my preceptress and friend; but she died--her end was
violent, untimely, and criminal! I cannot think of her without
heart-bursting grief; of her destroyer, without a rancour which I know
to be wrong, but which I cannot subdue.
When the image of Colvill rushed, upon this occasion, on my thought, I
almost started on my feet. To meet him, after so long a separation,
here, and in these circumstances, was so unlooked-for and abrupt an
event, and revived a tribe of such hateful impulses and agonizing
recollections, that a total revolution seemed to have been effected in
my frame. His recognition of my person, his aversion to be seen, his
ejaculation of terror and surprise on first hearing my voice, all
contributed to strengthen my belief.
How was I to act? My feeble frame could but ill second my vengeful
purposes; but vengeance, though it sometimes occupied my thoughts, was
hindered by my reason from leading me, in any instance, to outrage or
even to upbraiding.
All my wishes with regard to this man were limited to expelling his
image from my memory, and to shunning a meeting with him. That he had
not opened the door at my bidding was now a topic of joy. To look upon
some bottomless pit, into which I was about to be cast headlong, and
alive, was less to be abhorred than to look upon the face of Colvill.
Had I known that he had taken refuge in this house, no power should have
compelled me to enter it. To be immersed in the infection of the
hospital, and to be hurried, yet breathing and observant, to my grave,
was a more supportable fate.
I dwell, with self-condemnation and shame, upon this part of my story.
To feel extraordinary indignation at vice, merely because we have
partaken in an extraordinary degree of its mischiefs, is unjustifiable.
To regard the wicked with no emotion but pity, to be active in
reclaiming them, in controlling their malevolence, and preventing or
repairing the ills which they produce, is the only province of duty.
This lesson, as well as a thousand others, I have yet to learn; but I
despair of living long enough for that or any beneficial purpose.
My emotions with regard to Colvill were erroneous, but omnipotent. I
started from my bed, and prepared to rush into the street. I was
careless of the lot that should befall me, since no fate could be worse
than that of abiding under the same roof with a wretch spotted with so
many crimes.
I had not set my feet upon the floor before my precipitation was checked
by a sound from above. The door of the study was cautiously and slowly
opened. This incident admitted only of one construction, supposing all
obstructions removed. Colvill was creeping from his hiding-place, and
would probably fly with speed from the house. My belief of his sickness
was now confuted. An illicit design was congenial with his character
and congruous with those appearances already observed.
I had no power or wish to obstruct his flight. I thought of it with
transport, and once more threw myself upon the bed, and wrapped my
averted face in the carpet. He would probably pass this door,
unobservant of me, and my muffled face would save me from the agonies
connected with the sight of him.
The footsteps above were distinguishable, though it was manifest that
they moved with lightsomeness and circumspection. They reached the stair
and descended. The room in which I lay was, like the rest, obscured by
the closed shutters. This obscurity now gave way to a light, resembling
that glimmering and pale reflection which I had noticed in the study. My
eyes, though averted from the door, were disengaged from the folds which
covered the rest of my head, and observed these tokens of Colvill's
approach, flitting on the wall.
My feverish perturbations increased as he drew nearer. He reached the
door, and stopped. The light rested for a moment. Presently he entered
the apartment. My emotions suddenly rose to a height that would not be
controlled. I imagined that he approached the bed, and was gazing upon
me. At the same moment, by an involuntary impulse, I threw off my
covering, and, turning my face, fixed my eyes upon my visitant.
It was as I suspected. The figure, lifting in his right hand a candle,
and gazing at the bed, with lineaments and attitude bespeaking fearful
expectation and tormenting doubts, was now beheld. One glance
communicated to my senses all the parts of this terrific vision. A
sinking at my heart, as if it had been penetrated by a dagger, seized
me. This was not enough: I uttered a shriek, too rueful and loud not to
have startled the attention of the passengers, if any had, at that
moment, been passing the street.
Heaven seemed to have decreed that this period should be filled with
trials of my equanimity and fortitude. The test of my courage was once
more employed to cover me with humiliation and remorse. This second
time, my fancy conjured up a spectre, and I shuddered as if the grave
were forsaken and the unquiet dead haunted my pillow.
The visage and the shape had indeed preternatural attitudes, but they
belonged, not to Colvill, but to--WELBECK.