"Here was new light thrown upon the character of Welbeck, and new food
administered to my suspicions. No conclusion could be more plausible
than that which Williams had drawn; but how should it be rendered
certain? Walter Thetford, or some of his family, had possibly been
witnesses of something, which, added to our previous knowledge, might
strengthen or prolong that clue, one end of which seemed now to be put
into our hands; but Thetford's father-in-law was the only one of his
family, who, by seasonable flight from the city, had escaped the
pestilence. To him, who still resided in the country, I repaired with
all speed, accompanied by Williams.
"The old man, being reminded, by a variety of circumstances, of the
incidents of that eventful period, was, at length, enabled to relate
that he had been present at the meeting which took place between Watson
and his son Walter, when certain packets were delivered by the former,
relative, as he quickly understood, to the condemnation of a ship in
which Thomas Thetford had gone supercargo. He had noticed some emotion
of the stranger, occasioned by his son's mentioning the concern which
Welbeck had in the vessel. He likewise remembered the stranger's
declaring his intention of visiting Welbeck, and requesting Walter to
afford him directions to his house.
"'Next morning at the breakfast-table,' continued the old man, 'I
adverted to yesterday's incidents, and asked my son how Welbeck had
borne the news of the loss of his ship. "He bore it," said Walter, "as a
man of his wealth ought to bear so trivial a loss. But there was
something very strange in his behaviour," says my son, "when I mentioned
the name of the captain who brought the papers; and, when I mentioned
the captain's design of paying him a visit, he stared upon me, for a
moment, as if he were frighted out of his wits, and then, snatching up
his hat, ran furiously out of the house." This was all my son said upon
that occasion; but, as I have since heard, it was on that very night
that Welbeck absconded from his creditors.'
"I have this moment returned from this interview with old Thetford. I
come to you, because I thought it possible that Mervyn, agreeably to
your expectations, had returned, and I wanted to see the lad once more.
My suspicions with regard to him have been confirmed, and a warrant was
this day issued for apprehending him as Welbeck's accomplice."
I was startled by this news. "My friend," said I, "be cautious how you
act, I beseech you. You know not in what evils you may involve the
innocent. Mervyn I know to be blameless; but Welbeck is indeed a
villain. The latter I shall not be sorry to see brought to justice; but
the former, instead of meriting punishment, is entitled to rewards."
"So you believe, on the mere assertion of the boy, perhaps, his
plausible lies might produce the same effect upon me; but I must stay
till he thinks proper to exert his skill. The suspicions to which he is
exposed will not easily be obviated; but, if he has any thing to say in
his defence, his judicial examination will afford him the suitable
opportunity. Why are you so much afraid to subject his innocence to this
test? It was not till you heard his tale that your own suspicions were
removed. Allow me the same privilege of unbelief.
"But you do me wrong, in deeming me the cause of his apprehension. It is
Jamieson and Thetford's work, and they have not proceeded on shadowy
surmises and the impulses of mere revenge. Facts have come to light of
which you are wholly unaware, and which, when known to you, will conquer
even your incredulity as to the guilt of Mervyn."
"Facts? Let me know them, I beseech you. If Mervyn has deceived me,
there is an end to my confidence in human nature. All limits to
dissimulation, and all distinctness between vice and virtue, will be
effaced. No man's word, nor force of collateral evidence, shall weigh
with me a hair."
"It was time," replied my friend, "that your confidence in smooth
features and fluent accents should have ended long ago. Till I gained
from my present profession some knowledge of the world, a knowledge
which was not gained in a moment, and has not cost a trifle, I was
equally wise in my own conceit; and, in order to decide upon the truth
of any one's pretensions, needed only a clear view of his face and a
distinct hearing of his words. My folly, in that respect, was only to be
cured, however, by my own experience, and I suppose your credulity will
yield to no other remedy. These are the facts:--
"Mrs. Wentworth, the proprietor of the house in which Welbeck lived, has
furnished some intelligence respecting Mervyn, whose truth cannot be
doubted, and which furnishes the strongest evidence of a conspiracy
between this lad and his employer. It seems that, some years since, a
nephew of this lady left his father's family clandestinely, and has not
been heard of since. This nephew was intended to inherit her fortunes,
and her anxieties and inquiries respecting him have been endless and
incessant. These, however, have been fruitless. Welbeck, knowing these
circumstances, and being desirous of substituting a girl whom he had
moulded for his purpose, in place of the lost youth, in the affections
of the lady while living, and in her testament when dead, endeavoured to
persuade her that the youth had died in some foreign country. For this
end, Mervyn was to personate a kinsman of Welbeck who had just arrived
from Europe, and who had been a witness of her nephew's death. A story
was, no doubt, to be contrived, where truth should be copied with the
most exquisite dexterity; and, the lady being prevailed upon to believe
the story, the way was cleared for accomplishing the remainder of the
plot.
"In due time, and after the lady's mind had been artfully prepared by
Welbeck, the pupil made his appearance; and, in a conversation full of
studied ambiguities, assured the lady that her nephew was dead. For the
present he declined relating the particulars of his death, and displayed
a constancy and intrepidity in resisting her entreaties that would have
been admirable in a better cause. Before she had time to fathom this
painful mystery, Welbeck's frauds were in danger of detection, and he
and his pupil suddenly disappeared.
"While the plot was going forward, there occurred an incident which the
plotters had not foreseen or precluded, and which possibly might have
created some confusion or impediment in their designs. A bundle was
found one night in the street, consisting of some coarse clothes, and
containing, in the midst of it, the miniature portrait of Mrs.
Wentworth's nephew. It fell into the hands of one of that lady's
friends, who immediately despatched the bundle to her. Mervyn, in his
interview with this lady, spied the portrait on the mantel-piece. Led by
some freak of fancy, or some web of artifice, he introduced the talk
respecting her nephew, by boldly claiming it as his; but, when the mode
in which it had been found was mentioned, he was disconcerted and
confounded, and precipitately withdrew.
"This conduct, and the subsequent flight of the lad, afforded ground
enough to question the truth of his intelligence respecting her nephew;
but it has since been confuted, in a letter just received from her
brother in England. In this letter, she is informed that her nephew had
been seen by one who knew him well, in Charleston; that some intercourse
took place between the youth and the bearer of the news, in the course
of which the latter had persuaded the nephew to return to his family,
and that the youth had given some tokens of compliance. The
letter-writer, who was father to the fugitive, had written to certain
friends at Charleston, entreating them to use their influence with the
runaway to the same end, and, at any rate, to cherish and protect him.
Thus, I hope you will admit that the duplicity of Mervyn is
demonstrated."
"The facts which you have mentioned," said I, after some pause, "partly
correspond with Mervyn's story; but the last particular is
irreconcilably repugnant to it. Now, for the first time, I begin to feel
that my confidence is shaken. I feel my mind bewildered and distracted
by the multitude of new discoveries which have just taken place. I want
time to revolve them slowly, to weigh them accurately, and to estimate
their consequences fully. I am afraid to speak; fearing that, in the
present trouble of my thoughts, I may say something which I may
afterwards regret, I want a counsellor; but you, Wortley, are unfit for
the office. Your judgment is unfurnished with the same materials; your
sufferings have soured your humanity and biassed your candour. The only
one qualified to divide with me these cares, and aid in selecting the
best mode of action, is my wife. She is mistress of Mervyn's history; an
observer of his conduct during his abode with us; and is hindered, by
her education and temper, from deviating into rigour and malevolence.
Will you pardon me, therefore, if I defer commenting on your narrative
till I have had an opportunity of reviewing it and comparing it with my
knowledge of the lad, collected from himself and from my own
observation?"
Wortley could not but admit the justice of my request, and, after some
desultory conversation, we parted. I hastened to communicate to my wife
the various intelligence which I had lately received. Mrs. Althorpe's
portrait of the Mervyns contained lineaments which the summary detail of
Arthur did not enable us fully to comprehend. The treatment which the
youth is said to have given to his father; the illicit commerce that
subsisted between him and his father's wife; the pillage of money and
his father's horse, but ill accorded with the tale which we had heard,
and disquieted our minds with doubts, though far from dictating our
belief.
What, however, more deeply absorbed our attention, was the testimony of
Williams and of Mrs. Wentworth. That which was mysterious and
inscrutable to Wortley and the friends of Watson was luminous to us. The
coincidence between the vague hints laboriously collected by these
inquirers, and the narrative of Mervyn, afforded the most cogent
attestation of the truth of that narrative.
Watson had vanished from all eyes, but the spot where rested his remains
was known to us. The girdle spoken of by Williams would not be suspected
to exist by his murderer. It was unmolested, and was doubtless buried
with him. That which was so earnestly sought, and which constituted the
subsistence of the Maurices, would probably be found adhering to his
body. What conduct was incumbent upon me who possessed this knowledge?
It was just to restore these bills to their true owner; but how could
this be done without hazardous processes and tedious disclosures? To
whom ought these disclosures to be made? By what authority or agency
could these half-decayed limbs be dug up, and the lost treasure be taken
from amidst the horrible corruption in which it was immersed?
This ought not to be the act of a single individual. This act would
entangle him in a maze of perils and suspicions, of concealments and
evasions, from which he could not hope to escape with his reputation
inviolate. The proper method was through the agency of the law. It is to
this that Mervyn must submit his conduct. The story which he told to me
he must tell to the world. Suspicions have fixed themselves upon him,
which allow him not the privilege of silence and obscurity. While he
continued unknown and unthought of, the publication of his story would
only give unnecessary birth to dangers; but now dangers are incurred
which it may probably contribute to lessen, if not to remove.
Meanwhile the return of Mervyn to the city was anxiously expected. Day
after day passed, and no tidings were received. I had business of an
urgent nature which required my presence in Jersey, but which, in the
daily expectation of the return of my young friend, I postponed a week
longer than rigid discretion allowed. At length I was obliged to comply
with the exigence, and left the city, but made such arrangements that I
should be apprized by my wife of Mervyn's return with all practicable
expedition.
These arrangements were superfluous, for my business was despatched, and
my absence at an end, before the youth had given us any tokens of his
approach. I now remembered the warnings of Wortley, and his assertions
that Mervyn had withdrawn himself forever from our view. The event had
hitherto unwelcomely coincided with these predictions, and a thousand
doubts and misgivings were awakened.
One evening, while preparing to shake off gloomy thoughts by a visit to
a friend, some one knocked at my door, and left a billet containing
these words:--
"_Dr. Stevens is requested to come immediately to the Debtors'
Apartments in Prune Street._"
This billet was without signature. The handwriting was unknown, and the
precipitate departure of the bearer left me wholly at a loss with
respect to the person of the writer, or the end for which my presence
was required. This uncertainty only hastened my compliance with the
summons.
The evening was approaching,--a time when the prison-doors are
accustomed to be shut and strangers to be excluded. This furnished an
additional reason for despatch. As I walked swiftly along, I revolved
the possible motives that might have prompted this message. A conjecture
was soon formed, which led to apprehension and inquietude.
One of my friends, by name Carlton, was embarrassed with debts which he
was unable to discharge. He had lately been menaced with arrest by a
creditor not accustomed to remit any of his claims. I dreaded that this
catastrophe had now happened, and called to mind the anguish with which
this untoward incident would overwhelm his family. I knew his incapacity
to take away the claim of his creditor by payment, or to soothe him into
clemency by supplication.
So prone is the human mind to create for itself distress, that I was not
aware of the uncertainty of this evil till I arrived at the prison. I
checked myself at the moment when I opened my lips to utter the name of
my friend, and was admitted without particular inquiries. I supposed
that he by whom I had been summoned hither would meet me in the common
room.
The apartment was filled with pale faces and withered forms. The marks
of negligence and poverty were visible in all; but few betrayed, in
their features or gestures, any symptoms of concern on account of their
condition. Ferocious gayety, or stupid indifference, seemed to sit upon
every brow. The vapour from a heated stove, mingled with the fumes of
beer and tallow that were spilled upon it, and with the tainted breath
of so promiscuous a crowd, loaded the stagnant atmosphere. At my first
transition from the cold and pure air without, to this noxious element,
I found it difficult to breathe. A moment, however, reconciled me to my
situation, and I looked anxiously round to discover some face which I
knew.
Almost every mouth was furnished with a cigar, and every hand with a
glass of porter. Conversation, carried on with much emphasis of tone and
gesture, was not wanting. Sundry groups, in different corners, were
beguiling the tedious hours at whist. Others, unemployed, were strolling
to and fro, and testified their vacancy of thought and care by humming
or whistling a tune.
I fostered the hope that my prognostics had deceived me. This hope was
strengthened by reflecting that the billet received was written in a
different hand from that of my friend. Meanwhile I continued my search.
Seated on a bench, silent and aloof from the crowd, his eyes fixed upon
the floor, and his face half concealed by his hand, a form was at length
discovered which verified all my conjectures and fears. Carlton was he.
My heart drooped and my tongue faltered at this sight. I surveyed him
for some minutes in silence. At length, approaching the bench on which
he sat, I touched his hand and awakened him from his reverie. He looked
up. A momentary gleam of joy and surprise was succeeded by a gloom
deeper than before.
It was plain that my friend needed consolation. He was governed by an
exquisite sensibility to disgrace. He was impatient of constraint. He
shrunk, with fastidious abhorrence, from the contact of the vulgar and
the profligate. His constitution was delicate and feeble. Impure airs,
restraint from exercise, unusual aliment, unwholesome or incommodious
accommodations, and perturbed thoughts, were, at any time, sufficient to
generate disease and to deprive him of life.
To these evils he was now subjected. He had no money wherewith to
purchase food. He had been dragged hither in the morning. He had not
tasted a morsel since his entrance. He had not provided a bed on which
to lie; or inquired in what room, or with what companions, the night was
to be spent.
Fortitude was not among my friend's qualities. He was more prone to
shrink from danger than encounter it, and to yield to the flood rather
than sustain it; but it is just to observe that his anguish, on the
present occasion, arose not wholly from selfish considerations. His
parents were dead, and two sisters were dependent on him for support.
One of these was nearly of his own age. The other was scarcely emerged
from childhood. There was an intellectual as well as a personal
resemblance between my friend and his sisters. They possessed his
physical infirmities, his vehement passions, and refinements of taste;
and the misery of his condition was tenfold increased, by reflecting on
the feelings which would be awakened in them by the knowledge of his
state, and the hardships to which the loss of his succour would expose
them.