_Charles Duncan’s Narrative concluded._
I again return to my story. The recital of my life produced an effect
which the good Abdallah had not foreseen. He frequently indulged me in
the recapitulation of those circumstances of my disastrous fortune,
which no interval of time had been able to erase from my mind. He
permitted me, my Harriet, to speak of my wife, of my hopes as a parent;
and my wounds bled afresh. To pity and soothings, he added more solid
proofs of his regard. “I am old,” observed he, “and cannot live long;
you are a comfort to me; and the fate of those you deplore is probably
long since decided. I will give you freedom, and the means of returning
to your country, on condition you remain here, and close my eyes.” I,
with gratitude, accepted of those terms; and, some months before he
died, he had, in presence of the official magistrate, formally
registered my freedom. He had, moreover, the precaution to give me a
purse of gold, which he ordered me to secrete, saying, that his death
might leave me pennyless, as he could not trust to the generosity of
those who might succeed him. I was faithful to my benefactor; and in
heaven we shall again be friends!
I met with no impediment after his decease in the steps I took for my
farther enlargement, and at length with my little treasure I reached
Alexandria, where I found a French vessel ready to sail for Marseilles,
in which I embarked as a passenger. My early acquaintance with the
mathematics, and my desultory voyages with my patron, had rendered me no
inexpert seaman. Our navigation was tedious, and the captain an ignorant
babbler. For amusement, I had recourse to my activity; and, in the
exercise on deck, I saw that the vessel was badly manœuvred, and in a
crazy condition; keeping us constantly at the pump, and under
apprehensions for our safety. Inured to labour, and cheerfully giving my
time to the common relief of all, I became a favourite with the sailors,
which providentially saved their lives and my own. Within a few leagues
of our port we met with rough weather; and a swelling sea succeeded the
gale, which was only formidable to a ship in the condition of ours. The
leak gained upon us rapidly, and the captain, in despair, gave orders
for the longboat to be prepared, and for each man to think of his
preservation. The night was dark, and the peril obvious, in an attempt
to reach land in the boat. My arguments prevailed; by incessant toil we
kept the vessel floating till day break, when we took to the boat, and
saw her sink before we had gone half a furlong. We reached, however, the
port, and the _shipwrecked Duncan_, once more saw himself poor and
friendless; but I was _free_. I looked at my muscular arms and I smiled;
for I was _independent_; and quitting my companions, who were relieved
from their necessities by the charity they solicited, I repaired to a
house, in order to replenish my strength with bread of my _own_. My
slender purse sufficed, however, for my wants. I had enough to buy me
the dress of a seaman, and fortunately finding an American ship bound
for London, I offered myself as a shipwrecked Englishman, willing to
work my passage _home_. Something in my voice and manner betrayed my
feelings, when I pronounced the word _home_. The captain had the heart
of a man, and I was told, to take my _birth_ “on board” that very
evening, and that it should be a warm one; for he pitied me. During the
voyage my quiet melancholy and some accidental discourses of “_my
learning_,” to use the worthy captain’s word, so augmented the interest
his benevolence had excited in my behalf, that, on reaching our port, he
asked me what were my intentions respecting my future employment. I
replied that my first care would be to seek out a _friend_, who, if
found, would determine my fate, and probably place me beyond the reach
of penury. “But you may not find him,” replied he, viewing with
attention emotions which I was unable to check. “Let me advise you to
keep where you are, till you can do better. I like you, and will retain
you as ship steward; you are a good seaman and an honest capable man;
and may be the maker of your own fortune.” I rejected this offer,
saying, that I knew not whether my private concerns would permit me to
leave England so soon as he would. “Well,” replied he, “I will not press
you into my service; but I must pay for what you have done. I was on the
look-out for a hand to supply one who had left me when we met. You have
more than done that fellow’s duty, and you are justly entitled to your
wages.” He placed ten guineas in my hand, and added, that whilst the
ship was at her moorings, he thought I might as well make her my “head
quarters,” as she would give me a bed and board until a better hammock
was found; “and in order to make this offer sit easy on your mind,”
continued he, taking my trembling hand, “You may keep a clear reckoning,
by being useful to me with your pen, and your sobriety.” He instantly
left me, and at his return I thanked him, and entered on my office of
clerkship.
My approach to England had opened those wounds which time and religion
had in part closed; but I mean not to place before you the condition of
a mind torn by the anguish of reflecting on you, and corroded by the
feelings of resentment, and the purposes of vengeance, which alternately
governed my soul. At the sight of London my spirits forsook me, my heart
ceased to beat, and I was conveyed to my bed in a state of
insensibility. Would to God! I had found in this respite from misery, my
final dismissal from sense and sorrow! But returning recollection only
restored me to the contemplation of my wretched state. Forlorn and
friendless; cut off from the sweet ties of affinity; blasted in fame;
stamped with ignominy, and marked for justice! Deprived of the only
comfort, the only hope of my life! my wife, my Harriet! who had been
either destroyed in the wreck of my fortune, or lived to despise and to
curse me as her undoer—Oh! let me pause!
I now _wore_ life away: one purpose absorbed my every sense of fatigue,
every fear for my safety! No traces of the Keiths remained untrod; these
ended in disappointments. Another family had established themselves in
the square; and even that had changed, in many respects, its former
aspect; for I scarcely saw on the doors a name that I could recall to my
memory. Yet to this spot was I irresistibly drawn, and for hours
together have I paced it. One day, and towards its close, I perceived
that I excited the curiosity of the people who passed me; and that one
person in particular was observing me from the window of that abode, in
which I had tasted of the cup of bliss, in order, as it should seem, to
know more acutely that of wretchedness. I instinctively turned down a
passage leading into Ormond Street. In passing a small shop, the window
of which displayed, with the food of the poor, the humble luxuries of
penny pies and tarts, I stopped with others, in order to appease the
wrath of the woman, whose property had been invaded by a child of about
ten years old, whom she had detected in stealing a tart. Her fury was
subdued by some one who paid for the delinquent’s trespass; and the
collected persons continued their way with the weeping and terrified
girl. From the train of thought which this little incident had produced
in my mind, I was recalled to the consideration of the Harridan’s face,
who wondering probably _at mine_, and my remaining before her door,
asked me what I wished for. I instantly recognized the girl, when in
former times I had daily passed at her station near the passage I was
then in, where sitting by a wheelbarrow, she sold her similar
commodities, and exhibited a face, which time could not change; for a
claret coloured mark so completely covered one side of it, as to form a
half mask; and with this defect she was moreover exceedingly deformed;.
Struck by the conviction of her being a person who must have some
knowledge of Mr. Flamall’s family, I entered the shop, and placing
myself on an old chest which half filled it, I asked for some cold meat,
she applied herself to cutting and weighing it. “Do not spare it,” said
I, throwing down half a crown, “I am hungry and faint, having walked
from Wapping; and my return thither to-night must be provided for. Could
you procure me a pint of porter?” “In a moment,” answered she with
alacrity, calling to a boy opposite, who as instantly supplied the
demand. My questions followed; and as the prelude to them, I told her I
thought I had seen her many years back, when I was often a visitor in a
family, who then resided in Red Lion Square; but that I fancied they
were removed, not seeing the name of _Flamall_ in the Square. “Very
likely,” answered she, “mine is a face not easily forgotten; but I thank
God, thirtyfive years standing at my barrow, have proved it an honest
one; and you see me now with a house over my head, which will, I hope,
better shelter me, than many in the Square have done those who passed me
in all their glory and pride.” “Was Mr. Flamall one of those who lived
too fast for his holding the station he was in when I knew him?” asked
I, “Oh dear no,” replied she, “there was no fear of that, he knew too
well how to get money to be in danger of being poor. He sold his house
when he married his sister to a rich old man, and took rooms in
Lincoln’s Inn, he was too high to be called an attorney, and it has been
forsooth _counsellor_ Flamall from that time.” “I must find him,”
observed I, “for I have some business with him _as an attorney_. A
relation of mine left him to manage her affairs when she died, and I
shall expect my little legacy” “I wish you may find it,” answered she,
“but they say he is a sharp one, and loves money.” It was a shame to
marry, as he did, that beautiful young creature his sister, to an old
hunks of seventy. “But I suppose the young lady was consulted,” observed
I. “I suppose so too,” answered she, “for, God be praised, they cannot
in this country force a poor girl to the altar; but, as I have been
told, Miss Flamall was broken-hearted for the loss of a sweetheart, and
for a long time thought to be dying, and she did not care what became of
her honour; she has been lucky on the whole, for the old man soon left
her a widow, and she married a very proper looking gentleman; and is now
called my lady. But it is years since I have seen her; and she may or
may not be living; for she went into the North with her first husband,
and I have never seen her since; nor should I have known thus much, but
from an acquaintance, who lived sometime with her as cook, when she kept
her brother’s house.” “What was the girl’s name?” asked I. “I remember
one who lived in the family at the time my aunt died, when I was
frequently at the house on the business in question.” “Mary Nutt,”
replied she, without embarrassment; “but she married, and died in
child-bed, poor soul!” My enquiries terminated here, my agonies were not
to be concealed, and hastily rising, observing that I should be late, I
withdrew; the woman loudly calling to me to take my change. It was
already dark; and the intelligence I had received had harrowed up every
image of despair in my benighted soul. Shall I retrace the horrors of
that night, when wandering from street to street, my footsteps conducted
me to the river side? I stopped: I summed up the blessings I had lost. I
became desperate, Harriet! The moment of perdition was suspended by a
watchman’s passing me, who roughly asked me what I was about. I replied,
that I wanted a boat. “You will do well to wait till day break,”
answered he, surveying me with attention. “Come, my poor fellow, let me
show you a house where you will be safe.” Subdued by the gracious
interposition which had saved me, I burst into tears, and thanking the
man, I said, I would walk to my ship, naming it and Captain Nelson. “You
are a cup too low,” observed he, “come, I will share a pot with you; you
are an honest man by your looks; but you must not remain here.” I
complied, and he led the way to a public house which was open. I shared
with him the porter he called for; and he returned to his duty, exacting
from me a promise, that I would wait for day light. It came, Harriet,
and I determined to live, and to take ample vengeance on my destroyer’s
head. The state of my mind was such, as to admit of no impediments in my
projects of revenge. I informed Captain Nelson that I was going into the
country, in the hope of meeting with a person whom it was necessary for
me to see. Again he pressed me to continue with him; but finding me
determined, he contented himself with again supplying my purse with five
guineas, and recommending me in the strongest terms, to the owner of the
wharf he used, and who happened to be present. This man engaged to
employ me, in case my necessities should oblige me to labour for my
bread; and giving me his address, he bade me come to him should my
journey not turn out to my expectation. I had no chains to impede my
feet; but measuring the distance by land, and my strength, I preferred
working down my passage to Newcastle; having learned from the porter at
Lincoln’s Inn, that Mr. Flamall was at his brother’s, Sir Murdoch
Maclairn’s seat near Durham.
Aware of the impression which sorrow has given to my toil-worn
countenance, I have personated here a shipwrecked, and sick mariner; and
pity gave me shelter. Here ends my eventful tale, and here terminates
the decree of Heaven, which pronounced that Charles Duncan should have
no friend, no comforter, but that Being in whose approbation he should
find peace and repose. I have seen you, I have heard your voice! I
listened to your accents of melting tenderness and sympathy when you
talked of your husband. “He is a man,” said you, “of whom it may with
truth be said that he has been steeped in affliction, yet, my Malcolm,
like his Divine Master, he bows resigned to his cross; he murmurs
not—but in his sufferings teaches us patience.” And to whom was this
said? to your son, to Maclairn’s child! No frenzy followed this scene of
anguish, but tears, my Harriet, which, like the dew of heaven on the
parched earth, allayed the fever of my disturbed brain, and solaced my
burning bosom. I forgot myself, I saw only in my Harriet, Maclairn’s
wife and his son’s mother, dignified and matured, by that virtue which
had attracted my adoration.
Persevere most excellent of thy sex! fulfil the duties of thy station!
forget that I have invaded on your peace by this intrusion; but my
eternal safety depended on your believing me _innocent_ and _faithful_.
A little while, and I shall be in that grave, in which _for years_ you
have believed me to be. The storm of passion yields to better thoughts.
I will never see Flamall if I can help it. Trust to my word, it has
never deceived you; and to the God of truth I make my appeal; that in
thought, word, and deed, Charles Duncan was worthy of your love, and
will die in the blessed hope of meeting your pure spirit in a world of
permanent joy and peace.
As soon as I am assured that this packet is in your possession, I shall
quit your neighbourhood, and finally leave a country, in which, as for
Noah’s dove, there is no resting place for my foot. But should thy
gentle nature turn aside from the sorrows at hand, to follow the hapless
wanderer anew in his painful course, remember, that,
“Though in a bare and rugged way
“Through devious lonely paths I stray,
“Thy presence shall my pains beguile,
“The barren wilderness shall smile.”
Think not that I misapply these lines; for my God will not refuse the
worship of a heart, because still alive to those affections he implanted
there as his most precious gift. Farewell! once more I conjure you by
the tenderness and compassion which this will awaken in your bosom, to
banish all regrets. Thou wast a widow, Harriet, from the hour that
Duncan’s honour received its deadly wound. Thy vows were absolved from
the hour thou wast taught to believe me capable of deserting thee, even
to secure my own life. I have no doubts to clear away. Thou wast in the
hands of a _monster_; and heaven has been merciful, in extricating thee
from the snares of vice and infamy, which _that monster_ had prepared
for thee.
Farewell, CHARLES DUNCAN.
P.S. Judge of my resolution! I have heard that Flamall is daily expected
at the hall. I have heard him execrated as the tyrant who rules there. I
have heard my Harriet pitied! Yet will I forbear. Duncan shall not be
his own avenger; for there is a God “to whom vengeance belongeth,” and
he will not be mocked. I fly from the temptation of infringing his
sacred rights. Your peace is the shield which I oppose to my just, my
everlasting enmity with _this demon_. Again I promise, that this hand
shall not be raised against your brother; for were it, my injuries would
give it strength, and justice would guide it. Once more farewell! Think
not of the lost Charles. He is only an atom.
_Lady Maclairn in continuation._
From the hour that Maclairn’s wife has had this evidence of the triumph
of villainy over a man, graced and endowed with every requisite to awe
it, and to subject its designs by the power of the virtue inherent in
his soul, she has been a stranger to peace.
My conscience, lulled to repose by the fond hope of being necessary to
your comforts, my dear Maclairn, as being the sharer of your sorrows,
and the companion and friend in whose presence you sometimes solaced
your woes, and as one whom you ever saw without trouble or disquietude,
had ceased to upbraid me for crimes, to which I had been betrayed, by
the authority of my brother and my own timidity. Had I, in the first
hour, listened to my self-reproaches on discovering that I had been
deceived, and that there still existed a witness against me able, in a
moment, to render me the object of your scorn and detestation, I should
not have shrunk from an open avowal of the infamy I had incurred; for I
felt that the woman who is dishonoured in her own eyes, and condemned by
her own conscience, can meet with no encrease to her misery from the
contempt of the world. But as I was Malcolm Maclairn’s mother and the
ostensible guardian of his father’s honour and unsullied name, I have
been dumb, and have sustained my burden with patience for their sakes.
But the time is not far remote, when Heaven, in compassion to my
contrition and sorrows, will release me. You, my beloved Maclairn, will
acknowledge that I have been faithful; and Malcolm will honour his
mother’s grave with a tear, and he will say, “she has expiated her
offence by her sufferings, and has proclaimed that she loved the truth,
from which she was so fatally led away by a _Flamall_. Let me, O heaven,
depart in this hope! or be, as though I had never lived to those for
whom I have lived. Oh spare to them the pang of pronouncing Harriet
unworthy of the name of Maclairn!
I will not, my dear Lucy, hazard a single reflexion on this touching
narrative, until the full tide of my compassion is somewhat subsided. At
present I am disposed to consider that virtue too rigid, which could
condemn a culprit like Lady Maclairn; and to say the truth, my heart is
too well disposed to admire and to acquit her. You will not, therefore,
expect any decision in opinion until you hear from me again. I shall be
anxious to hear that this packet reaches you in safety. Believe, that
though Lady Maclairn’s “dear friend,” I am still your