CHAPTER XXXVI.
"Why," said I, as I hasted forward, "is my fortune so abundant inunforeseen occurrences? Is every man who leaves his cottage and theimpressions of his infancy behind him ushered into such a world ofrevolutions and perils as have trammelled my steps? or is my sceneindebted for variety and change to my propensity to look into otherpeople's concerns, and to make their sorrows and their joys mine?
"To indulge an adventurous spirit, I left the precincts of thebarn-door, enlisted in the service of a stranger, and encountered athousand dangers to my virtue under the disastrous influence of Welbeck.Afterwards my life was set at hazard in the cause of Wallace, and now amI loaded with the province of protecting the helpless Eliza Hadwin andthe unfortunate Clemenza. My wishes are fervent, and my powers shall notbe inactive in their defence; but how slender are these powers!
"In the offers of the unknown lady there is, indeed, some consolationfor Clemenza. It must be my business to lay before my friend Stevens theparticulars of what has befallen me, and to entreat his directions howthis disconsolate girl may be most effectually succoured. It may be wiseto take her from her present abode, and place her under some chaste andhumane guardianship, where she may gradually lose remembrance of herdead infant and her specious betrayer. The barrier that severs her fromWelbeck must be high as heaven and insuperable as necessity.
"But, soft! Talked she not of Welbeck? Said she not that he was inprison and was sick? Poor wretch! I thought thy course was at an end;that the penalty of guilt no longer weighed down thy heart; that thymisdeeds and thy remorses were buried in a common and obscure grave; butit seems thou art still alive.
"Is it rational to cherish the hope of thy restoration to innocence andpeace? Thou art no obdurate criminal; hadst thou less virtue, thycompunctions would be less keen. Wert thou deaf to the voice of duty,thy wanderings into guilt and folly would be less fertile of anguish.The time will perhaps come, when the measure of thy transgressions andcalamities will overflow, and the folly of thy choice will be tooconspicuous to escape thy discernment. Surely, even for suchtransgressors as thou, there is a salutary power in the precepts oftruth and the lessons of experience.
"But thou art imprisoned and art sick. This, perhaps, is the crisis ofthy destiny. Indigence and dishonour were the evils to shun which thyintegrity and peace of mind have been lightly forfeited. Thou hast foundthat the price was given in vain; that the hollow and deceitfulenjoyments of opulence and dignity were not worth the purchase; andthat, frivolous and unsubstantial as they are, the only path that leadsto them is that of honesty and diligence. Thou art in prison and artsick; and there is none to cheer thy hour with offices of kindness, oruphold thy fainting courage by the suggestions of good counsel. For suchas thou the world has no compassion. Mankind will pursue thee to thegrave with execrations. Their cruelty will be justified or palliated,since they know thee not. They are unacquainted with the goadings of thyconscience and the bitter retributions which thou art daily suffering.They are full of their own wrongs, and think only of those tokens ofexultation and complacency which thou wast studious of assuming in thyintercourse with them. It is I only that thoroughly know thee and canrightly estimate thy claims to compassion.
"I have somewhat partaken of thy kindness, and thou meritest somegratitude at my hands. Shall I not visit and endeavour to console theein thy distress? Let me, at least, ascertain thy condition, and be theinstrument in repairing the wrongs which thou hast inflicted. Let megain, from the contemplation of thy misery, new motives to sincerity andrectitude."
While occupied by these reflections, I entered the city. The thoughtswhich engrossed my mind related to Welbeck. It is not my custom to defertill to-morrow what can be done to-day. The destiny of man frequentlyhangs upon the lapse of a minute. "I will stop," said I, "at the prison;and, since the moment of my arrival may not be indifferent, I will gothither with all possible haste." I did not content myself with walking,but, regardless of the comments of passengers, hurried along the way atfull speed.
Having inquired for Welbeck, I was conducted through a dark room,crowded with beds, to a staircase. Never before had I been in a prison.Never had I smelt so noisome an odour, or surveyed faces so begrimedwith filth and misery. The walls and floors were alike squalid anddetestable. It seemed that in this house existence would be bereaved ofall its attractions; and yet those faces, which could be seen throughthe obscurity that encompassed them, were either void of care ordistorted with mirth.
"This," said I, as I followed my conductor, "is the residence ofWelbeck. What contrasts are these to the repose and splendour, picturedwalls, glossy hangings, gilded sofas, mirrors that occupied from ceilingto floor, carpets of Tauris, and the spotless and transcendentbrilliancy of coverlets and napkins, in thy former dwelling! Herebrawling and the shuffling of rude feet are eternal. The air is loadedwith the exhalations of disease and the fumes of debauchery. Thou artcooped up in airless space, and, perhaps, compelled to share thy narrowcell with some stupid ruffian. Formerly, the breezes were courted by thylofty windows. Aromatic shrubs were scattered on thy hearth. Menials,splendid in apparel, showed their faces with diffidence in thyapartment, trod lightly on thy marble floor, and suffered not thesanctity of silence to be troubled by a whisper. Thy lamp shot its raysthrough the transparency of alabaster, and thy fragrant lymph flowedfrom vases of porcelain. Such were formerly the decorations of thyhall, the embellishments of thy existence; but now--alas!----"
We reached a chamber in the second story. My conductor knocked at thedoor. No one answered. Repeated knocks were unheard or unnoticed by theperson within. At length, lifting a latch, we entered together.
The prisoner lay upon the bed, with his face turned from the door. Iadvanced softly, making a sign to the keeper to withdraw. Welbeck wasnot asleep, but merely buried in reverie. I was unwilling to disturb hismusing, and stood with my eyes fixed upon his form. He appearedunconscious that any one had entered.
At length, uttering a deep sigh, he changed his posture, and perceivedme in my motionless and gazing attitude. Recollect in what circumstanceswe had last parted. Welbeck had, no doubt, carried away with him fromthat interview a firm belief that I should speedily die. His prognostic,however, was fated to be contradicted.
His first emotions were those of surprise. These gave place tomortification and rage. After eyeing me for some time, he averted hisglances, and that effort which is made to dissipate some obstacle tobreathing showed me that his sensations were of the most excruciatingkind. He laid his head upon the pillow, and sunk into his former musing.He disdained, or was unable, to utter a syllable of welcome or contempt.
In the opportunity that had been afforded me to view his countenance, Ihad observed tokens of a kind very different from those which used to bevisible. The gloomy and malignant were more conspicuous. Health hadforsaken his cheeks, and taken along with it those flexible parts whichformerly enabled him to cover his secret torments and insidious purposesbeneath a veil of benevolence and cheerfulness. "Alas!" said I, loudenough for him to hear me, "here is a monument of ruin. Despair andmischievous passions are too deeply rooted in this heart for me to tearthem away."
These expressions did not escape his notice. He turned once more andcast sullen looks upon me. There was somewhat in his eyes that made meshudder. They denoted that his reverie was not that of grief, but ofmadness. I continued, in a less steadfast voice than before:--
"Unhappy Clemenza! I have performed thy message. I have visited him thatis sick and in prison. Thou hadst cause for anguish and terror, evengreater cause than thou imaginedst. Would to God that thou wouldst becontented with the report which I shall make; that thy misguidedtenderness would consent to leave him to his destiny, would suffer himto die alone; but that is a forbearance which no eloquence that Ipossess will induce thee to practise. Thou must come, and witness forthyself."
In speaking thus, I was far from foreseeing the effects which would beproduced on the mind of Welbeck. I was far from intending to instil intohim a
belief that Clemenza was near at hand, and was preparing to enterhis apartment; yet no other images but these would, perhaps, have rousedhim from his lethargy, and awakened that attention which I wished toawaken. He started up, and gazed fearfully at the door.
"What!" he cried. "What! Is she here? Ye powers, that have scatteredwoes in my path, spare me the sight of her! But from this agony I willrescue myself. The moment she appears I will pluck out these eyes anddash them at her feet."
So saying, he gazed with augmented eagerness upon the door. His handswere lifted to his head, as if ready to execute his frantic purpose. Iseized his arm and besought him to lay aside his terror, for thatClemenza was far distant. She had no intention, and besides was unable,to visit him.
"Then I am respited. I breathe again. No; keep her from a prison. Dragher to the wheel or to the scaffold; mangle her with stripes; tortureher with famine; strangle her child before her face, and cast it to thehungry dogs that are howling at the gate; but--keep her from a prison.Never let her enter these doors." There he stopped; his eyes being fixedon the floor, and his thoughts once more buried in reverie. Iresumed:--
"She is occupied with other griefs than those connected with the fate ofWelbeck. She is not unmindful of you; she knows you to be sick and inprison; and I came to do for you whatever office your condition mightrequire, and I came at her suggestion. She, alas! has full employmentfor her tears in watering the grave of her child."
He started. "What! dead? Say you that the child is dead?"
"It is dead. I witnessed its death. I saw it expire in the arms of itsmother; that mother whom I formerly met under your roof blooming andgay, but whom calamity has tarnished and withered. I saw her in theraiment of poverty, under an accursed roof: desolate; alone; unsolacedby the countenance or sympathy of human beings; approached only by thosewho mock at her distress, set snares for her innocence, and push her toinfamy. I saw her leaning over the face of her dying babe."
Welbeck put his hands to his head, and exclaimed, "Curses on thy lips,infernal messenger! Chant elsewhere thy rueful ditty! Vanish! if thouwouldst not feel in thy heart fangs red with blood less guilty thanthine."
Till this moment the uproar in Welbeck's mind appeared to hinder himfrom distinctly recognising his visitant. Now it seemed as if theincidents of our last interview suddenly sprung up in his remembrance.
"What! This is the villain that rifled my cabinet, the maker of mypoverty and of all the evils which it has since engendered! That has ledme to a prison! Execrable fool! you are the author of the scene that youdescribe, and of horrors without number and name. To whatever crimes Ihave been urged since that interview, and the fit of madness that madeyou destroy my property, they spring from your act; they flowed fromnecessity, which, had you held your hand at that fateful moment, wouldnever have existed.
"How dare you thrust yourself upon my privacy? Why am I not alone? Fly!and let my miseries want, at least, the aggravation of beholding theirauthor. My eyes loathe the sight of thee! My heart would suffocate theewith its own bitterness! Begone!"
"I know not," I answered, "why innocence should tremble at the ravingsof a lunatic; why it should be overwhelmed by unmerited reproaches! Whyit should not deplore the errors of its foe, labour to correct thoseerrors, and----"
"Thank thy fate, youth, that my hands are tied up by my scorn; thank thyfate that no weapon is within reach. Much has passed since I saw thee,and I am a new man. I am no longer inconstant and cowardly. I have nomotives but contempt to hinder me from expiating the wrongs which thouhast done me in thy blood. I disdain to take thy life. Go; and let thyfidelity, at least, to the confidence which I have placed in thee, beinviolate. Thou hast done me harm enough, but canst do, if thou wilt,still more. Thou canst betray the secrets that are lodged in thy bosom,and rob me of the comfort of reflecting that my guilt is known but toone among the living."
This suggestion made me pause, and look back upon the past. I hadconfided this man's tale to you. The secrecy on which he so fondlyleaned was at an end. Had I acted culpably or not?
But why should I ruminate, with anguish and doubt, upon the past? Thefuture was within my power, and the road of my duty was too plain to bemistaken. I would disclose to Welbeck the truth, and cheerfullyencounter every consequence. I would summon my friend to my aid, andtake his counsel in the critical emergency in which I was placed. Iought not to rely upon myself alone in my efforts to benefit this being,when another was so near whose discernment and benevolence, andknowledge of mankind, and power of affording relief, were far superiorto mine.
Influenced by these thoughts, I left the apartment without speaking;and, procuring pen and paper, despatched to you the billet which broughtabout our meeting.
Arthur Mervyn; Or, Memoirs of the Year 1793 Page 36
