Arthur Mervyn; Or, Memoirs of the Year 1793

by Charles Brockden Brown

  CHAPTER IX.

  Welbeck did not return, though hour succeeded hour till the clock struckten. I inquired of the servants, who informed me that their master wasnot accustomed to stay out so late. I seated myself at a table, in aparlour, on which there stood a light, and listened for the signal ofhis coming, either by the sound of steps on the pavement without or by apeal from the bell. The silence was uninterrupted and profound, and eachminute added to my sum of impatience and anxiety.

  To relieve myself from the heat of the weather, which was aggravated bythe condition of my thoughts, as well as to beguile this tormentinginterval, it occurred to me to betake myself to the bath. I left thecandle where it stood, and imagined that even in the bath I should hearthe sound of the bell which would be rung upon his arrival at the door.

  No such signal occurred, and, after taking this refreshment, I preparedto return to my post. The parlour was still unoccupied, but this was notall; the candle I had left upon the table was gone. This was aninexplicable circumstance. On my promise to wait for their master, theservants had retired to bed. No signal of any one's entrance had beengiven. The street door was locked, and the key hung at its customaryplace upon the wall. What was I to think? It was obvious to suppose thatthe candle had been removed by a domestic; but their footsteps could notbe traced, and I was not sufficiently acquainted with the house to findthe way, especially immersed in darkness, to their chamber. One measure,however, it was evidently proper to take, which was to supply myself,anew, with a light. This was instantly performed; but what was next tobe done?

  I was weary of the perplexities in which I was embroiled. I saw noavenue to escape from them but that which led me to the bosom of natureand to my ancient occupations. For a moment I was tempted to resume myrustic garb, and, on that very hour, to desert this habitation. Onething only detained me; the desire to apprize my patron of the treacheryof Thetford. For this end I was anxious to obtain an interview; but nowI reflected that this information could by other means be imparted. Wasit not sufficient to write him briefly these particulars, and leave himto profit by the knowledge? Thus I might, likewise, acquaint him with mymotives for thus abruptly and unseasonably deserting his service.

  To the execution of this scheme pen and paper were necessary. Thebusiness of writing was performed in the chamber on the third story. Ihad been hitherto denied access to this room. In it was a show of papersand books. Here it was that the task, for which I had been retained, wasto be performed; but I was to enter it and leave it only in company withWelbeck. For what reasons, I asked, was this procedure to be adopted?

  The influence of prohibitions and an appearance of disguise in awakeningcuriosity is well known. My mind fastened upon the idea of this roomwith an unusual degree of intenseness. I had seen it but for a moment.Many of Welbeck's hours were spent in it. It was not to be inferred thatthey were consumed in idleness: what then was the nature of hisemployment over which a veil of such impenetrable secrecy was cast?

  Will you wonder that the design of entering this recess was insensiblyformed? Possibly it was locked, but its accessibleness was likewisepossible. I meant not the commission of any crime. My principal purposewas to procure the implements of writing, which were elsewhere not to befound. I should neither unseal papers nor open drawers. I would merelytake a survey of the volumes and attend to the objects thatspontaneously presented themselves to my view. In this there surely wasnothing criminal or blameworthy. Meanwhile I was not unmindful of thesudden disappearance of the candle. This incident filled my bosom withthe inquietudes of fear and the perturbations of wonder.

  Once more I paused to catch any sound that might arise from without. Allwas still. I seized the candle and prepared to mount the stairs. I hadnot reached the first landing when I called to mind my midnight meetingwith Welbeck at the door of his daughter's chamber. The chamber was nowdesolate; perhaps it was accessible; if so, no injury was done byentering it. My curiosity was strong, but it pictured to itself noprecise object. Three steps would bear me to the door. The trial,whether it was fastened, might be made in a moment; and I readilyimagined that something might be found within to reward the trouble ofexamination. The door yielded to my hand, and I entered.

  No remarkable object was discoverable. The apartment was supplied withthe usual furniture. I bent my steps towards a table over which a mirrorwas suspended. My glances, which roved with swiftness from one object toanother, shortly lighted on a miniature portrait that hung near. Iscrutinized it with eagerness. It was impossible to overlook itsresemblance to my own visage. This was so great that for a moment Iimagined myself to have been the original from which it had been drawn.This flattering conception yielded place to a belief merely ofsimilitude between me and the genuine original.

  The thoughts which this opinion was fitted to produce were suspended bya new object. A small volume, that had, apparently, been much used, layupon the toilet. I opened it, and found it to contain some of the Dramasof Apostolo Zeno. I turned over the leaves; a written paper saluted mysight. A single glance informed me that it was English. For the presentI was insensible to all motives that would command me to forbear. Iseized the paper with an intention to peruse it.

  At that moment a stunning report was heard. It was loud enough to shakethe walls of the apartment, and abrupt enough to throw me into tremors.I dropped the book and yielded for a moment to confusion and surprise.From what quarter it came, I was unable accurately to determine; butthere could be no doubt, from its loudness, that it was near, and evenin the house. It was no less manifest that the sound arose from thedischarge of a pistol. Some hand must have drawn the trigger. Irecollected the disappearance of the candle from the room below.Instantly a supposition darted into my mind which made my hair rise andmy teeth chatter.

  "This," I said, "is the deed of Welbeck. He entered while I was absentfrom the room; he hied to his chamber; and, prompted by some unknowninstigation, has inflicted on himself death!" This idea had a tendencyto palsy my limbs and my thoughts. Some time passed in painful andtumultuous fluctuation. My aversion to this catastrophe, rather than abelief of being, by that means, able to prevent or repair the evil,induced me to attempt to enter his chamber. It was possible that myconjectures were erroneous.

  The door of his room was locked. I knocked; I demanded entrance in a lowvoice; I put my eye and my ear to the keyhole and the crevices; nothingcould be heard or seen. It was unavoidable to conclude that no one waswithin; yet the effluvia of gunpowder was perceptible.

  Perhaps the room above had been the scene of this catastrophe. Iascended the second flight of stairs. I approached the door. No soundcould be caught by my most vigilant attention. I put out the light thatI carried, and was then able to perceive that there was light within theroom. I scarcely knew how to act. For some minutes I paused at the door.I spoke, and requested permission to enter. My words were succeeded by adeath-like stillness. At length I ventured softly to withdraw the bolt,to open and to advance within the room. Nothing could exceed the horrorof my expectation; yet I was startled by the scene that I beheld.

  In a chair, whose back was placed against the front wall, sat Welbeck.My entrance alarmed him not, nor roused him from the stupor into whichhe was plunged. He rested his hands upon his knees, and his eyes wereriveted to something that lay, at the distance of a few feet beforehim, on the floor. A second glance was sufficient to inform me of whatnature this object was. It was the body of a man, bleeding, ghastly, andstill exhibiting the marks of convulsion and agony!

  I shall omit to describe the shock which a spectacle like thiscommunicated to my unpractised senses. I was nearly as panic-struck andpowerless as Welbeck himself. I gazed, without power of speech, at onetime, at Welbeck; then I fixed terrified eyes on the distorted featuresof the dead. At length, Welbeck, recovering from his reverie, looked up,as if to see who it was that had entered. No surprise, no alarm, wasbetrayed by him on seeing me. He manifested no desire or intention tointerrupt the fearful silence.

  My thoughts wa
ndered in confusion and terror. The first impulse was tofly from the scene; but I could not be long insensible to the exigencesof the moment. I saw that affairs must not be suffered to remain intheir present situation. The insensibility or despair of Welbeckrequired consolation and succour. How to communicate my thoughts, oroffer my assistance, I knew not. What led to this murderous catastrophe;who it was whose breathless corpse was before me; what concern Welbeckhad in producing his death; were as yet unknown.

  At length he rose from his seat, and strode at first with faltering, andthen with more steadfast steps, across the floor. This motion seemed toput him in possession of himself. He seemed now, for the first time, torecognise my presence. He turned to me, and said, in a tone ofseverity,--

  "How now? What brings you here?"

  This rebuke was unexpected. I stammered out, in reply, that the reportof the pistol had alarmed me, and that I came to discover the cause ofit.

  He noticed not my answer, but resumed his perturbed steps, and hisanxious but abstracted looks. Suddenly he checked himself, and, glancinga furious eye at the corpse, he muttered, "Yes, the die is cast. Thisworthless and miserable scene shall last no longer. I will at once getrid of life and all its humiliations."

  Here succeeded a new pause. The course of his thoughts seemed now tobecome once more tranquil. Sadness, rather than fury, overspread hisfeatures; and his accent, when he spoke to me, was not faltering, butsolemn.

  "Mervyn," said he, "you comprehend not this scene. Your youth andinexperience make you a stranger to a deceitful and flagitious world.You know me not. It is time that this ignorance should vanish. Theknowledge of me and of my actions may be of use to you. It may teach youto avoid the shoals on which my virtue and my peace have been wrecked;but to the rest of mankind it can be of no use. The ruin of my fame is,perhaps, irretrievable; but the height of my iniquity need not be known.I perceive in you a rectitude and firmness worthy to be trusted; promiseme, therefore, that not a syllable of what I tell you shall ever passyour lips."

  I had lately experienced the inconvenience of a promise; but I was nowconfused, embarrassed, ardently inquisitive as to the nature of thisscene, and unapprized of the motives that might afterwards occur,persuading or compelling me to disclosure. The promise which he exactedwas given. He resumed:--

  "I have detained you in my service, partly for your own benefit, butchiefly for mine. I intended to inflict upon you injury and to do yougood. Neither of these ends can I now accomplish, unless the lessonswhich my example may inculcate shall inspire you with fortitude and armyou with caution.

  "What it was that made me thus, I know not. I am not destitute ofunderstanding. My thirst of knowledge, though irregular, is ardent. Ican talk and can feel as virtue and justice prescribe; yet the tenor ofmy actions has been uniform. One tissue of iniquity and folly has beenmy life; while my thoughts have been familiar with enlightened anddisinterested principles. Scorn and detestation I have heaped uponmyself. Yesterday is remembered with remorse. To-morrow is contemplatedwith anguish and fear; yet every day is productive of the same crimesand of the same follies.

  "I was left, by the insolvency of my father, (a trader of Liverpool,)without any means of support but such as labour should afford me.Whatever could generate pride, and the love of independence, was myportion. Whatever can incite to diligence was the growth of mycondition; yet my indolence was a cureless disease; and there were noarts too sordid for me to practise.

  "I was content to live on the bounty of a kinsman. His family wasnumerous, and his revenue small. He forbore to upbraid me, or even toinsinuate the propriety of providing for myself; but he empowered me topursue any liberal or mechanical profession which might suit my taste. Iwas insensible to every generous motive. I laboured to forget mydependent and disgraceful condition, because the remembrance was asource of anguish, without being able to inspire me with a steadyresolution to change it.

  "I contracted an acquaintance with a woman who was unchaste, perverse,and malignant. Me, however, she found it no difficult task to deceive.My uncle remonstrated against the union. He took infinite pains tounveil my error, and to convince me that wedlock was improper for onedestitute, as I was, of the means of support, even if the object of mychoice were personally unexceptionable.

  "His representations were listened to with anger. That he thwarted mywill in this respect, even by affectionate expostulation, cancelled allthat debt of gratitude which I owed to him. I rewarded him for all hiskindness by invective and disdain, and hastened to complete myill-omened marriage. I had deceived the woman's father by assertions ofpossessing secret resources. To gratify my passion, I descended todissimulation and falsehood. He admitted me into his family, as thehusband of his child; but the character of my wife and the fallacy of myassertions were quickly discovered. He denied me accommodation under hisroof, and I was turned forth to the world to endure the penalty of myrashness and my indolence.

  "Temptation would have moulded me into any villanous shape. My virtuoustheories and comprehensive erudition would not have saved me from thebasest of crimes. Luckily for me, I was, for the present, exempted fromtemptation. I had formed an acquaintance with a young American captain.On being partially informed of my situation, he invited me to embarkwith him for his own country. My passage was gratuitous. I arrived, in ashort time, at Charleston, which was the place of his abode.

  "He introduced me to his family, every member of which was, likehimself, imbued with affection and benevolence. I was treated like theirson and brother. I was hospitably entertained until I should be able toselect some path of lucrative industry. Such was my incurable depravity,that I made no haste to select my pursuit. An interval of inoccupationsucceeded, which I applied to the worst purposes.

  "My friend had a sister, who was married, but during the absence of herhusband resided with her family. Hence originated our acquaintance. Thepurest of human hearts and the most vigorous understanding were hers.She idolized her husband, who well deserved to be the object of heradoration. Her affection for him, and her general principles, appearedto be confirmed beyond the power to be shaken. I sought her intercoursewithout illicit views; I delighted in the effusions of her candour andthe flashes of her intelligence; I conformed, by a kind of instinctivehypocrisy, to her views; I spoke and felt from the influence ofimmediate and momentary conviction. She imagined she had found in me afriend worthy to partake in all her sympathies and forward all herwishes. We were mutually deceived. She was the victim of self-delusion;but I must charge myself with practising deceit both upon myself andher.

  "I reflect with astonishment and horror on the steps which led to herdegradation and to my calamity. In the high career of passion allconsequences were overlooked. She was the dupe of the most audacioussophistry and the grossest delusion. I was the slave of sensual impulsesand voluntary blindness. The effect may be easily conceived. Not tillsymptoms of pregnancy began to appear were our eyes opened to the ruinwhich impended over us.

  "Then I began to revolve the consequences, which the mist of passion hadhitherto concealed. I was tormented by the pangs of remorse, and pursuedby the phantom of ingratitude. To complete my despair, this unfortunatelady was apprized of my marriage with another woman; a circumstancewhich I had anxiously concealed from her. She fled from her father'shouse at a time when her husband and brother were hourly expected. Whatbecame of her I knew not. She left behind her a letter to her father, inwhich the melancholy truth was told.

  "Shame and remorse had no power over my life. To elude the storm ofinvective and upbraiding, to quiet the uproar of my mind, I did notbetake myself to voluntary death. My pusillanimity still clung to thiswretched existence. I abruptly retired from the scene, and, repairing tothe port, embarked in the first vessel which appeared. The ship chancedto belong to Wilmington, in Delaware, and here I sought out an obscureand cheap abode.

  "I possessed no means of subsistence. I was unknown to my neighbours,and desired to remain unknown. I was unqualified for manual labour byall the habits of
my life; but there was no choice between penury anddiligence,--between honest labour and criminal inactivity. I musedincessantly on the forlornness of my condition. Hour after hour passed,and the horrors of want began to encompass me. I sought with eagernessfor an avenue by which I might escape from it. The perverseness of mynature led me on from one guilty thought to another. I took refuge in mycustomary sophistries, and reconciled myself at length to a schemeof--_forgery_!"