You err, if you suppose that any injury will accrue to you
from my life; but you need not discard that error. Since my death is
coming, I am not averse to your adopting the belief that the event is
fortunate to you. "Death is the inevitable and universal lot. When or how it comes, is of
little moment. To stand, when so many thousands are falling around me,
is not to be expected. I have acted an humble and obscure part in the
world, and my career has been short; but I murmur not at the decree that
makes it so. "The pestilence is now upon me. The chances of recovery are too slender
to deserve my confidence. I came hither to die unmolested, and at peace. All I ask of you is to consult your own safety by immediate flight; and
not to disappoint my hopes of concealment, by disclosing my condition to
the agents of the hospital." Welbeck listened with the deepest attention. The wildness of his air
disappeared, and gave place to perplexity and apprehension. "You are sick," said he, in a tremulous tone, in which terror was
mingled with affection. "You know this, and expect not to recover. No
mother, nor sister, nor friend, will be near to administer food, or
medicine, or comfort; yet you can talk calmly; can be thus considerate
of others--of me; whose guilt has been so deep, and who has merited so
little at your hands! "Wretched coward! Thus miserable as I am and expect to be, I cling to
life. To comply with your heroic counsel, and to fly; to leave you thus
desolate and helpless, is the strongest impulse. Fain would I resist it,
but cannot. "To desert you would be flagitious and dastardly beyond all former acts;
yet to stay with you is to contract the disease, and to perish after
you. "Life, burdened as it is with guilt and ignominy, is still dear--yet you
exhort me to go; you dispense with my assistance. Indeed, I could be of
no use; I should injure myself and profit you nothing. I cannot go into
the city and procure a physician or attendant. I must never more appear
in the streets of this city. I must leave you, then." He hurried to the
door. Again, he hesitated. I renewed my entreaties that he would leave
me; and encouraged his belief that his presence might endanger himself
without conferring the slightest benefit upon me. "Whither should I fly? The wide world contains no asylum for me. I lived
but on one condition. I came hither to find what would save me from
ruin,--from death. I find it not. It has vanished. Some audacious and
fortunate hand has snatched it from its place, and now my ruin is
complete. My last hope is extinct. "Yes, Mervyn! I will stay with you. I will hold your head. I will put
water to your lips. I will watch night and day by your side. When you
die, I will carry you by night to the neighbouring field; will bury you,
and water your grave with those tears that are due to your incomparable
worth and untimely destiny. Then I will lay myself in your bed, and wait
for the same oblivion." Welbeck seemed now no longer to be fluctuating between opposite
purposes. His tempestuous features subsided into calm. He put the
candle, still lighted, on the table, and paced the floor with less
disorder than at his first entrance. His resolution was seen to be the dictate of despair. I hoped that it
would not prove invincible to my remonstrances. I was conscious that his
attendance might preclude, in some degree, my own exertions, and
alleviate the pangs of death; but these consolations might be purchased
too dear. To receive them at the hazard of his life would be to make
them odious. But, if he should remain, what conduct would his companion pursue? Why
did he continue in the study when Welbeck had departed? By what motives
were those men led hither? I addressed myself to Welbeck:--

"Your resolution to remain is hasty and rash. By persisting in it, you
will add to the miseries of my condition; you will take away the only
hope that I cherished. But, however you may act, Colvill or I must be
banished from this roof. What is the league between you? Break it, I
conjure you, before his frauds have involved you in inextricable
destruction." Welbeck looked at me with some expression of doubt. "I mean," continued I, "the man whose voice I heard above. He is a
villain and betrayer. I have manifold proofs of his guilt. Why does he
linger behind you? However you may decide, it is fitting that he should
vanish." "Alas!" said Welbeck, "I have no companion, none to partake with me in
good or evil. I came hither alone." "How?" exclaimed I. "Whom did I hear in the room above? Some one
answered my interrogations and entreaties, whom I too certainly
recognised. Why does he remain?" "You heard no one but myself. The design that brought me hither was to
be accomplished without a witness. I desired to escape detection, and
repelled your solicitations for admission in a counterfeited voice. "That voice belonged to one from whom I had lately parted. What his
merits or demerits are, I know not. He found me wandering in the forests
of New Jersey. He took me to his home. When seized by a lingering
malady, he nursed me with fidelity and tenderness. When somewhat
recovered, I speeded hither; but our ignorance of each other's character
and views was mutual and profound. "I deemed it useful to assume a voice different from my own. This was
the last which I had heard, and this arbitrary and casual circumstance
decided my choice." This imitation was too perfect, and had influenced my fears too
strongly, to be easily credited. I suspected Welbeck of some new
artifice to baffle my conclusions and mislead my judgment. This
suspicion, however, yielded to his earnest and repeated declarations. If
Colvill were not here, where had he made his abode? How came friendship
and intercourse between Welbeck and him? By what miracle escaped the
former from the river, into which I had imagined him forever sunk? "I will answer you," said he, with candour. "You know already too much
for me to have any interest in concealing any part of my life. You have
discovered my existence, and the causes that rescued me from destruction
may be told without detriment to my person or fame. "When I leaped into the river, I intended to perish. I harboured no
previous doubts of my ability to execute my fatal purpose. In this
respect I was deceived. Suffocation would not come at my bidding. My
muscles and limbs rebelled against my will. There was a mechanical
repugnance to the loss of life, which I could not vanquish. My struggles
might thrust me below the surface, but my lips were spontaneously shut,
and excluded the torrent from my lungs. When my breath was exhausted,
the efforts that kept me at the bottom were involuntarily remitted, and
I rose to the surface. "I cursed my own pusillanimity. Thrice I plunged to the bottom, and as
often rose again. My aversion to life swiftly diminished, and at length
I consented to make use of my skill in swimming, which has seldom been
exceeded, to prolong my existence.