My feeble frame could but ill second my vengeful
purposes; but vengeance, though it sometimes occupied my thoughts, was
hindered by my reason from leading me, in any instance, to outrage or
even to upbraiding. All my wishes with regard to this man were limited to expelling his
image from my memory, and to shunning a meeting with him. That he had
not opened the door at my bidding was now a topic of joy. To look upon
some bottomless pit, into which I was about to be cast headlong, and
alive, was less to be abhorred than to look upon the face of Colvill. Had I known that he had taken refuge in this house, no power should have
compelled me to enter it. To be immersed in the infection of the
hospital, and to be hurried, yet breathing and observant, to my grave,
was a more supportable fate. I dwell, with self-condemnation and shame, upon this part of my story. To feel extraordinary indignation at vice, merely because we have
partaken in an extraordinary degree of its mischiefs, is unjustifiable. To regard the wicked with no emotion but pity, to be active in
reclaiming them, in controlling their malevolence, and preventing or
repairing the ills which they produce, is the only province of duty. This lesson, as well as a thousand others, I have yet to learn; but I
despair of living long enough for that or any beneficial purpose. My emotions with regard to Colvill were erroneous, but omnipotent. I
started from my bed, and prepared to rush into the street. I was
careless of the lot that should befall me, since no fate could be worse
than that of abiding under the same roof with a wretch spotted with so
many crimes. I had not set my feet upon the floor before my precipitation was checked
by a sound from above. The door of the study was cautiously and slowly
opened. This incident admitted only of one construction, supposing all
obstructions removed. Colvill was creeping from his hiding-place, and
would probably fly with speed from the house. My belief of his sickness
was now confuted. An illicit design was congenial with his character
and congruous with those appearances already observed. I had no power or wish to obstruct his flight. I thought of it with
transport, and once more threw myself upon the bed, and wrapped my
averted face in the carpet. He would probably pass this door,
unobservant of me, and my muffled face would save me from the agonies
connected with the sight of him. The footsteps above were distinguishable, though it was manifest that
they moved with lightsomeness and circumspection. They reached the stair
and descended. The room in which I lay was, like the rest, obscured by
the closed shutters. This obscurity now gave way to a light, resembling
that glimmering and pale reflection which I had noticed in the study. My
eyes, though averted from the door, were disengaged from the folds which
covered the rest of my head, and observed these tokens of Colvill's
approach, flitting on the wall. My feverish perturbations increased as he drew nearer. He reached the
door, and stopped. The light rested for a moment. Presently he entered
the apartment. My emotions suddenly rose to a height that would not be
controlled. I imagined that he approached the bed, and was gazing upon
me. At the same moment, by an involuntary impulse, I threw off my
covering, and, turning my face, fixed my eyes upon my visitant. It was as I suspected. The figure, lifting in his right hand a candle,
and gazing at the bed, with lineaments and attitude bespeaking fearful
expectation and tormenting doubts, was now beheld. One glance
communicated to my senses all the parts of this terrific vision. A
sinking at my heart, as if it had been penetrated by a dagger, seized
me. This was not enough: I uttered a shriek, too rueful and loud not to
have startled the attention of the passengers, if any had, at that
moment, been passing the street. Heaven seemed to have decreed that this period should be filled with
trials of my equanimity and fortitude. The test of my courage was once
more employed to cover me with humiliation and remorse. This second
time, my fancy conjured up a spectre, and I shuddered as if the grave
were forsaken and the unquiet dead haunted my pillow. The visage and the shape had indeed preternatural attitudes, but they
belonged, not to Colvill, but to--WELBECK. CHAPTER XXI. He whom I had accompanied to the midst of the river; whom I had imagined
that I saw sink to rise no more, was now before me. Though incapable of
precluding the groundless belief of preternatural visitations, I was
able to banish the phantom almost at the same instant at which it
appeared. Welbeck had escaped from the stream alive; or had, by some
inconceivable means, been restored to life. The first was the most plausible conclusion. It instantly engendered a
suspicion, that his plunging into the water was an artifice, intended to
establish a belief of his death. His own tale had shown him to be versed
in frauds, and flexible to evil. But was he not associated with Colvill? and what, but a compact in iniquity, could bind together such men? While thus musing, Welbeck's countenance and gesture displayed emotions
too vehement for speech. The glances that he fixed upon me were
unsteadfast and wild. He walked along the floor, stopping at each
moment, and darting looks of eagerness upon me. A conflict of passions
kept him mute. At length, advancing to the bed, on the side of which I
was now sitting, he addressed me:--

"What is this? Are you here? In defiance of pestilence, are you actuated
by some demon to haunt me, like the ghost of my offences, and cover me
with shame? What have I to do with that dauntless yet guiltless front? With that foolishly-confiding and obsequious, yet erect and
unconquerable, spirit? Is there no means of evading your pursuit? Must I
dip my hands, a second time, in blood; and dig for you a grave by the
side of Watson?" These words were listened to with calmness. I suspected and pitied the
man, but I did not fear him. His words and his looks were indicative
less of cruelty than madness. I looked at him with an air compassionate
and wistful. I spoke with mildness and composure:--

"Mr. Welbeck, you are unfortunate and criminal. Would to God I could
restore you to happiness and virtue! but, though my desire be strong, I
have no power to change your habits or rescue you from misery. "I believed you to be dead. I rejoice to find myself mistaken. While you
live, there is room to hope that your errors will be cured; and the
turmoils and inquietudes that have hitherto beset your guilty progress
will vanish by your reverting into better paths. "From me you have nothing to fear. If your welfare will be promoted by
my silence on the subject of your history, my silence shall be
inviolate. I deem not lightly of my promises. They are given, and shall
not be recalled. "This meeting was casual. Since I believed you to be dead, it could not
be otherwise.