My glances, which roved with swiftness from one object to
another, shortly lighted on a miniature portrait that hung near. I
scrutinized it with eagerness. It was impossible to overlook its
resemblance to my own visage. This was so great that for a moment I
imagined myself to have been the original from which it had been drawn. This flattering conception yielded place to a belief merely of
similitude between me and the genuine original. The thoughts which this opinion was fitted to produce were suspended by
a new object. A small volume, that had, apparently, been much used, lay
upon the toilet. I opened it, and found it to contain some of the Dramas
of Apostolo Zeno. I turned over the leaves; a written paper saluted my
sight. A single glance informed me that it was English. For the present
I was insensible to all motives that would command me to forbear. I
seized the paper with an intention to peruse it. At that moment a stunning report was heard. It was loud enough to shake
the 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; but
there could be no doubt, from its loudness, that it was near, and even
in the house. It was no less manifest that the sound arose from the
discharge of a pistol. Some hand must have drawn the trigger. I
recollected the disappearance of the candle from the room below. Instantly a supposition darted into my mind which made my hair rise and
my teeth chatter. "This," I said, "is the deed of Welbeck. He entered while I was absent
from the room; he hied to his chamber; and, prompted by some unknown
instigation, has inflicted on himself death!" This idea had a tendency
to palsy my limbs and my thoughts. Some time passed in painful and
tumultuous fluctuation. My aversion to this catastrophe, rather than a
belief of being, by that means, able to prevent or repair the evil,
induced me to attempt to enter his chamber. It was possible that my
conjectures were erroneous. The door of his room was locked. I knocked; I demanded entrance in a low
voice; I put my eye and my ear to the keyhole and the crevices; nothing
could be heard or seen. It was unavoidable to conclude that no one was
within; yet the effluvia of gunpowder was perceptible. Perhaps the room above had been the scene of this catastrophe. I
ascended the second flight of stairs. I approached the door. No sound
could be caught by my most vigilant attention. I put out the light that
I carried, and was then able to perceive that there was light within the
room. 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 a
death-like stillness. At length I ventured softly to withdraw the bolt,
to open and to advance within the room. Nothing could exceed the horror
of 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 which
he was plunged. He rested his hands upon his knees, and his eyes were
riveted to something that lay, at the distance of a few feet before
him, on the floor. A second glance was sufficient to inform me of what
nature this object was. It was the body of a man, bleeding, ghastly, and
still exhibiting the marks of convulsion and agony! I shall omit to describe the shock which a spectacle like this
communicated to my unpractised senses. I was nearly as panic-struck and
powerless as Welbeck himself. I gazed, without power of speech, at one
time, at Welbeck; then I fixed terrified eyes on the distorted features
of 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, was
betrayed by him on seeing me. He manifested no desire or intention to
interrupt the fearful silence. My thoughts wandered in confusion and terror. The first impulse was to
fly from the scene; but I could not be long insensible to the exigences
of the moment. I saw that affairs must not be suffered to remain in
their present situation. The insensibility or despair of Welbeck
required consolation and succour. How to communicate my thoughts, or
offer my assistance, I knew not. What led to this murderous catastrophe;
who it was whose breathless corpse was before me; what concern Welbeck
had in producing his death; were as yet unknown. At length he rose from his seat, and strode at first with faltering, and
then with more steadfast steps, across the floor. This motion seemed to
put him in possession of himself. He seemed now, for the first time, to
recognise my presence. He turned to me, and said, in a tone of
severity,--

"How now? What brings you here?" This rebuke was unexpected. I stammered out, in reply, that the report
of the pistol had alarmed me, and that I came to discover the cause of
it. He noticed not my answer, but resumed his perturbed steps, and his
anxious but abstracted looks. Suddenly he checked himself, and, glancing
a furious eye at the corpse, he muttered, "Yes, the die is cast. This
worthless and miserable scene shall last no longer. I will at once get
rid of life and all its humiliations." Here succeeded a new pause. The course of his thoughts seemed now to
become once more tranquil. Sadness, rather than fury, overspread his
features; and his accent, when he spoke to me, was not faltering, but
solemn. "Mervyn," said he, "you comprehend not this scene. Your youth and
inexperience make you a stranger to a deceitful and flagitious world. You know me not. It is time that this ignorance should vanish. The
knowledge of me and of my actions may be of use to you. It may teach you
to 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; promise
me, therefore, that not a syllable of what I tell you shall ever pass
your lips." I had lately experienced the inconvenience of a promise; but I was now
confused, embarrassed, ardently inquisitive as to the nature of this
scene, and unapprized of the motives that might afterwards occur,
persuading or compelling me to disclosure. The promise which he exacted
was given. He resumed:--

"I have detained you in my service, partly for your own benefit, but
chiefly for mine. I intended to inflict upon you injury and to do you
good. Neither of these ends can I now accomplish, unless the lessons
which my example may inculcate shall inspire you with fortitude and arm
you with caution. "What it was that made me thus, I know not. I am not destitute of
understanding. My thirst of knowledge, though irregular, is ardent.