It was
the same whose portrait I had been examining. She fixed scrutinizing and
powerful eyes upon me. She looked at the superscription of the letter
which I presented, and immediately resumed her examination of me. I was
somewhat abashed by the closeness of her observation, and gave tokens of
this state of mind which did not pass unobserved. They seemed instantly
to remind her that she behaved with too little regard to civility. She
recovered herself and began to peruse the letter. Having done this, her
attention was once more fixed upon me. She was evidently desirous of
entering into some conversation, but seemed at a loss in what manner to
begin. This situation was new to me and was productive of no small
embarrassment. I was preparing to take my leave when she spoke, though
not without considerable hesitation:--

"This letter is from Mr. Welbeck--you are his friend--I
presume--perhaps--a relation?" I was conscious that I had no claim to either of these titles, and that
I was no more than his servant. My pride would not allow me to
acknowledge this, and I merely said, "I live with him at present,
madam." I imagined that this answer did not perfectly satisfy her; yet she
received it with a certain air of acquiescence. She was silent for a few
minutes, and then, rising, said, "Excuse me, sir, for a few minutes. I
will write a few words to Mr. Welbeck." So saying, she withdrew. I returned to the contemplation of the picture. From this, however, my
attention was quickly diverted by a paper that lay on the mantel. A
single glance was sufficient to put my blood into motion. I started and
laid my hand upon the well-known packet. It was that which enclosed the
portrait of Clavering! I unfolded and examined it with eagerness. By what miracle came it
hither? It was found, together with my bundle, two nights before. I had
despaired of ever seeing it again, and yet here was the same portrait
enclosed in the selfsame paper! I have forborne to dwell upon the
regret, amounting to grief, with which I was affected in consequence of
the loss of this precious relic. My joy on thus speedily and
unexpectedly regaining it is not easily described. For a time I did not reflect that to hold it thus in my hand was not
sufficient to entitle me to repossession. I must acquaint this lady with
the history of this picture, and convince her of my ownership. But how
was this to be done? Was she connected in any way, by friendship or by
consanguinity, with that unfortunate youth? If she were, some
information as to his destiny would be anxiously sought. I did not, just
then, perceive any impropriety in imparting it. If it came into her
hands by accident, still, it will be necessary to relate the mode in
which it was lost in order to prove my title to it. I now heard her descending footsteps, and hastily replaced the picture
on the mantel. She entered, and, presenting me a letter, desired me to
deliver it to Mr. Welbeck. I had no pretext for deferring my departure,
but was unwilling to go without obtaining possession of the portrait. An
interval of silence and irresolution succeeded. I cast significant
glances at the spot where it lay, and at length mustered up my strength
of mind, and, pointing to the paper,--"Madam," said I, "_there_ is
something which I recognise to be mine: I know not how it came into your
possession, but so lately as the day before yesterday it was in mine. I
lost it by a strange accident, and, as I deem it of inestimable value, I
hope you will have no objection to restore it." During this speech the lady's countenance exhibited marks of the utmost
perturbation. "Your picture!" she exclaimed; "you lost it! How? Where? Did you know that person? What has become of him?" "I knew him well," said I. "That picture was executed by himself. He
gave it to me with his own hands; and, till the moment I unfortunately
lost it, it was my dear and perpetual companion." "Good heaven!" she exclaimed, with increasing vehemence; "where did you
meet with him? What has become of him? Is he dead, or alive?" These appearances sufficiently showed me that Clavering and this lady
were connected by some ties of tenderness. I answered that he was dead;
that my mother and myself were his attendants and nurses, and that this
portrait was his legacy to me. This intelligence melted her into tears, and it was some time before she
recovered strength enough to resume the conversation. She then inquired,
"When and where was it that he died? How did you lose this portrait? It
was found wrapped in some coarse clothes, lying in a stall in the
market-house, on Saturday evening. Two negro women, servants of one of
my friends, strolling through the market, found it and brought it to
their mistress, who, recognising the portrait, sent it to me. To whom
did that bundle belong? Was it yours?" These questions reminded me of the painful predicament in which I now
stood. I had promised Welbeck to conceal from every one my former
condition; but to explain in what manner this bundle was lost, and how
my intercourse with Clavering had taken place, was to violate this
promise. It was possible, perhaps, to escape the confession of the truth
by equivocation. Falsehoods were easily invented, and might lead her far
away from my true condition; but I was wholly unused to equivocation. Never yet had a lie polluted my lips. I was not weak enough to be
ashamed of my origin. This lady had an interest in the fate of
Clavering, and might justly claim all the information which I was able
to impart. Yet to forget the compact which I had so lately made, and an
adherence to which might possibly be in the highest degree beneficial to
me and to Welbeck; I was willing to adhere to it, provided falsehood
could be avoided. These thoughts rendered me silent. The pain of my embarrassment amounted
almost to agony. I felt the keenest regret at my own precipitation in
claiming the picture. Its value to me was altogether imaginary. The
affection which this lady had borne the original, whatever was the
source of that affection, would prompt her to cherish the copy, and,
however precious it was in my eyes, I should cheerfully resign it to
her. In the confusion of my thoughts an expedient suggested itself
sufficiently inartificial and bold. "It is true, madam, what I have
said. I saw him breathe his last. This is his only legacy. If you wish
it I willingly resign it; but this is all that I can now disclose. I am
placed in circumstances which render it improper to say more." These words were uttered not very distinctly, and the lady's vehemence
hindered her from noticing them. She again repeated her interrogations,
to which I returned the same answer. At first she expressed the utmost surprise at my conduct. From this she
descended to some degree of asperity. She made rapid allusions to the
history of Clavering. He was the son of the gentleman who owned the
house in which Welbeck resided. He was the object of immeasurable
fondness and indulgence.