The difficulty lay, not in withholding my caresses,
but in forbearing to repulse her with rage. Decorum, indeed, was not outraged, and all limits were not overstepped
at once. Dubious advances were employed; but, when found unavailing,
were displaced by more shameless and direct proceedings. She was too
little versed in human nature to see that her last expedient was always
worse than the preceding; and that, in proportion as she lost sight of
decency, she multiplied the obstacles to her success. Betty had many enticements in person and air. She was ruddy, smooth, and
plump. To these she added--I must not say what, for it is strange to
what lengths a woman destitute of modesty will sometimes go. But, all
her artifices availing her not at all in the contest with my
insensibilities, she resorted to extremes which it would serve no good
purpose to describe in this audience. They produced not the consequences
she wished, but they produced another which was by no means displeasing
to her. An incident one night occurred, from which a sagacious observer
deduced the existence of an intrigue. It was useless to attempt to
rectify his mistake by explaining appearances in a manner consistent
with my innocence. This mode of explication implied a _continence_ in me
which he denied to be possible. The standard of possibilities,
especially in vice and virtue, is fashioned by most men after their own
character. A temptation which this judge of human nature knew that _he_
was unable to resist, he sagely concluded to be irresistible by any
other man, and quickly established the belief among my neighbours, that
the woman who married the father had been prostituted to the son. Though
I never admitted the truth of this aspersion, I believed it useless to
deny, because no one would credit my denial, and because I had no power
to disprove it. CHAPTER XXXVIII. What other inquiries were to be resolved by our young friend, we were
now, at this late hour, obliged to postpone till the morrow. I shall
pass over the reflections which a story like this would naturally
suggest, and hasten to our next interview. After breakfast next morning, the subject of last night's conversation
was renewed. I told him that something had occurred in his absence, in
relation to Mrs. Wentworth and her nephew, that had perplexed us not a
little. "My information is obtained," continued I, "from Wortley; and it
is nothing less than that young Clavering, Mrs. Wentworth's nephew, is,
at this time, actually alive." Surprise, but none of the embarrassment of guilt, appeared in his
countenance at these tidings. He looked at me as if desirous that I
should proceed. "It seems," added I, "that a letter was lately received by this lady
from the father of Clavering, who is now in Europe. This letter reports
that this son was lately met with in Charleston, and relates the means
which old Mr. Clavering had used to prevail upon his son to return home;
means, of the success of which he entertained well-grounded hopes. What
think you?" "I can only reject it," said he, after some pause, "as untrue. The
father's correspondent may have been deceived. The father may have been
deceived, or the father may conceive it necessary to deceive the aunt,
or some other supposition as to the source of the error may be true; but
an error it surely is. Clavering is not alive. I know the chamber where
he died, and the withered pine under which he lies buried." "If she be deceived," said I, "it will be impossible to rectify her
error." "I hope not. An honest front and a straight story will be sufficient." "How do you mean to act?" "Visit her, without doubt, and tell her the truth. My tale will be too
circumstantial and consistent to permit her to disbelieve." "She will not hearken to you. She is too strongly prepossessed against
you to admit you even to a hearing." "She cannot help it. Unless she lock her door against me, or stuff her
ears with wool, she must hear me. Her prepossessions are reasonable, but
are easily removed by telling the truth. Why does she suspect me of
artifice? Because I seemed to be allied to Welbeck, and because I
disguised the truth. That she thinks ill of me is not her fault, but my
misfortune; and, happily for me, a misfortune easily removed." "Then you will try to see her?" "I will see her, and the sooner the better. I will see her to-day; this
morning; as soon as I have seen Welbeck, whom I shall immediately visit
in his prison." "There are other embarrassments and dangers of which you are not aware. Welbeck is pursued by many persons whom he has defrauded of large sums. By these persons you are deemed an accomplice in his guilt, and a
warrant is already in the hands of officers for arresting you wherever
you are found." "In what way," said Mervyn, sedately, "do they imagine me a partaker of
his crime?" "I know not. You lived with him. You fled with him. You aided and
connived at his escape." "Are these crimes?" "I believe not, but they subject you to suspicion." "To arrest and to punishment?" "To detention for a while, perhaps. But these alone cannot expose you to
punishment." "I thought so. Then I have nothing to fear." "You have imprisonment and obloquy, at least, to dread." "True; but they cannot be avoided but by my exile and skulking out of
sight,--evils infinitely more formidable. I shall, therefore, not avoid
them. The sooner my conduct is subjected to scrutiny, the better. Will
you go with me to Welbeck?" "I will go with you." Inquiring for Welbeck of the keeper of the prison, we were informed that
he was in his own apartment, very sick. The physician attending the
prison had been called, but the prisoner had preserved an obstinate and
scornful silence; and had neither explained his condition, nor consented
to accept any aid. We now went alone into his apartment. His sensibility seemed fast
ebbing, yet an emotion of joy was visible in his eyes at the appearance
of Mervyn. He seemed likewise to recognise in me his late visitant, and
made no objection to my entrance. "How are you this morning?" said Arthur, seating himself on the bedside,
and taking his hand. The sick man was scarcely able to articulate his
reply:--"I shall soon be well. I have longed to see you. I want to leave
with you a few words." He now cast his languid eyes on me. "You are his
friend," he continued. "You know all. You may stay." There now succeeded a long pause, during which he closed his eyes, and
resigned himself as if to an oblivion of all thought. His pulse under my
hand was scarcely perceptible. From this in some minutes he recovered,
and, fixing his eyes on Mervyn, resumed, in a broken and feeble
accent:--

"Clemenza! You have seen her. Weeks ago, I left her in an accursed
house; yet she has not been mistreated. Neglected and abandoned indeed,
but not mistreated. Save her, Mervyn. Comfort her. Awaken charity for
her sake. "I cannot tell you what has happened. The tale would be too long,--too
mournful.