Besides, he laboured merely for the sake of living, and he lived merely
for the sake of pleasure. If his tasks should enable him to live, but,
at the same time, bereave him of all satisfaction, they inflicted
injury, and were to be shunned as worse evils than death. I asked to what species of pleasure he alluded, with which the business
of a clerk was inconsistent. He answered that he scarcely knew how to describe it. He read books when
they came in his way. He had lighted upon few, and, perhaps, the
pleasure they afforded him was owing to their fewness; yet he confessed
that a mode of life which entirely forbade him to read was by no means
to his taste. But this was trivial. He knew how to value the thoughts of
other people, but he could not part with the privilege of observing and
thinking for himself. He wanted business which would suffer at least
nine-tenths of his attention to go free. If it afforded agreeable
employment to that part of his attention which it applied to its own
use, so much the better; but, if it did not, he should not repine. He
should be content with a life whose pleasures were to its pains as nine
are to one. He had tried the trade of a copyist, and in circumstances
more favourable than it was likely he should ever again have an
opportunity of trying it, and he had found that it did not fulfil the
requisite conditions. Whereas the trade of ploughman was friendly to
health, liberty, and pleasure. The pestilence, if it may so be called, was now declining. The health of
my young friend allowed him to breathe the fresh air and to walk. A
friend of mine, by name Wortley, who had spent two months from the city,
and to whom, in the course of a familiar correspondence, I had mentioned
the foregoing particulars, returned from his rural excursion. He was
posting, on the evening of the day of his arrival, with a friendly
expedition, to my house, when he overtook Mervyn going in the same
direction. He was surprised to find him go before him into my dwelling,
and to discover, which he speedily did, that this was the youth whom I
had so frequently mentioned to him. I was present at their meeting. There was a strange mixture in the countenance of Wortley when they were
presented to each other. His satisfaction was mingled with surprise, and
his surprise with anger. Mervyn, in his turn, betrayed considerable
embarrassment. Wortley's thoughts were too earnest on some topic to
allow him to converse. He shortly made some excuse for taking leave,
and, rising, addressed himself to the youth with a request that he would
walk home with him. This invitation, delivered in a tone which left it
doubtful whether a compliment or menace were meant, augmented Mervyn's
confusion. He complied without speaking, and they went out together;--my
wife and I were left to comment upon the scene. It could not fail to excite uneasiness. They were evidently no strangers
to each other. The indignation that flashed from the eyes of Wortley,
and the trembling consciousness of Mervyn, were unwelcome tokens. The
former was my dearest friend, and venerable for his discernment and
integrity. The latter appeared to have drawn upon himself the anger and
disdain of this man. We already anticipated the shock which the
discovery of his unworthiness would produce. In a half-hour Mervyn returned. His embarrassment had given place to
dejection. He was always serious, but his features were now overcast by
the deepest gloom. The anxiety which I felt would not allow me to
hesitate long. "Arthur," said I, "something is the matter with you. Will you not
disclose it to us? Perhaps you have brought yourself into some dilemma
out of which we may help you to escape. Has any thing of an unpleasant
nature passed between you and Wortley?" The youth did not readily answer. He seemed at a loss for a suitable
reply. At length he said that something disagreeable had indeed passed
between him and Wortley. He had had the misfortune to be connected with
a man by whom Wortley conceived himself to be injured. He had borne no
part in inflicting this injury, but had nevertheless been threatened
with ill treatment if he did not make disclosures which, indeed, it was
in his power to make, but which he was bound, by every sanction, to
withhold. This disclosure would be of no benefit to Wortley. It would
rather operate injuriously than otherwise; yet it was endeavoured to be
wrested from him by the heaviest menaces. There he paused. We were naturally inquisitive as to the scope of these menaces; but
Mervyn entreated us to forbear any further discussion of this topic. He
foresaw the difficulties to which his silence would subject him. One of
its most fearful consequences would be the loss of our good opinion. He
knew not what he had to dread from the enmity of Wortley. Mr. Wortley's
violence was not without excuse. It was his mishap to be exposed to
suspicions which could only be obviated by breaking his faith. But,
indeed, he knew not whether any degree of explicitness would confute the
charges that were made against him; whether, by trampling on his sacred
promise, he should not multiply his perils instead of lessening their
number. A difficult part had been assigned to him; by much too
difficult for one young, improvident, and inexperienced as he was. Sincerity, perhaps, was the best course. Perhaps, after having had an
opportunity for deliberation, he should conclude to adopt it; meanwhile
he entreated permission to retire to his chamber. He was unable to
exclude from his mind ideas which yet could, with no propriety, at least
at present, be made the theme of conversation. These words were accompanied with simplicity and pathos, and with tokens
of unaffected distress. "Arthur," said I, "you are master of your actions and time in this
house. Retire when you please; but you will naturally suppose us anxious
to dispel this mystery. Whatever shall tend to obscure or malign your
character will of course excite our solicitude. Wortley is not
short-sighted or hasty to condemn. So great is my confidence in his
integrity that I will not promise my esteem to one who has irrecoverably
lost that of Wortley. I am not acquainted with your motives to
concealment, or what it is you conceal; but take the word of one who
possesses that experience which you complain of wanting, that sincerity
is always safest." As soon as he had retired, my curiosity prompted me to pay an immediate
visit to Wortley. I found him at home. He was no less desirous of an
interview, and answered my inquiries with as much eagerness as they were
made. "You know," said he, "my disastrous connection with Thomas Welbeck. You
recollect his sudden disappearance last July, by which I was reduced to
the brink of ruin. Nay, I am, even now, far from certain that I shall
survive that event. I spoke to you about the youth who lived with him,
and by what means that youth was discovered to have crossed the river in
his company on the night of his departure.