Despair and
mischievous passions are too deeply rooted in this heart for me to tear
them away." These expressions did not escape his notice. He turned once more and
cast sullen looks upon me. There was somewhat in his eyes that made me
shudder. They denoted that his reverie was not that of grief, but of
madness. I continued, in a less steadfast voice than before:--

"Unhappy Clemenza! I have performed thy message. I have visited him that
is sick and in prison. Thou hadst cause for anguish and terror, even
greater cause than thou imaginedst. Would to God that thou wouldst be
contented with the report which I shall make; that thy misguided
tenderness would consent to leave him to his destiny, would suffer him
to die alone; but that is a forbearance which no eloquence that I
possess will induce thee to practise. Thou must come, and witness for
thyself." In speaking thus, I was far from foreseeing the effects which would be
produced on the mind of Welbeck. I was far from intending to instil into
him a belief that Clemenza was near at hand, and was preparing to enter
his apartment; yet no other images but these would, perhaps, have roused
him from his lethargy, and awakened that attention which I wished to
awaken. He started up, and gazed fearfully at the door. "What!" he cried. "What! Is she here? Ye powers, that have scattered
woes in my path, spare me the sight of her! But from this agony I will
rescue myself. The moment she appears I will pluck out these eyes and
dash them at her feet." So saying, he gazed with augmented eagerness upon the door. His hands
were lifted to his head, as if ready to execute his frantic purpose. I
seized his arm and besought him to lay aside his terror, for that
Clemenza was far distant. She had no intention, and besides was unable,
to visit him. "Then I am respited. I breathe again. No; keep her from a prison. Drag
her to the wheel or to the scaffold; mangle her with stripes; torture
her with famine; strangle her child before her face, and cast it to the
hungry dogs that are howling at the gate; but--keep her from a prison. Never let her enter these doors." There he stopped; his eyes being fixed
on the floor, and his thoughts once more buried in reverie. I
resumed:--

"She is occupied with other griefs than those connected with the fate of
Welbeck. She is not unmindful of you; she knows you to be sick and in
prison; and I came to do for you whatever office your condition might
require, and I came at her suggestion. She, alas! has full employment
for her tears in watering the grave of her child." He started. "What! dead? Say you that the child is dead?" "It is dead. I witnessed its death. I saw it expire in the arms of its
mother; that mother whom I formerly met under your roof blooming and
gay, but whom calamity has tarnished and withered. I saw her in the
raiment of poverty, under an accursed roof: desolate; alone; unsolaced
by the countenance or sympathy of human beings; approached only by those
who mock at her distress, set snares for her innocence, and push her to
infamy. I saw her leaning over the face of her dying babe." Welbeck put his hands to his head, and exclaimed, "Curses on thy lips,
infernal messenger! Chant elsewhere thy rueful ditty! Vanish! if thou
wouldst not feel in thy heart fangs red with blood less guilty than
thine." Till this moment the uproar in Welbeck's mind appeared to hinder him
from distinctly recognising his visitant. Now it seemed as if the
incidents of our last interview suddenly sprung up in his remembrance. "What! This is the villain that rifled my cabinet, the maker of my
poverty and of all the evils which it has since engendered! That has led
me to a prison! Execrable fool! you are the author of the scene that you
describe, and of horrors without number and name. To whatever crimes I
have been urged since that interview, and the fit of madness that made
you destroy my property, they spring from your act; they flowed from
necessity, which, had you held your hand at that fateful moment, would
never have existed. "How dare you thrust yourself upon my privacy? Why am I not alone? Fly! and let my miseries want, at least, the aggravation of beholding their
author. My eyes loathe the sight of thee! My heart would suffocate thee
with its own bitterness! Begone!" "I know not," I answered, "why innocence should tremble at the ravings
of a lunatic; why it should be overwhelmed by unmerited reproaches! Why
it should not deplore the errors of its foe, labour to correct those
errors, and----"

"Thank thy fate, youth, that my hands are tied up by my scorn; thank thy
fate that no weapon is within reach. Much has passed since I saw thee,
and I am a new man. I am no longer inconstant and cowardly. I have no
motives but contempt to hinder me from expiating the wrongs which thou
hast done me in thy blood. I disdain to take thy life. Go; and let thy
fidelity, at least, to the confidence which I have placed in thee, be
inviolate. Thou hast done me harm enough, but canst do, if thou wilt,
still more. Thou canst betray the secrets that are lodged in thy bosom,
and rob me of the comfort of reflecting that my guilt is known but to
one among the living." This suggestion made me pause, and look back upon the past. I had
confided this man's tale to you. The secrecy on which he so fondly
leaned was at an end. Had I acted culpably or not? But why should I ruminate, with anguish and doubt, upon the past? The
future was within my power, and the road of my duty was too plain to be
mistaken. I would disclose to Welbeck the truth, and cheerfully
encounter every consequence. I would summon my friend to my aid, and
take his counsel in the critical emergency in which I was placed. I
ought not to rely upon myself alone in my efforts to benefit this being,
when another was so near whose discernment and benevolence, and
knowledge of mankind, and power of affording relief, were far superior
to mine. Influenced by these thoughts, I left the apartment without speaking;
and, procuring pen and paper, despatched to you the billet which brought
about our meeting. CHAPTER XXXVII. Mervyn's auditors allowed no pause in their attention to this story. Having ended, a deep silence took place. The clock which stood upon the
mantel had sounded twice the customary _larum_, but had not been heard
by us. It was now struck a third time. It was _one_. Our guest appeared
somewhat startled at this signal, and looked, with a mournful sort of
earnestness, at the clock. There was an air of inquietude about him
which I had never observed in an equal degree before. I was not without much curiosity respecting other incidents than those
which had just been related by him; but, after so much fatigue as he had
undergone, I thought it improper to prolong the conversation. "Come," said I, "my friend, let us to bed. This is a drowsy time, and,
after so much exercise of mind and body, you cannot but need some
repose.