He had sought permission to travel, and, this
being refused by the absurd timidity of his parents, he had twice been
frustrated in attempting to embark for Europe clandestinely. They
ascribed his disappearance to a third and successful attempt of this
kind, and had exercised anxious and unwearied diligence in endeavouring
to trace his footsteps. All their efforts had failed. One motive for
their returning to Europe was the hope of discovering some traces of
him, as they entertained no doubt of his having crossed the ocean. The
vehemence of Mrs. Wentworth's curiosity as to those particulars of his
life and death may be easily conceived. My refusal only heightened this
passion. Finding me refractory to all her efforts, she at length dismissed me in
anger. CHAPTER VIII. This extraordinary interview was now past. Pleasure as well as pain
attended my reflections on it. I adhered to the promise I had
improvidently given to Welbeck, but had excited displeasure, and perhaps
suspicion, in the lady. She would find it hard to account for my
silence. She would probably impute it to perverseness, or imagine it to
flow from some incident connected with the death of Clavering,
calculated to give a new edge to her curiosity. It was plain that some connection subsisted between her and Welbeck. Would she drop the subject at the point which it had now attained? Would
she cease to exert herself to extract from me the desired information,
or would she not rather make Welbeck a party in the cause, and prejudice
my new friend against me? This was an evil proper, by all lawful means,
to avoid. I knew of no other expedient than to confess to him the truth
with regard to Clavering, and explain to him the dilemma in which my
adherence to my promise had involved me. I found him on my return home, and delivered him the letter with which I
was charged. At the sight of it, surprise, mingled with some uneasiness,
appeared in his looks. "What!" said he, in a tone of disappointment,
"you then saw the lady?" I now remembered his directions to leave my message at the door, and
apologized for my neglecting them by telling my reasons. His chagrin
vanished, but not without an apparent effort, and he said that all was
well; the affair was of no moment. After a pause of preparation, I entreated his attention to something
which I had to relate. I then detailed the history of Clavering and of
my late embarrassments. As I went on, his countenance betokened
increasing solicitude. His emotion was particularly strong when I came
to the interrogatories of Mrs. Wentworth in relation to Clavering; but
this emotion gave way to profound surprise when I related the manner in
which I had eluded her inquiries. I concluded with observing that, when
I promised forbearance on the subject of my own adventures, I had not
foreseen any exigence which would make an adherence to my promise
difficult or inconvenient; that, if his interest was promoted by my
silence, I was still willing to maintain it, and requested his
directions how to conduct myself on this occasion. He appeared to ponder deeply and with much perplexity on what I had
said. When he spoke there was hesitation in his manner and circuity in
his expressions, that proved him to have something in his thoughts which
he knew not how to communicate. He frequently paused; but my answers and
remarks, occasionally given, appeared to deter him from the revelation
of his purpose. Our discourse ended, for the present, by his desiring me
to persist in my present plan; I should suffer no inconveniences from
it, since it would be my own fault if an interview again took place
between the lady and me; meanwhile he should see her and effectually
silence her inquiries. I ruminated not superficially or briefly on this dialogue. By what means
would he silence her inquiries? He surely meant not to mislead her by
fallacious representations. Some inquietude now crept into my thoughts. I began to form conjectures as to the nature of the scheme to which my
suppression of the truth was to be thus made subservient. It seemed as
if I were walking in the dark and might rush into snares or drop into
pits before I was aware of my danger. Each moment accumulated my doubts,
and I cherished a secret foreboding that the event would prove my new
situation to be far less fortunate than I had, at first, fondly
believed. The question now occurred, with painful repetition, who and
what was Welbeck? What was his relation to this foreign lady? What was
the service for which I was to be employed? I could not be contented without a solution of these mysteries. Why
should I not lay my soul open before my new friend? Considering my
situation, would he regard my fears and my surmises as criminal? I felt
that they originated in laudable habits and views. My peace of mind
depended on the favourable verdict which conscience should pass on my
proceedings. I saw the emptiness of fame and luxury, when put in the
balance against the recompense of virtue. Never would I purchase the
blandishments of adulation and the glare of opulence at the price of my
honesty. Amidst these reflections the dinner-hour arrived. The lady and Welbeck
were present. A new train of sentiments now occupied my mind. I regarded
them both with inquisitive eyes. I cannot well account for the
revolution which had taken place in my mind. Perhaps it was a proof of
the capriciousness of my temper, or it was merely the fruit of my
profound ignorance of life and manners. Whencesoever it arose, certain
it is that I contemplated the scene before me with altered eyes. Its
order and pomp was no longer the parent of tranquillity and awe. My wild
reveries of inheriting this splendour and appropriating the affections
of this nymph, I now regarded as lunatic hope and childish folly. Education and nature had qualified me for a different scene. This might
be the mask of misery and the structure of vice. My companions as well as myself were silent during the meal. The lady
retired as soon as it was finished. My inexplicable melancholy
increased. It did not pass unnoticed by Welbeck, who inquired, with an
air of kindness, into the cause of my visible dejection. I am almost
ashamed to relate to what extremes my folly transported me. Instead of
answering him, I was weak enough to shed tears. This excited afresh his surprise and his sympathy. He renewed his
inquiries; my heart was full, but how to disburden it I knew not. At
length, with some difficulty, I expressed my wishes to leave his house
and return into the country. What, he asked, had occurred to suggest this new plan? What motive could
incite me to bury myself in rustic obscurity? How did I purpose to
dispose of myself? Had some new friend sprung up more able or more
willing to benefit me than he had been? "No," I answered, "I have no relation who would own me, or friend who
would protect.