I had opened
doors without warning, and traversed passages without being noticed. This had arisen from my thoughtlessness. There was no one within hearing
or sight. What was next to be done? Should I not return softly to the
outer door, and summon the servant by knocking? Preparing to do this, I heard a footstep in the entry which suspended my
design. I stood in the middle of the floor, attentive to these
movements, when presently the door opened, and there entered the
apartment Mrs. Wentworth herself! She came, as it seemed, without
expectation of finding any one there. When, therefore, the figure of a
man caught her vagrant attention, she started and cast a hasty look
towards me. "Pray!" (in a peremptory tone,) "how came you here, sir? and what is
your business?" Neither arrogance, on the one hand, nor humility, upon the other, had
any part in modelling my deportment. I came not to deprecate anger, or
exult over distress. I answered, therefore, distinctly, firmly, and
erectly,--

"I came to see you, madam, and converse with you; but, being busy with
other thoughts, I forgot to knock at the door. No evil was intended by
my negligence, though propriety has certainly not been observed. Will
you pardon this intrusion, and condescend to grant me your attention?" "To what? What have you to say to me? I know you only as the accomplice
of a villain in an attempt to deceive me. There is nothing to justify
your coming hither, and I desire you to leave the house with as little
ceremony as you entered it." My eyes were lowered at this rebuke, yet I did not obey the command. "Your treatment of me, madam, is such as I appear to you to deserve. Appearances are unfavourable to me, but those appearances are false. I
have concurred in no plot against your reputation or your fortune. I
have told you nothing but the truth. I came hither to promote no selfish
or sinister purpose. I have no favour to entreat, and no petition to
offer, but that you will suffer me to clear up those mistakes which you
have harboured respecting me. "I am poor. I am destitute of fame and of kindred. I have nothing to
console me in obscurity and indigence, but the approbation of my own
heart and the good opinion of those who know me as I am. The good may be
led to despise and condemn me. Their aversion and scorn shall not make
me unhappy; but it is my interest and my duty to rectify their error if
I can. I regard your character with esteem. You have been mistaken in
condemning me as a liar and impostor, and I came to remove this mistake. I came, if not to procure your esteem, at least to take away hatred and
suspicion. "But this is not all my purpose. You are in an error in relation not
only to my character, but to the situation of your nephew Clavering. I
formerly told you, that I saw him die; that I assisted at his burial:
but my tale was incoherent and imperfect, and you have since received
intelligence to which you think proper to trust, and which assures you
that he is still living. All I now ask is your attention, while I relate
the particulars of my knowledge. "Proof of my veracity or innocence may be of no value in your eyes, but
the fate of your nephew ought to be known to you. Certainty, on this
head, may be of much importance to your happiness, and to the regulation
of your future conduct. To hear me patiently can do you no injury, and
may benefit you much. Will you permit me to go on?" During this address, little abatement of resentment and scorn was
visible in my companion. "I will hear you," she replied. "Your invention may amuse if it does not
edify. But, I pray you, let your story be short." I was obliged to be content with this ungraceful concession, and
proceeded to begin my narration. I described the situation of my
father's dwelling. I mentioned the year, month, day, and hour of her
nephew's appearance among us. I expatiated minutely on his form,
features, dress, sound of his voice, and repeated his words. His
favourite gestures and attitudes were faithfully described. I had gone but a little way in my story, when the effects were visible
in her demeanour which I expected from it. Her knowledge of the youth,
and of the time and manner of his disappearance, made it impossible for
me, with so minute a narrative, to impose upon her credulity. Every
word, every incident related, attested my truth, by their agreement with
what she herself previously knew. Her suspicious and angry watchfulness was quickly exchanged for downcast
looks, and stealing tears, and sighs difficultly repressed. Meanwhile, I
did not pause, but described the treatment he received from my mother's
tenderness, his occupations, the freaks of his insanity, and, finally,
the circumstances of his death and funeral. Thence I hastened to the circumstances which brought me to the city;
which placed me in the service of Welbeck, and obliged me to perform so
ambiguous a part in her presence. I left no difficulty to be solved, and
no question unanticipated. "I have now finished my story," I continued, "and accomplished my design
in coming hither. Whether I have vindicated my integrity from your
suspicions, I know not. I have done what in me lay to remove your error;
and, in that, have done my duty. What more remains? Any inquiries you
are pleased to make, I am ready to answer. If there be none to make, I
will comply with your former commands, and leave the house with as
little ceremony as I entered it." "Your story," she replied, "has been unexpected. I believe it fully, and
am sorry for the hard thoughts which past appearances have made me
entertain concerning you." Here she sunk into mournful silence. "The information," she at length
resumed, "which I have received from another quarter respecting that
unfortunate youth, astonishes and perplexes me. It is inconsistent with
your story, but it must be founded on some mistake, which I am, at
present, unable to unravel. Welbeck, whose connection has been so
unfortunate to you----"

"Unfortunate! Dear madam! How unfortunate? It has done away a part of my
ignorance of the world in which I live. It has led me to the situation
in which I am now placed. It has introduced me to the knowledge of many
good people. It has made me the witness and the subject of many acts of
beneficence and generosity. My knowledge of Welbeck has been useful to
me. It has enabled me to be useful to others. I look back upon that
allotment of my destiny which first led me to his door, with gratitude
and pleasure. "Would to heaven," continued I, somewhat changing my tone, "intercourse
with Welbeck had been as harmless to all others as it has been to me! that no injury to fortune and fame, and innocence and life, had been
incurred by others greater than has fallen upon my head! There is one
being, whose connection with him has not been utterly dissimilar in its
origin and circumstances to mine, though the catastrophe has, indeed,
been widely and mournfully different.