Arthur Mervyn | Page 5

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. This is that very
youth.

"This will account for my emotion at meeting him at your house; I
brought him out with me. His confusion sufficiently indicated his
knowledge of transactions between Welbeck and me. I questioned him
as to the fate of that man. To own the truth, I expected some
well-digested lie; but he merely said that he had promised secrecy on
that subject, and must therefore be excused from giving me any
information. I asked him if he knew that his master, or accomplice, or
whatever was his relation to him, absconded in my debt? He answered
that he knew it well; but still pleaded a promise of inviolable secrecy as
to his hiding-place. This conduct justly exasperated me, and I treated
him with the severity which he deserved. I am half ashamed to confess
the excesses of my passion; I even went so far as to strike him. He bore
my insults with the utmost patience. No doubt the young villain is well
instructed in his lesson. He knows that he may safely defy my power.
From threats I descended to entreaties. I even endeavoured to wind the
truth from him by artifice. I promised him a part of the debt if he would
enable me to recover the whole. I offered him a considerable reward if
he would merely afford me a clue by which I might trace him to his
retreat; but all was insufficient. He merely put on an air of perplexity
and shook his head in token of non-compliance."
Such was my friend's account of this interview. His suspicions were
unquestionably plausible; but I was disposed to put a more favourable
construction on Mervyn's behaviour. I recollected the desolate and
penniless condition in which