CHAPTER XXXIX.
I am glad, my friend, thy nimble pen has got so far upon its journey.What remains of my story may be despatched in a trice. I have just nowsome vacant hours, which might possibly be more usefully employed, butnot in an easier manner or more pleasant. So, let me carry on thythread.
First, let me mention the resolutions I had formed at the time I partedwith my friend. I had several objects in view. One was a conference withMrs. Wentworth; another was an interview with her whom I met with atVillars's. My heart melted when I thought upon the desolate condition ofClemenza, and determined me to direct my first efforts for her relief.For this end I was to visit the female who had given me a direction toher house. The name of this person is Achsa Fielding, and she lived,according to her own direction, at No. 40 Walnut Street.
I went thither without delay. She was not at home. Having gainedinformation from the servant as to when she might be found, I proceededto Mrs. Wentworth's. In going thither my mind was deeply occupied inmeditation; and, with my usual carelessness of forms, I entered thehouse and made my way to the parlour, where an interview had formerlytaken place between us.
Having arrived, I began, though somewhat unseasonably, to reflect uponthe topics with which I should introduce my conversation, andparticularly the manner in which I should introduce myself. I had openeddoors without warning, and traversed passages without being noticed.This had arisen from my thoughtlessness. There was no one within hearingor sight. What was next to be done? Should I not return softly to theouter door, and summon the servant by knocking?
Preparing to do this, I heard a footstep in the entry which suspended mydesign. I stood in the middle of the floor, attentive to thesemovements, when presently the door opened, and there entered theapartment Mrs. Wentworth herself! She came, as it seemed, withoutexpectation of finding any one there. When, therefore, the figure of aman caught her vagrant attention, she started and cast a hasty looktowards me.
"Pray!" (in a peremptory tone,) "how came you here, sir? and what isyour business?"
Neither arrogance, on the one hand, nor humility, upon the other, hadany part in modelling my deportment. I came not to deprecate anger, orexult over distress. I answered, therefore, distinctly, firmly, anderectly,--
"I came to see you, madam, and converse with you; but, being busy withother thoughts, I forgot to knock at the door. No evil was intended bymy negligence, though propriety has certainly not been observed. Willyou 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 accompliceof a villain in an attempt to deceive me. There is nothing to justifyyour coming hither, and I desire you to leave the house with as littleceremony 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. Ihave concurred in no plot against your reputation or your fortune. Ihave told you nothing but the truth. I came hither to promote no selfishor sinister purpose. I have no favour to entreat, and no petition tooffer, but that you will suffer me to clear up those mistakes which youhave harboured respecting me.
"I am poor. I am destitute of fame and of kindred. I have nothing toconsole me in obscurity and indigence, but the approbation of my ownheart and the good opinion of those who know me as I am. The good may beled to despise and condemn me. Their aversion and scorn shall not makeme unhappy; but it is my interest and my duty to rectify their error ifI can. I regard your character with esteem. You have been mistaken incondemning 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 andsuspicion.
"But this is not all my purpose. You are in an error in relation notonly to my character, but to the situation of your nephew Clavering. Iformerly told you, that I saw him die; that I assisted at his burial:but my tale was incoherent and imperfect, and you have since receivedintelligence to which you think proper to trust, and which assures youthat he is still living. All I now ask is your attention, while I relatethe particulars of my knowledge.
"Proof of my veracity or innocence may be of no value in your eyes, butthe fate of your nephew ought to be known to you. Certainty, on thishead, may be of much importance to your happiness, and to the regulationof your future conduct. To hear me patiently can do you no injury, andmay benefit you much. Will you permit me to go on?"
During this address, little abatement of resentment and scorn wasvisible in my companion.
"I will hear you," she replied. "Your invention may amuse if it does notedify. But, I pray you, let your story be short."
I was obliged to be content with this ungraceful concession, andproceeded to begin my narration. I described the situation of myfather's dwelling. I mentioned the year, month, day, and hour of hernephew's appearance among us. I expatiated minutely on his form,features, dress, sound of his voice, and repeated his words. Hisfavourite gestures and attitudes were faithfully described.
I had gone but a little way in my story, when the effects were visiblein her demeanour which I expected from it. Her knowledge of the youth,and of the time and manner of his disappearance, made it impossible forme, with so minute a narrative, to impose upon her credulity. Everyword, every incident related, attested my truth, by their agreement withwhat she herself previously knew.
Her suspicious and angry watchfulness was quickly exchanged for downcastlooks, and stealing tears, and sighs difficultly repressed. Meanwhile, Idid not pause, but described the treatment he received from my mother'stenderness, 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 soambiguous a part in her presence. I left no difficulty to be solved, andno question unanticipated.
"I have now finished my story," I continued, "and accomplished my designin coming hither. Whether I have vindicated my integrity from yoursuspicions, 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 youare pleased to make, I am ready to answer. If there be none to make, Iwill comply with your former commands, and leave the house with aslittle ceremony as I entered it."
"Your story," she replied, "has been unexpected. I believe it fully, andam sorry for the hard thoughts which past appearances have made meentertain concerning you."
Here she sunk into mournful silence. "The information," she at lengthresumed, "which I have received from another quarter respecting thatunfortunate youth, astonishes and perplexes me. It is inconsistent withyour story, but it must be founded on some mistake, which I am, atpresent, unable to unravel. Welbeck, whose connection has been sounfortunate to you----"
"Unfortunate! Dear madam! How unfortunate? It has done away a part of myignorance of the world in which I live. It has led me to the situationin which I am now placed. It has introduced me to the knowledge of manygood people. It has made me the witness and the subject of many acts ofbeneficence and generosity. My knowledge of Welbeck has been useful tome. It has enabled me to be useful to others. I look back upon thatallotment of my destiny which first led me to his door, with gratitudeand pleasure.
"Would to heaven," continued I, somewhat changing my tone, "intercoursewith 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 beenincurred by others greater than has fallen upon my head! There is onebeing, whose connection with him has not been utterly dissimilar in itsorigin and circumstances to mine, though the catastrophe has, indeed,been widely and mournfully different.
"And yet, within this moment, a thought has occurred from which I derivesome consolation and some hope. You, dear madam, are rich. Thesespacious apartments, this plentiful accommodation, are yours. You haveenough for your own gratification and conven
ience, and somewhat tospare. Will you take to your protecting arms, to your hospitable roof,an unhappy girl whom the arts of Welbeck have robbed of fortune,reputation, and honour, who is now languishing in poverty, weeping overthe lifeless remains of her babe, surrounded by the agents of vice, andtrembling on the verge of infamy?"
"What can this mean?" replied the lady. "Of whom do you speak?"
"You shall know her. You shall be apprized of her claims to yourcompassion. Her story, as far as is known to me, I will faithfullyrepeat to you. She is a stranger; an Italian; her name is ClemenzaLodi."
"Clemenza Lodi! Good heaven!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth; "why, surely--itcannot be. And yet--is it possible that you are that person?"
"I do not comprehend you, madam."
"A friend has related a transaction of a strange sort. It is scarcely anhour since she told it me. The name of Clemenza Lodi was mentioned init, and a young man of most singular deportment was described. But tellme how you were engaged on Thursday morning."
"I was coming to this city from a distance. I stopped ten minutes at thehouse of----"
"Mrs. Villars?"
"The same. Perhaps you know her and her character. Perhaps you canconfirm or rectify my present opinions concerning her. It is there thatthe unfortunate Clemenza abides. It is thence that I wish her to bespeedily removed."
"I have heard of you; of your conduct upon that occasion."
"Of me?" answered I, eagerly. "Do you know that woman?" So saying, Iproduced the card which I had received from her, and on which her namewas written.
"I know her well. She is my countrywoman and my friend."
"Your friend? Then she is good; she is innocent; she is generous. Willshe be a sister, a protectress, to Clemenza? Will you exhort her to adeed of charity? Will you be, yourself, an example of beneficence?Direct me to Miss Fielding, I beseech you. I have called on her already,but in vain, and there is no time to be lost."
"Why are you so precipitate? What would you do?"
"Take her away from that house instantly--bring her hither--place herunder your protection--give her Mrs. Wentworth for a counsellor--afriend--a mother. Shall I do this? Shall I hie thither to-day, this veryhour--now? Give me your consent, and she shall be with you before noon."
"By no means," replied she, with earnestness. "You are too hasty. Anaffair of so much importance cannot be despatched in a moment. There aremany difficulties and doubts to be first removed."
"Let them be reserved for the future. Withhold not your helping handtill the struggle has disappeared forever. Think on the gulf that isalready gaping to swallow her. This is no time to hesitate and falter. Iwill tell you her story, but not now; we will postpone it tillto-morrow, and first secure her from impending evils. She shall tell ityou herself. In an hour I will bring her hither, and she herself shallrecount to you her sorrows. Will you let me?"
"Your behaviour is extraordinary. I can scarcely tell whether thissimplicity be real or affected. One would think that your common sensewould show you the impropriety of your request. To admit under my roof awoman notoriously dishonoured, and from an infamous house----"
"My dearest madam! How can you reflect upon the situation withoutirresistible pity? I see that you are thoroughly aware of her pastcalamity and her present danger. Do not these urge you to make haste toher relief? Can any lot be more deplorable than hers? Can any state bemore perilous? Poverty is not the only evil that oppresses or thatthreatens her. The scorn of the world, and her own compunction, thedeath of the fruit of her error and the witness of her shame, are notthe worst. She is exposed to the temptations of the profligate; whileshe remains with Mrs. Villars, her infamy accumulates; her furtherdebasement is facilitated; her return to reputation and to virtue isobstructed by new bars."
"How know I that her debasement is not already complete andirremediable? She is a mother, but not a wife. How came she thus? Is herbeing Welbeck's prostitute no proof of her guilt?"
"Alas! I know not. I believe her not very culpable; I know her to beunfortunate; to have been robbed and betrayed. You are a stranger to herhistory. I am myself imperfectly acquainted with it.
"But let me tell you the little that I know. Perhaps my narrative maycause you to think of her as I do."
She did not object to this proposal, and I immediately recounted allthat I had gained from my own observations, or from Welbeck himself,respecting this forlorn girl. Having finished my narrative, I proceededthus:--
"Can you hesitate to employ that power which was given you for goodends, to rescue this sufferer? Take her to your home; to your bosom; toyour confidence. Keep aloof those temptations which beset her in herpresent situation. Restore her to that purity which her desolatecondition, her ignorance, her misplaced gratitude and the artifices of askilful dissembler, have destroyed, if it be destroyed; for how know weunder what circumstances her ruin was accomplished? With what pretences,or appearances, or promises, she was won to compliance?"
"True. I confess my ignorance; but ought not that ignorance to beremoved before she makes a part of my family?"
"Oh, no! It may be afterwards removed. It cannot be removed before. Bybringing her hither you shield her, at least, from future and possibleevils. Here you can watch her conduct and sift her sentimentsconveniently and at leisure. Should she prove worthy of your charity,how justly may you congratulate yourself on your seasonable efforts inher cause! If she prove unworthy, you may then demean yourself accordingto her demerits."
"I must reflect upon it.--To-morrow----"
"Let me prevail on you to admit her at once, and without delay. Thisvery moment may be the critical one. To-day we may exert ourselves withsuccess, but to-morrow all our efforts may be fruitless. Why fluctuate,why linger, when so much good may be done, and no evil can possibly beincurred? It requires but a word from you; you need not move a finger.Your house is large. You have chambers vacant and convenient. Consentonly that your door shall not be barred against her; that you will treather with civility: to carry your kindness into effect; to persuade herto attend me hither and to place herself in your care, shall be myprovince."
These and many similar entreaties and reasonings were ineffectual. Hergeneral disposition was kind, but she was unaccustomed to strenuous orsudden exertions. To admit the persuasions of such an advocate to souncommon a scheme as that of sharing her house with a creature thuspreviously unknown to her, thus loaded with suspicion and with obloquy,was not possible.
I at last forbore importunity, and requested her to tell me when I mightexpect to meet with Mrs. Fielding at her lodgings. Inquiry was made towhat end I sought an interview. I made no secret of my purpose.
"Are you mad, young man?" she exclaimed. "Mrs. Fielding has already beenegregiously imprudent. On the faith of an ancient slight acquaintancewith Mrs. Villars in Europe, she suffered herself to be decoyed into avisit. Instead of taking warning by numerous tokens of the realcharacter of that woman, in her behaviour and in that of her visitants,she consented to remain there one night. The next morning took placethat astonishing interview with you which she has since described to me.She is now warned against the like indiscretion. And, pray, whatbenevolent scheme would you propose to her?"
"Has she property? Is she rich?"
"She is. Unhappily, perhaps, for her, she is absolute mistress of herfortune, and has neither guardian nor parent to control her in the useof it."
"Has she virtue? Does she know the value of affluence and a fair fame?And will not she devote a few dollars to rescue a fellow-creature fromindigence and infamy and vice? Surely she will. She will hazard nothingby the boon. I will be her almoner. I will provide the wretched strangerwith food and raiment and dwelling; I will pay for all, if Mrs.Fielding, from her superfluity, will supply the means. Clemenza shallowe life and honour to your friend, till I am able to supply the needfulsum from my own stock."
While thus speaking, my companion gazed at me with steadfastness:--"Iknow not what to make of you. Your language and ideas are those of alunatic. Are
you acquainted with Mrs. Fielding?"
"Yes. I have seen her two days ago, and she has invited me to see heragain."
"And on the strength of this acquaintance you expect to be her almoner?To be the medium of her charity?"
"I desire to save her trouble; to make charity as light and easy aspossible. 'Twill be better if she perform those offices herself. 'Twillredound more to the credit of her reason and her virtue. But I solicither benignity only in the cause of Clemenza. For her only do I wish atpresent to call forth her generosity and pity."
"And do you imagine she will intrust her money to one of your age andsex, whom she knows so imperfectly, to administer to the wants of onewhom she found in such a house as Mrs. Villars's? She never will. Shementioned her imprudent engagement to meet you, but she is now warnedagainst the folly of such confidence.
"You have told me plausible stories of yourself and of this Clemenza. Icannot say that I disbelieve them, but I know the ways of the world toowell to bestow implicit faith so easily. You are an extraordinary youngman. You may possibly be honest. Such a one as you, with your educationand address, may possibly have passed all your life in a hovel; but itis scarcely credible, let me tell you. I believe most of the factsrespecting my nephew, because my knowledge of him before his flightwould enable me to detect your falsehood; but there must be other proofsbesides an innocent brow and a voluble tongue, to make me give fullcredit to your pretensions.
"I have no claim upon Welbeck which can embarrass you. On that score,you are free from any molestation from me or my friends. I havesuspected you of being an accomplice in some vile plot, and am nowinclined to acquit you; but that is all that you must expect from me,till your character be established by other means than your ownassertions. I am engaged at present, and must therefore request you toput an end to your visit."
This strain was much unlike the strain which preceded it. I imagined, bythe mildness of her tone and manners, that her unfavourableprepossessions were removed; but they seemed to have suddenly regainedtheir pristine force. I was somewhat disconcerted by this unexpectedchange. I stood for a minute silent and irresolute.
Just then a knock was heard at the door, and presently entered that veryfemale whom I had met with at Villars's. I caught her figure as Iglanced through the window. Mrs. Wentworth darted at me many significantglances, which commanded me to withdraw; but, with this object in view,it was impossible.
As soon as she entered, her eyes were fixed upon me. Certainrecollections naturally occurred at that moment, and made her cheeksglow. Some confusion reigned for a moment, but was quickly dissipated.She did not notice me, but exchanged salutations with her friend.
All this while I stood near the window, in a situation not a littlepainful. Certain tremors which I had not been accustomed to feel, andwhich seemed to possess a mystical relation to the visitant, disabled meat once from taking my leave, or from performing any useful purpose bystaying. At length, struggling for composure, I approached her, and,showing her the card she had given me, said,--
"Agreeably to this direction, I called an hour ago, at your lodgings. Ifound you not. I hope you will permit me to call once more. When shallI expect to meet you at home?"
Her eyes were cast on the floor. A kind of indirect attention was fixedon Mrs. Wentworth, serving to intimidate and check her. At length shesaid, in an irresolute voice, "I shall be at home this evening."
"And this evening," replied I, "I will call to see you." So saying, Ileft the house.
This interval was tedious, but was to be endured with equanimity. I wasimpatient to be gone to Baltimore, and hoped to be able to set out bythe dawn of next day. Meanwhile, I was necessarily to perform somethingwith respect to Clemenza.
After dinner I accompanied Mrs. Stevens to visit Miss Carlton. I waseager to see a woman who could bear adversity in the manner which myfriend had described.
She met us at the door of her apartment. Her seriousness was not abatedby her smiles of affability and welcome. "My friend!" whispered I, "howtruly lovely is this Miss Carlton! Are the heart and the intelligencewithin worthy of these features?"
"Yes, they are. The account of her employments, of her resignation tothe ill fate of the brother whom she loves, proves that they are."
My eyes were riveted to her countenance and person. I feltuncontrollable eagerness to speak to her, and to gain her good opinion.
"You must know this young man, my dear Miss Carlton," said my friend,looking at me; "he is my husband's friend, and professes a great desireto be yours. You must not treat him as a mere stranger, for he knowsyour character and situation already, as well as that of your brother."
She looked at me with benignity:--"I accept his friendship willingly andgratefully, and shall endeavour to convince him that his good opinion isnot misplaced."
There now ensued a conversation somewhat general, in which this youngwoman showed a mind vigorous from exercise and unembarrassed by care.She affected no concealment of her own condition, of her wants, or hercomforts. She laid no stress upon misfortunes, but contrived to deducesome beneficial consequence to herself, and some motive for gratitude toHeaven, from every wayward incident that had befallen her.
This demeanour emboldened me, at length, to inquire into the cause ofher brother's imprisonment, and the nature of his debt.
She answered frankly and without hesitation:--"It is a debt of hisfather's, for which he made himself responsible during his father'slife. The act was generous but imprudent, as the event has shown;though, at the time, the unhappy effects could not be foreseen.
"My father," continued she, "was arrested by his creditor, at a timewhen the calmness and comforts of his own dwelling were necessary to hishealth. The creditor was obdurate, and would release him upon nocondition but that of receiving a bond from my brother, by which heengaged to pay the debt at several successive times and in smallportions. All these instalments were discharged with great difficultyindeed, but with sufficient punctuality, except the last, to which mybrother's earnings were not adequate."
"How much is the debt?"
"Four hundred dollars."
"And is the state of the creditor such as to make the loss of fourhundred dollars of more importance to him than the loss of liberty toyour brother?"
She answered, smiling, "That is a very abstract view of things. On sucha question you and I might, perhaps, easily decide in favour of mybrother; but would there not be some danger of deciding partially? Hisconduct is a proof of his decision, and there is no power to change it."
"Will not argument change it? Methinks in so plain a case I should beable to convince him. You say he is rich and childless. His annualincome is ten times more than this sum. Your brother cannot pay the debtwhile in prison; whereas, if at liberty, he might slowly and finallydischarge it. If his humanity would not yield, his avarice might bebrought to acquiesce."
"But there is another passion which you would find it somewhat harder tosubdue, and that is his vengeance. He thinks himself wronged, andimprisons my brother, not to enforce payment, but to inflict misery. Ifyou could persuade him that there is no hardship in imprisonment, youwould speedily gain the victory; but that could not be attemptedconsistently with truth. In proportion to my brother's suffering is hisgratification."
"You draw an odious and almost incredible portrait."
"And yet such a one would serve for the likeness of almost every secondman we meet."
"And is such your opinion of mankind? Your experience must surely havebeen of a rueful tenor to justify such hard thoughts of the rest of yourspecies."
"By no means. It has been what those whose situation disables them fromlooking further than the surface of things would regard as unfortunate;but, if my goods and evils were equitably balanced, the former would bethe weightiest. I have found kindness and goodness in great numbers, buthave likewise met prejudice and rancor in many. My opinion of Farquharis not lightly taken up. I saw him yesterday, and the nature of hismotives in the treatment of my brother
was plain enough."
Here this topic was succeeded by others, and the conversation ceased nottill the hour had arrived on which I had preconcerted to visit Mrs.Fielding. I left my two friends for this purpose.
I was admitted to Mrs. Fielding's presence without scruple ordifficulty. There were two females in her company, and one of the othersex, well-dressed, elderly, and sedate persons. Their discourse turnedupon political topics, with which, as you know, I have but slightacquaintance. They talked of fleets and armies, of Robespierre and Pitt,of whom I had only a newspaper-knowledge.
In a short time the women rose, and, huddling on their cloaks,disappeared, in company with the gentleman. Being thus left alone withMrs. Fielding, some embarrassment was mutually betrayed. With muchhesitation, which, however, gradually disappeared, my companion, atlength, began the conversation:--
"You met me lately, in a situation, sir, on which I look back withtrembling and shame, but not with any self-condemnation. I was led intoit without any fault, unless a too hasty confidence may be styled afault. I had known Mrs. Villars in England, where she lived with anuntainted reputation, at least; and the sight of my countrywoman, in aforeign land, awakened emotions in the indulgence of which I did notimagine there was either any guilt or any danger. She invited me to seeher at her house with so much urgency and warmth, and solicited me totake a place immediately in a chaise in which she had come to the city,that I too incautiously complied.
"You are a stranger to me, and I am unacquainted with your character.What little I have seen of your deportment, and what little I havelately heard concerning you from Mrs. Wentworth, do not produceunfavourable impressions; but the apology I have made was due to my ownreputation, and should have been offered to you whatever your characterhad been." There she stopped.
"I came not hither," said I, "to receive an apology. Your demeanour, onour first interview, shielded you sufficiently from any suspicions orsurmises that I could form. What you have now mentioned was likewisementioned by your friend, and was fully believed upon her authority. Mypurpose, in coming, related not to you, but to another. I desired merelyto interest your generosity and justice on behalf of one whose destituteand dangerous condition may lay claim to your compassion and yoursuccour."
"I comprehend you," said she, with an air of some perplexity. "I knowthe claims of that person."
"And will you comply with them?"
"In what manner can I serve her?"
"By giving her the means of living."
"Does she not possess them already?"
"She is destitute. Her dependence was wholly placed upon one that isdead, by whom her person was dishonoured and her fortune embezzled."
"But she still lives. She is not turned into the street. She is notdestitute of home."
"But what a home!"
"Such as she may choose to remain in."
"She cannot choose it. She must not choose it. She remains throughignorance, or through the incapacity of leaving it."
"But how shall she be persuaded to a change?"
"I will persuade her. I will fully explain her situation. I will supplyher with a new home."
"You will persuade her to go with you, and to live at a home of yourproviding and on your bounty?"
"Certainly."
"Would that change be worthy of a cautious person? Would it benefit herreputation? Would it prove her love of independence?"
"My purposes are good. I know not why she should suspect them. But I amonly anxious to be the instrument. Let her be indebted to one of her ownsex, of unquestionable reputation. Admit her into this house. Invite herto your arms. Cherish and console her as your sister."
"Before I am convinced that she deserves it? And even then, what regardshall I, young, unmarried, independent, affluent, pay to my ownreputation in harbouring a woman in these circumstances?"
"But you need not act yourself. Make me your agent and almoner. Onlysupply her with the means of subsistence through me."
"Would you have me act a clandestine part? Hold meetings with one ofyour sex, and give him money for a purpose which I must hide from theworld? Is it worth while to be a dissembler and impostor? And will notsuch conduct incur more dangerous surmises and suspicions than wouldarise from acting openly and directly? You will forgive me for remindingyou, likewise, that it is particularly incumbent upon those in mysituation to be circumspect in their intercourse with men and withstrangers. This is the second time that I have seen you. My knowledge ofyou is extremely dubious and imperfect, and such as would make theconduct you prescribe to me, in a high degree, rash and culpable. Youmust not, therefore, expect me to pursue it."
These words were delivered with an air of firmness and dignity. I wasnot insensible to the truth of her representations. "I confess," said I,"what you have said makes me doubt the propriety of my proposal; yet Iwould fain be of service to her. Cannot you point out some practicablemethod?"
She was silent and thoughtful, and seemed indisposed to answer myquestion.
"I had set my heart upon success in this negotiation," continued I, "andcould not imagine any obstacle to its success; but I find my ignoranceof the world's ways much greater than I had previously expected. Youdefraud yourself of all the happiness redounding from the act of makingothers happy. You sacrifice substance to show, and are more anxious toprevent unjust aspersions from lighting on yourself, than to rescue afellow-creature from guilt and infamy.
"You are rich, and abound in all the conveniences and luxuries of life.A small portion of your superfluity would obviate the wants of a beingnot less worthy than yourself. It is not avarice or aversion to labourthat makes you withhold your hand. It is dread of the sneers andsurmises of malevolence and ignorance.
"I will not urge you further at present. Your determination to be wiseshould not be hasty. Think upon the subject calmly and sedately, andform your resolution in the course of three days. At the end of thatperiod I will visit you again." So saying, and without waiting forcomment or answer, I withdrew.