ARTHUR
42

I continued my steps. I don't know where to direct my steps. I fell because I was wet, and shivered in the cold. I am poor living and friends. I don't have any money or valuables I have. I moved forward mechanically and randomly. The place I landed was not far from the edge of the city. In a short time I found a flash of lights in the distance. For this I directed my step, and here I stopped to check the contents of the pocket book.

I found three banknotes, fifty dollars each, attached to a blank piece of paper. In addition there are three letters, apparently written by his wife, and dated in Baltimore. They are brief, but consist in a great tenderness tension, and contain allusions that affect their child. I can conclude, from their dates and tenors, that they were accepted during his absence on his recent travels; that his condition was indispensable, he said, and surrounded by desires that make their separation more and more increased.

The fourth letter opened, and it seemed to have just been written. It was addressed to Mrs. Mary Watson's. He told her about his arrival in Philadelphia from St. Domingo; lost his ship and cargo; and his intention to rush home with all possible expeditions. He tells her that everything is gone except for a hundred and fifty dollars, most of which he must carry, to alleviate his more pressing desires. The letter was signed, and folded, and written, but not sealed.

A little consideration showed me how I, on this occasion, humbled myself. I put the banknotes into the letter, and sealed them with a wafer; some of them were found in the pocketbook. I hesitated for some time whether I should add something to the information that the letter contained, using a pencil that offered itself to my view; but I concluded to be patient. I cannot choose a suitable term to communicate a sad truth. I decided to keep this letter at the post office, where I knew the letters could be left at any time.

My reflection was at length back to my own condition. What destiny is there for me? How far my safety may be affected by staying in the city, as a result of the disappearance of Welbeck, and my known relationship with the fugitive, is impossible to foresee. My fears easily show the innumerable embarrassments and discomforts that will flow from this source. Besides, for what reason should I stay? To whom can I apply for protection or employment? All roads, even to make ends meet, are closed to me. The country is my only asylum. Here, in return for my hard work, I could at least buy food, safety, and rest. But, if my choice points to the country, there is no reason for a momentary delay. It would be wise to regain the fields, and to be away from this hated city before the rising of the sun.

Meanwhile I was cold and scuffed by the clothes I was wearing. To change it for someone else is absolutely necessary for my convenience. The clothes I was wearing were not my own, and were very incompatible with my new condition. My rustic and simple clothes were kept in my room at Welbeck's. These thoughts suggest a design to get back to it. I assume that, perhaps, the servants were not worried. That the door was unlocked, and the house was accessible. It would be easy to step in and retire without notice; and this, rather than without doubt and indecision, I am currently determined to do so.

In a momentary review that I took from the past, the design that Welbeck claimed initially held me in his service came to my mind. I know the dangers of reasoning loosely about property issues. For any trinkets or furniture in this house, I do not allow myself to question Mrs rights. Wentworth; the rights he obtained as a result of Welbeck's failure in his rent payment; but there was one thing I felt was an irresistible desire, and there was no doubt that should have prohibited me, he said, to have it, and that is, the manuscript that Welbeck alluded to, was written by the late Lodi.

I was well instructed in Latin, and knew the Tuscan language was almost similar to that. I am desperate because I was unable to develop this language one day, and believe that the ownership of this manuscript can essentially contribute to this goal, as well as many others who are equally useful. It is easy to suppose that the volume can be found among his printed books, and it is hardly easy to ascertain the truth of this conjecture. I entered, not without a thrill, into the apartment that was once the scene of a disastrous interview between Watson and Welbeck. At every step, I was almost afraid to see the ghost that had previously appeared in front of me.

Plenty of volume and beautifully arranged on mahogany shelves, and filtered by glass doors. I ran fast on their behalf, and ended up very lucky to find the book I was looking for. I immediately secured it, and, leaving the extinguished candle on the table in the living room, I once again went out into the street. With light steps and heart palpitations I turned my face towards the country. My essential condition which I believed would allow me to cross the Schuylkill bridge without paying, and the eastern sky began to clear with dawn in the morning not until I reached a distance of nine miles from the city.

That's the story I propose to tell you. Those were the unforgettable events of the five days of my life; from which I had gathered more instructions than from the entire network of my previous existence. Thus the details of my knowledge of Welbeck's crimes and misfortunes; the Wortley satire, and my desire to defend your good opinion, have prompted me to be revealed.

Arthur's pause allows his auditors to ponder the details of his narrative, and compare it to facts with the knowledge their own observations have provided. My profession introduced me to friendship. Wentworth, with whom, after Welbeck's disappearance, many circumstances honoring him have been mentioned. He specifically thought about the behavior and appearance of this young man, at one interview that took place between them, and his representation was very much in line with that delivered by Arthur himself.