Chapter 22

This narrative threw new light on the character of Welbeck. If accident had given him possession of this treasure, it was easy to predict on what schemes of luxury and selfishness it would have been expended. The same dependence on the world’s erroneous estimation, the same devotion to imposture, and thoughtlessness of futurity, would have constituted the picture of his future life, as had distinguished the past.

This money was another’s. To retain it for his own use was criminal. Of this crime he appeared to be as insensible as ever. His own gratification was the supreme law of his actions. To be subjected to the necessity of honest labour was the heaviest of all evils, and one from which he was willing to escape by the commission of suicide.

The volume which he sought was mine. It was my duty to restore it to the rightful owner, or, if the legal claimant could not be found, to employ it in the promotion of virtue and happiness. To give it to Welbeck was to consecrate it to the purpose of selfishness and misery. My right, legally considered, was as valid as his.

But, if I intended not to resign it to him, was it proper to disclose the truth and explain by whom the volume was purloined from the shelf? The first impulse was to hide this truth; but my understanding had been taught, by recent occurrences, to question the justice and deny the usefulness of secrecy in any case. My principles were true; my motives were pure: why should I scruple to avow my principles and vindicate my actions?

Welbeck had ceased to be dreaded or revered. That awe which was once created by his superiority of age, refinement of manners, and dignity of garb, had vanished. I was a boy in years, an indigent and uneducated rustic; but I was able to discern the illusions of power and riches, and abjured every claim to esteem that was not founded on integrity. There was no tribunal before which I should falter in asserting the truth, and no species of martyrdom which I would not cheerfully embrace in its cause.

After some pause, I said, “Cannot you conjecture in what way this volume has disappeared?”

“No,” he answered, with a sigh. “Why, of all his volumes, this only should have vanished, was an inexplicable enigma.”

“Perhaps,” said I, “it is less important to know how it was removed, than by whom it is now possessed.”

“Unquestionably; and yet, unless that knowledge enables me to regain the possession, it will be useless.”

“Useless then it will be, for the present possessor will never return it to you.”

“Indeed,” replied he, in a tone of dejection, “your conjecture is most probable. Such a prize is of too much value to be given up.”

“What I have said flows not from conjecture, but from knowledge. I know that it will never be restored to you.”

At these words, Welbeck looked at me with anxiety and doubt:—”You know that it will not! Have you any knowledge of the book? Can you tell me what has become of it?”

“Yes. After our separation on the river, I returned to this house. I found this volume and secured it. You rightly suspected its contents. The money was there.”

Welbeck started as if he had trodden on a mine of gold. His first emotion was rapturous, but was immediately chastened by some degree of doubt:—”What has become of it? Have you got it? Is it entire? Have you it with you?”