Joseph Wilmot, or, The Memoirs of a Man-Servant — page 147: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

134 eall upon me—and that he hoped I would pay him a visit for an hour or two. I accordingly set out to walk to Avellino’s residence, which was about a mile and a half from the hotel. On my way thither, I continued to reflect upon the revela- tion which had been made to me ; and I wondered that the Viscount should have stigmatised as plebeian a young gentleman who had evidently been well-bred and well-educated—who was inde- pendent in his pecuniary means—who had visited at the Tivoli palace—and who was the intimate friend of the Duke of Tuscany’s nephew. There seemed to be a contradiction between the facts just enumerated and the aspersion intended to be thrown upon Francesco Avellino. There is an- other point which I must mention; and this is, that the Viscount’s revelation had for the first time made me acquainted that he possessed a sister at all: for though his father the Count had not exactly said that he had no other child but his son and heir, yet I had gathered this much from the phraseology which he had made use of at the time when he spoke of his wife having long been dead and of his living entirely alone with his son. But now the idea struck me that the young lady herself might be dead: for although the Viscount’s words had represented her as being alive about a year back, yet if she had perished shortly after- wards, the time of mourning would have already expired, as this period amongst the aristocrac, on the Continent only lasts for six months, even when the sable garments were worn for the nearest relatives. While reflecting on these topics, [reached Avel- lino’s dwelling ; and was conducted to an apart- ment where I found him reclining upon a sofa. He looked pale, ill, and careworn; and though he endeavoured to smile and to cheer up on perceiving me, yet I saw—and saw with pain too—that he was in reality a prey toa deep inward dejec- tion. ** My dear friend,” he said, “I am sorry that I could not call upon you to-day—sorry likewise that I feel myself utterly unequal to the exertion of JOSEPH WILMOT; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A MAN-SERYVANT, after the incident of the day before yesterday ha could not restrain himself, in his frivolous or his tipsy moods, from touching upon it.” “T will not attempt to mislead you,” T said. “The Viscount dined with me last evening; and though most sincerely I pledge myself that I did all I could to divert him from a topic to which he persisted in recurring a “Yet you could not ? No—I am confident you could not!” said Francesco: then, after a brief pause, he added, “But if he told you the tale S “ No—he said but a few words,” I interrupt- ingly remarked. “But I beseech you to change the topic.” “Tf it be displeasing to you, I will,” rejoined Avellino : “ but if it be merely for my sake that you have proffered that entreaty, I would rather pursue the topic—because, in a word, you are my friend— there is comfort and solace in the friendship of such an one as you—and it will soothe me to breathe the tale of my sorrows in your ear.” Iam also on friendly terms with the Count and Viscount of Tivoli—I have experienced their hos- pitality and their kindness - “Rest assured,” interrupted Francesco, “ that by listening to my tale you will not prove traitor- ous to your friendship towards them, even though you should be inclined to vouchsafe your sympathy to me. Indeed, I now feel that situated as you are with respect to them and with reference to myself—and likely as you seem to sojourn some little time at Rome—it will be better that you should know all. Since the occurrence of the day before yesterday, when I sustained that sovereign insult on the part of the Viscount, I have reflected deeply upon these things whereof I am speaking. You see how they have affected me—how they have preyed upon my mimd—and even upon my health; and I have come to the conclusion to un- bosom myself entirely. There is no breach of faith on my part in telling the tale, nor on yours } “Remember, my dear Avellino,” I said, “ that in listening to if.” accompanying you to some of those institutions, I could urge no further objection: and indeed I which you experience so much pleasure in visiting. | should be telling an untruth if I did not confess But I will deal frankly with you: that little inci-| that I had all along experienced a curiosity to dent of the day before yesterday—you know to what | fathom that mystery which the Viscount of I allude - Tivoli had partially revealed on the preceding “Then wherefore allude to it?” I exclaimed: | evening. “ why dwell upon atopic which is fraught with un-| ‘My narrative,” began Francesco Avellino, “re- pleasant feelings ?” | quires some little introduction. My father wasa “ Because those feelings are stronger than my-| merchant at Civita Vecchia; and I was an only self,” replied Francesco. “I beseech you to bear|son. He was rich; and he afforded me the means with me. Not for the world would I unduly ob-| of receiving a good education—by which I hope I trude my griefs or personal concerns upon any one | have not altogether failed to profit. When I was to his own annoyance: but from the very hour that | eighteen years of age my father experienced sud- you and I met, there has been so friendly an | den reverses in his commercial pursuits—and—and understanding between us—our dispositions to a| —in plain terms he became bankrupt. The cala- certain extent appear to assimilate, if you will par- | mity preyed so deeply upon his mind that he sank don me for saying so ? | under its weight—and in a few weeks was con- “ Yes—I experience a sincere friendship for you,” | signed to the grave by the side of my mother who I said, taking his hand; “and therefore it grieves had perished a few years previously. When his me profoundly to see you brooding thus despond- | effects were realised, they afforded sufficient to pay ingly over your sorrows.” ‘only twenty-five per cent.: the name of my dead “And the source of those sorrows,” said Avel- | father was therefore in the commereial world tar- lino, looking with mournful earnestness on my coun- | nished and dishonoured. I was then adopted by tenance—* is it indeed altogether unknown to you? | an uncle,—who, though possessed of ample means, No—I see that it is not /—and I know the young had sternly refused to assist his late brother at a Viscount of Tivoli well enough to feel assured that | time when such opportune succour would have el = —- 0)(0)(6)