Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 54, No. 335, September 1843. Various
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"'Let me, at least, dear Anna, go to London,' I said, 'and implore my mother to retract this wish, unsay her words. I would rather give up the world, than take it without your cheerful acquiescence. Your happiness is every thing to me. You shall decide for me.'
"'No, Warton,' she replied—'you and my father must decide, and may Heaven direct you both. Go to London—do as you wish. I am resigned. I am presumptuous, and may be wrong. All will be for the best. Go! God bless you and support you.'
"And I went, traitor and renegade that I was, prepared to surrender to the bitterest foe that ever hunted victim down. Believe me not, sir, when I say that any sense of filial duty actuated me in my resolve, that any feeling influenced this unsteady heart but one—The desire to call my Anna mine—the pride I felt in the consciousness of wealth—and of the power to bestow it all on her.
"My reception in London was as favourable as I could wish it. My uncle was an altered man—at least he appeared so. He met me with smiles and honied words, and made such promises of friendship and protection, that I stood before him convicted of uncharitableness and gross misconduct. I reproached myself for the old prejudices, and for the malice which I had always borne him, and attributed them all to boyish inexperience, and stubbornness. I was older now, and could see with the eyes of a man. Not only did I acquit him of all intention of wrong, but I could have fallen on my knees before him, and asked his pardon for my own offences. I wrote a long letter to Anna, and described in lively colours my own agreeable surprise, desired her to be of good heart, and to rely upon my prudence. I engaged to write daily, to announce the progress of my mission—and to advise her of the proposed arrangements. This was my first communication. Before she could receive a second, I had put my hand to paper, and signed my death-warrant. I had irretrievably committed myself. I was living with my uncle. His wine was of the best. He could drink freely of it, and get cooler and more collected at each glass, but frequent draughts animated and inflamed my younger head. He spoke to me with kindness, and I grew confiding and loquacious. I told him of my engagement with Anna, described her beauty, extolled her virtues. He seized the golden opportunity, and reproved me gently for the little consideration which I exhibited for one so worthy of my love. It was unpardonably selfish to hesitate one instant longer. It was due to her, and to our future offspring, to make every provision for their maintenance and comfort. It was madness to overlook the advantages which my mother's offer gave. She herself, the lovely Anna, as her cares increased, would mourn over the cruel obstinacy of him who might have placed her beyond anxiety and apprehension, but who preferred to keep her poor, dependent, joyless. She was young, and spoke, doubtless, as she felt—but time would dissipate romance, and bitterly would she regret that he who professed to love her had not taken pains to prove that love more thoughtful and sincere. So he went on—and, in the height of his appeal, a visitor was announced—Mr Gilbert, an old friend, an intimate, who was immediately admitted. I was requested not to mind him, for he knew every secret of my uncle's. The latter repeated my story, and ended with an account of my ingratitude to Anna. Mr Gilbert could scarcely speak for his astonishment. He shook his head severely, and vowed the case was quite unparalleled. I drank on—the thought of the immediate possession of my Anna flashed once powerfully and effectually across my brain, and I held out no longer. I yielded to the sweet solicitation—and was lost.
"On the following morning, Mr Gilbert arrived to breakfast. The subject was resumed. My uncle produced a paper, which he had hastily drawn up. It should be signed by all. Mr Gilbert, as a friend, could witness it. It was a rough draught, but would answer every purpose for the present. The statement was very simple. My mother left in the firm twenty thousand pounds in stock, and cash and book debts. For this I made myself responsible, and undertook to pay an interest of five per cent. All profits in the business were my own. Fool that I was, I signed the document without reflection—gave, with one movement of the pen, my liberty, my happiness, and life, into the power of one who had for years resolved to get them in his clutch. My uncle followed with his signature—then Mr Gilbert. To make all sure, however, a clerk of the former was summoned to the room, and requested to act as second witness to the deed.
"You are perfectly satisfied with the contents?' said Mr Gilbert to my uncle, when the clerk had finished.
"'Quite so,' was the answer.
"'And you, sir?' he continued, turning then to me.
"'I answered, 'Yes,' whilst a sickening shudder crept through my blood, and the remonstrance of Anna sounded in my ears like a knell.
"I remained in London, and a week after this ceremony I entered upon my duties at the counting-house. At the earnest recommendation of my uncle, I carried into the business, as additional capital, the sum of money from which I had hitherto derived my income. This amounted to nearly four thousand pounds. It may seem strange to you, sir, as it does to me now, that I should so readily have adopted the statement of my uncle, and so deeply involved myself upon the strength of his simple ipse dixit. It was a mad-man's act, and yet there were many excuses for it at the time. I was but a boy—fresh from a life of retirement and study—unused to the ways of men—unprepared for fraud. Satisfied of my own integrity, I believed implicitly in the ingenuousness of others. I had no friend to act for me—to investigate and warn—my heart was burthened with its love, and all my thoughts were far away. The business had prospered for years, and it was conducted externally as in the days of my poor father. All was decorous and business-like, and the reputation of the house was high and unblemished. There was nothing in the appearance of things to excite suspicion—and not a breath was suggested from my own too easy and confiding nature. The father of my betrothed! was delighted