 | CHAPTER V. Ormond, or, The secret witness |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
It was now dusk and she hastened to perform
this duty. Whiston's dwelling was wooden and
of small dimensions. She lifted the latch softly
and entered. The lower room was unoccupied.
She advanced to the foot of a narrow staircase,
and knocked and listened, but no answer was returned
to the summons. Hence there was reason
to infer that no one was within, but this,
from other considerations, was extremely improbable.
The truth could be ascertained only by
ascending the stair. Some feminine scruples were
to be subdued before this proceeding could be
adopted.
After some hesitation, she determined to ascend.
The staircase was terminated by a door
at which she again knocked, for admission, but
in vain. She listened and presently heard the
motion as of some one in bed. This was succeeded
by tokens of vehement exertions to vomit.
was not without a tenant, she could not besitate
to enter the room.
Lying in a tattered bed, she now discovered
Mary Whiston. Her face was flushed and swelled,
her eyes closed and some power appeared to
have laid a leaden hand upon her faculties. The
floor was moistened and stained by the effusion
from her stomach. Constance touched her hand,
and endeavoured to rouse her. It was with difficulty
that her attention was excited. Her languid
eyes were scarcely opened before they again
closed and she sunk into forgetfulness.
Repeated efforts, however, at length recalled
her to herself, and extorted from her some account
of her condition. On the day before, at
noon, her stomach became diseased, her head
dizzy, and her limbs unable to support her. Her
brother was absent, and her drowsiness, interrupted
only by paroxysms of vomiting, continued
till his return late in the evening. He had then
shewn himself, for a few minutes, at her bedside,
had made some enquiries and precipitately retired,
since when he had not reappeared.
It was natural to imagine that Whiston had
gone to procure medical assistance. That he had
not returned, during a day and a half was matter
of surprize. His own indisposition was recollected
and his absence could only be accounted
for by supposing that sickness had disabled him
from regaining his own house. What was his
real destiny, it was impossible to conjecture. It
was not till some months after this period that satisfactory
intelligence was gained upon this head.
It appeared that Whiston had allowed his terrors
to overpower the sense of what was due to
his sister and to humanity. On discovering the
condition of the unhappy girl, he left the house,
his steps towards the country. After travelling
some hours, being exhausted by want of food, by
fatigue, and by mental as well as bodily anguish,
he laid himself down under the shelter of an hayrick,
in a vacant field. Here he was discovered
in the morning by the inhabitants of a neighbouring
farm house. These people had too much regard
for their own safety to accommodate him
under their roof, or even to approach within fifty
paces of his person.
A passenger whose attention and compassion
had been excited by this incident, was endowed
with more courage. He lifted the stranger in his
arms, and carried him from this unwholesome
spot to a barn. This was the only service which
the passenger was able to perform. Whiston,
deserted by every human creature, burning with
fever, tormented into madness by thirst, spent
three miserable days in agony. When dead, no
one would cover his body with earth, but he was
suffered to decay by piecemeal.
The dwelling, being at no great distance from
the barn, could not be wholly screened from the
malignant vapour which a corpse, thus neglected,
could not fail to produce. The inhabitants
were preparing on this account, to change their
abode, but, on the eve of their departure, the
master of the family became sick. He was, in a
short time, followed to the grave by his mother,
his wife and four children.
They probably imbibed their disease from the
tainted atmosphere around them. The life of
Whiston and their own lives, might have been
saved by affording the wanderer an asylum and
suitable treatment, or at least, their own deaths
might have been avoided by interring his remains.
Meanwhile Constantia was occupied with reflecting
on the scene before her. Not only a
physician but a nurse was wanting. The last
province it was more easy for her to supply than
the former. She was acquainted with the abode
but of one physician. He lived at no small distance
from this spot. To him she immediately
hastened, but he was absent, and his numerous
engagements left it wholly uncertain when he
would return and whether he would consent to
increase the number of his patients. Direction
was obtained to the residence of another, who
was happily disengaged, and who promised to
attend immediately. Satisfied with this assurance,
she neglected to request directions, by
which she might regulate herself on his failing to
come.
During her return her thoughts were painfully
employed in considering the mode proper for her
to pursue, in her present perplexing situation.
She was for the most part unacquainted with the
character of those who composed her neighbourhood.
That any would be willing to undertake
the tendance of this girl was by no means probable.
As wives and mothers, it would perhaps be
unjust to require or permit it. As to herself
there were labours and duties of her own sufficient
to engross her faculties, yet, by whatever
foreign cares or tasks she was oppressed, she felt
that, to desert this being, was impossible.
In the absence of her friend, Mary's state exhibited
no change. Constance, on regaining the
house, lighted the remnant of a candle, and resumed
her place by the bed side of the sick girl.
She impatiently waited for the arrival of the physician,
but hour succeeded hour and he came not.
All hope of his coming being extinguished, she
bethought herself that her father might be able
It was likewise her duty to relieve him from the
suspence in which her absence would unavoidably
plunge him.
On entering her own apartment she found a
stranger in company with Mr. Dudley. The latter
perceiving that she had returned, speedily acquainted
her with the views of their guest. His
name was M`Crea; he was the nephew of their
landlord and was now become, by reversion, the
proprietor of the house which they occupied.
Mathews had been buried the preceding day,
and M`Crea, being well acquainted with the engagements
which subsisted between the deceased
and Mr. Dudley, had come, thus unseasonably,
to demand the rent. He was not unconscious
of the inhumanity and sordidness of this
proceeding, and therefore, endeavoured to disguise
it by the usual pretences. All his funds
were exhausted. He came not only in his own
name, but in that of Mrs. Mathews his aunt,
who was destitute of money to procure daily and
indispensible provision, and who was striving to
collect a sufficient sum to enable her and the remains
of her family, to fly from a spot where their
lives were in perpetual danger.
These excuses were abundantly fallacious, but
Mr. Dudley was too proud to solicit the forbearance
of a man like this. He recollected that the
engagement on his part was voluntary and explicit,
and he disdained to urge his present exigences
as reasons for retracting it. He expressed
the utmost readiness to comply with the demand,
and merely desired him to wait till Miss Dudley
returned. From the inquietudes with which the
unusual duration of her absence had filled him, he
was now relieved by her entrance.
With an indignant and desponding heart, she
complied with her father's directions, and the
money being reluctantly delivered, M`Crea took
an hasty leave. She was too deeply interested in
the fate of Mary Whiston, to allow her thoughts
to be diverted for the present into a new channel.
She described the desolate condition of the girl to
her father, and besought him to think of something
suitable to her relief.
Mr. Dudley's humanity would not suffer him to
disapprove of his daughter's proceeding. He
imagined that the symptoms of the patient portended
a fatal issue. There were certain complicated
remedies which might possibly be beneficial,
but these were too costly, and the application
would demand more strength than his daughter
could bestow. He was unwilling, however,
to leave any thing within his power, untried.
Pharmacy had been his trade, and he had reserved,
for domestic use, some of the most powerful
evacuants. Constantia was supplied with some
of these, and he consented that she should spend
the night with her patient, and watch their operation.
The unhappy Mary received whatever was offered,
but her stomach refused to retain it. The
night was passed by Constantia without closing
her eyes. As soon as the day dawned, she prepared
once more to summon the physician, who
had failed to comply with his promise. She had
scarcely left the house, however, before she met
him. He pleaded his numerous engagements in
excuse for his last night's negligence, and desired
her to make haste to conduct him to the patient.
Having scrutinized her symptoms, he expressed
his hopelessness of her recovery. Being informed
of the mode in which she had been treated,
he declared his approbation of it, but intimated,
was to furnish her with any liquid she
might chuse to demand, and wait patiently for
the event. During this interview, the physician
surveyed the person and dress of Constance with
an inquisitive eye. His countenance betrayed
marks of curiosity and compassion, and had he
made any approaches to confidence and friendliness,
Constance would not have repelled them.
His air was benevolent and candid, and she estimated
highly the usefulness of a counsellor and
friend in her present circumstances. Some motive,
however, hindered him from tendering his
service, and, in a few moments, he withdrew.
Mary's condition hourly grew worse. A corroded
and gangrenous stomach was quickly testified
by the dark hue and poisonous malignity of
the matter which was frequently ejected from it.
Her stupor gave place to some degree of peevishness
and restlessness. She drank the water that
was held to her lips with unspeakable avidity, and
derived from this source a momentary alleviation
of her pangs. Fortunately for her attendant, her
agonies were not of long duration. Constantia
was absent from her bedside as rarely, and for
periods as short as possible. On the succeeding
night, the sufferings of the patient terminated in
death.
This event took place at two o'clock in the
morning. An hour whose customary stillness
was, if possible, encreased tenfold by the desolation
of the city. The poverty of Mary and of
her nurse, had deprived the former of the benefits
resulting from the change of bed and cloaths.
Every thing about her was in a condition noisome
and detestable. Her yellowish and haggard visage,
conspicuous by a feeble light, an atmosphere
freighted with malignant vapours, and reminding
which encompassed her, the consciousness of solitude
and sensations of deadly sickness in her
own frame, were sufficient to intimidate a soul
of firmer texture than her's.
She was sinking fast into helplessness, when a
new train of reflections shewed her the necessity
of perseverance. All that remained was to consign
the corpse to the grave. She knew that vehicles
for this end were provided at the public
expense, that notice being given of the occasion
there was for their attendance, a receptacle and
carriage for the dead would be instantly provided.
Application, at this hour, she imagined would be
unseasonable. It must be deferred till the morning
which was yet at some distance.
Meanwhile to remain at her present post, was
equally useless and dangerous. She endeavoured
to stifle the conviction, that some mortal sickness
had seized upon her own frame. Her anxieties
of head and stomach, she was willing to
impute to extraordinary fatigue and watchfulness;
and hoped that they would be dissipated by an
hour's unmolested repose. She formed the resolution
of seeking her own chamber.
At this moment, however, the universal silence
underwent a slight interruption. The sound was
familiar to her ears. It was a signal frequently
repeated at the midnight hour during this season
of calamity. It was the slow movement of an
hearse, apparently passing along the street, in
which the alley, where Mr. Dudley resided, terminated.
At first, this sound had no other effect
than to aggravate the dreariness of all around her.
Presently it occured to her that this vehicle might
be disengaged She conceived herself bound to
see the last offices performed for the deceased
Mary. The sooner so irksome a duty was discharged
her incapacity for exertion. Should she be unable
when the morning arrived, to go as far as
the city-hall, and give the necessary information,
the most shocking consequences would ensue.
Whiston's house and her own were opposite
each other, and not connected with any on
the same side. A narrow space divided them,
and her own chamber was within the sphere of
the contagion which would flow, in consequence
of such neglect, from that of her neighbour.
Influenced by these considerations she passed
into the street, and gained the corner of the alley,
just as the carriage, whose movements she
had heard, arrived at the same spot. It was accompanied
by two men, negroes, who listened
to her tale with respect. Having already a burthen
of this kind, they could not immediately
comply with this request. They promised that,
having disposed of their present charge, they
would return forthwith and be ready to execute
her orders.
Happily one of these persons was known to
her. At other seasons his occupation was that of
woodcarter, and as such he had performed some
services for Mr. Dudley. His temper was gentle
and obliging. The characser of Constance had
been viewed by him with reverence, and his
kindness had relieved her from many painful offices.
His old occupation being laid aside for a
time, he had betaken himself, like many others
of his colour and rank, to the conveyance and
burial of the dead.
At Constantia's request, he accompanied her
to Whiston's house, and promised to bring with
him such assistance, as would render her further
exertions and attendance unnecessary. Glad to
be absolved from any new task, she now retired
frame, she presently sunk into sweet sleep. She
awoke not till the day had made considerable
progress, and found herself invigorated and refreshed.
On re-entering Whiston's house, she
discovered that her humble friend had faithfully
performed his promise, the dead body having disappeared.
She deemed it unsafe, as well as unnecessary,
to examine the cloaths and other property
remaining, but leaving every thing in the
condition in which it had been found, she fastened
the windows and doors, and thenceforth kept
as distant from the house as possible.
| CHAPTER V. Ormond, or, The secret witness | |