 | CHAPTER IX. Ormond, or, The secret witness |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
It may be asked, if a woman of this character
did not attract the notice of the world. Her
station, no less than her modes of thinking, excluded
her from the concourse of the opulent and
the gay. She kept herself in privacy, her engagements
confined her to her own fire-side, and
her neighbours enjoyed no means of penetrating
through that obscurity in which she wrapt herself.
There were, no doubt, persons of her own
sex, capable of estimating her worth, and who
could have hastened to raise so much merit from
the indigence to which it was condemned. She
might, at least, have found associates and friends,
were peculiarly unfortunate in this respect, or
whether it arose from a jealous and unbending
spirit that would remit none of its claims to respect,
and was backward in its overtures to kindness
and intimacy, it so happened that her hours
were, for a long period, enlivened by no companion
but her father and her faithful Lucy. The
humbleness of her dwelling, her plain garb, and
the meanness of her occupation, were no passports
to the favor of the rich and vain. These,
added to her youth and beauty, frequently exposed
her to insults, from which, though productive
for a time of mortification and distress,
she, for the most part, extricated herself by her
spirited carriage, and presence of mind.
One incident of this kind it will be necessary
to mention. One evening her engagements carried
her abroad. She had proposed to return immediately,
finding by experience the danger that
was to be dreaded by a woman young and unprotected.
Somewhat occurred that unavoidably
lengthened her stay, and she set out on her return
at a late hour. One of the other sex offered
her his guardianship, but this she declined, and
proceeded homeward alone.
Her way lay through streets but little inhabited,
and whose few inhabitants were of the profligate
class. She was conscious of the inconveniences
to which she was exposed, and therefore
tripped along with all possible haste. She had
not gone far before she perceived, through the
dusk, two men standing near a porch before her.
She had gone too far to recede or change her
course without exciting observation, and she flattered
herself that the persons would be have with
decency. Encouraged by these reflections, and
somewhat hastening her pace, she went on. As
stood, one of them threw himself round, and
caught her arm, exclaiming, in a broad tone,
“Whither so fast, my love, at this time of night?”
—The other, at the same time, threw his arms
round her waist, crying out, “A pretty prize, by
G—: just in the nick of time.”
They were huge and brawny fellows, in whose
grasp her feeble strength was annihilated. Their
motions were so sudden, that she had not time to
escape by flight. Her struggles merely furnished
them with a subject of laughter. He that held
her waist, proceeded to pollute her cheeks with
his kisses, and drew her into the porch. He tore
her from the grasp of him who first seized her,
who seemed to think his property invaded, and
said, in a surly tone: “What now, Jemmy?
Damn your heart, d'ye think I'll be fobbed. Have
done with your slabbering, Jemmy. First come,
first served;” and seemed disposed to assert his
claims by force.
To this brutality, Constantia had nothing to
oppose but fruitless struggles and shrieks for help.
Succour was, fortunately, at hand. Her exclamations
were heard by a person across the street,
who instantly ran, and with some difficulty disengaged
her from the grasp of the ruffians. He
accompanied her the rest of the way, bestowed
on her every polite attention, and, though pressed
to enter the house, declined the invitation.
She had no opportunity of examining the appearance
of her new friend. This, the darkness of
the night and her own panick, prevented.
Next day a person called upon her whom she
instantly recognized to be her late protector. He
came with some message from his sister. His manners
were simple and unostentatious, and breathed
the genuine spirit of civility. Having performed
the thanks which she poured forth with peculiar
warmth, for his last night's interposition, he took
his leave.
The name of this man was Balfour. He was
middle-aged, of a figure neither elegant nor ungainly,
and an aspect that was mild and placid,
but betrayed few marks of intelligence. He was
an Adventurer from Scotland, whom a strict adherence
to the maxims of trade had rendered opulent.
He was governed by the principles of mercantile
integrity in all his dealings, and was affable
and kind, without being generous, in his
treatment of inferiors. He was a stranger to violent
emotions of any kind, and his intellectual
acquisitions were limited to his own profession.
His demeanour was tranquil and uniform. He
was sparing of words, and these were uttered in
the softest manner. In all his transactions, he
was sedate and considerate. In his dress and
mode of living, there were no appearances of
parsimony, but there were, likewise, as few traces
of profusion.
His sister had shared in his prosperity. As
soon as his affairs would permit, he sent for her
to Scotland, where she had lived in a state little
removed from penury, and had for some years,
been vested with the superintendance of his houshold.
There was a considerable resemblance between
them in person and character. Her profession,
or those arts in which her situation had
compelled her to acquire skill, had not an equal
tendency to enlarge the mind, as those of her
brother, but the views of each were limited to
one set of objects. His superiority was owing,
not to any inherent difference, but to accident.
Balfour's life had been a model of chastness and
regularity: though this was owing more to constitutional
coldness, and a frugal spirit, than to
virtuous forbearance; but, in his schemes for the
future, he did not exclude the circumstance of
marriage. Having attained a situation secure,
as the nature of human affairs will admit, from
the chances of poverty, the way was sufficiently
prepared for matrimony. His thoughts had been
for some time employed in the selection of a suitable
companion, when this rencounter happened
with Miss Dudley.
Balfour was not destitute of those feelings
which are called into play by the sight of youth
and beauty in distress. This incident was not
speedily forgotten. The emotions produced by
it were new to him. He reviewed then oftener,
and with more complacency, than any which he
had before experienced. They afforded him so
much satisfaction, that, in order to preserve them
undiminished, he resolved to repeat his visit.
Constantia treated him as one from whom she had
received a considerable benefit. Her sweetness
and gentleness were uniform, and Balfour found
that her humble roof promised him more happiness
than his own fire-side, or the society of his
professional brethren.
He could not overlook, in the course of such
reflections as these, the question relative to marriage,
and speedily determined to solicit the honor
of her hand. He had not decided without
his usual foresight and deliberation; nor had he
been wanting in the accuracy of his observations
and enquiries. Those qualifications, indeed, which
were of chief value in his eyes, lay upon the surface.
He was no judge of her intellectual character,
or of the loftiness of her morality. Not
even the graces of person, or features, or manners,
her admirable economy of time, and money,
and labour, the simplicity of her dress, her
evenness of temper, and her love of seclusion.
These were essential requisites of a wife in his
apprehension. The insignificance of his own birth,
the lowness of his original fortune, and the efficacy
of industry and temperance to confer and
maintain wealth, had taught him indifference as
to birth or fortune in his spouse. His moderate
desires in this respect were gratified, and he was
anxious only for a partner that would aid him in
preserving, rather than in enlarging his property.
He esteemed himself eminently fortunate in
meeting with one in whom every matrimonial qualification
concentred.
He was not deficient in modesty, but he fancied
that, on this occasion, there was no possibility
of miscarriage. He held her capacity in deep
veneration, but this circumstance rendered him
more secure of success. He conceived this union
to be even more eligible with regard to her than
to himself; and confided in the rectitude of her
understanding, for a decision favorable to his
wishes.
Before any express declaration was made, Constantia
easily predicted the event from the frequency
of his visits, and the attentiveness of his
manners. It was no difficult task to ascertain this
man's character. Her modes of thinking were,
in few respects, similar to those of her lover. She
was eager to investigate, in the first place, the
atrributes of his mind. His professional and
household maxims were not of inconsiderable importance,
but they were subordinate considerations.
In the poverty of his discourse and ideas,
she quickly found reasons for determining her
conduct.
Marriage she had but little considered, as it is
in itself. What are the genuine principles of
that relation, and what conduct with respect to
it, is prescribed to rational beings, by their duty,
she had not hitherto investigated: But she was
not backward to enquire what are the precepts
of duty, in her own particular case. She knew
herself to be young; she was sensible of the daily
enlargement of her knowledge; every day contributed
to rectify some error or confirm some
truth. These benefits she owed to her situation,
which, whatever were its evils, gave her as
much freedom from restraint as is consistent with
the state of human affairs. Her poverty fettered
her exertions, and circumscribed her pleasures.
Poverty, therefore, was an evil, and the reverse
of poverty to be desired. But riches were not
barren of constraint, and its advantages might be
purchased at too dear a rate.
Allowing that the wife is enriched by marriage,
how humiliating were the conditions annexed
to it in the present case? The company of
one with whom we have no sympathy, nor sentiments
in common, is, of all species of solitude,
the most loathsome and dreary. The nuptual life
is attended with peculiar aggravations, since the
tie is infrangible, and the choice of a more suitable
companion, if such an one should offer, is
for ever precluded. The hardships of wealth are
not incompensated by some benefits, but these
benefits, false and hollow as they are, cannot be
obtained by marriage. Her acceptance of Balfour
would merely aggravate her indigence.
Now she was at least mistress of the product
of her own labour. Her tasks were toilsome, but
the profits, though slender, were sure, and she
administered her little property in what manner
she pleased. Marriage would annihilate this
personal freedom. So far from possessing property,
she herself would become the property of
another.
She was not unaware of the consequences flowing
from differences of capacity; and, that power,
to whomsoever legally granted, will be exercised
by the most addressful; but she derived no
encouragement from these considerations. She
would not stoop to gain her end by the hateful
arts of the sycophant; and was too wise to place
an unbounded reliance on the influence of truth.
The character, likewise, of this man sufficiently
exempted him from either of those influences.
She did not forget the nature of the altar-vows.
To abdicate the use of her own understanding,
was scarcely justifiable in any case, but to vow
an affection that was not felt, and could not be
compelled, and to promise obedience to one,
whose judgment was glaringly defective, were
acts atrociously criminal. Education, besides,
had created in her an insurmountable abhorrence
of admitting to conjugal privileges, the man who
had no claim upon her love. It could not be denied
that a state of abundant accommodation was
better than the contrary, but this consideration,
though in the most rational estimate, of some
weight, she was not so depraved and effeminate
as to allow to overweigh the opposite evils.
Homely liberty was better than splendid servitude.
Her resolution was easily formed, but there
were certain impediments in the way of its execution.
These chiefly arose from deference to
the opinion, and compassion for the infirmities of
her father. He assumed no controul over her actions.
His reffections in the present case, were
rather understood than expressed. When uttered
modesty of persuasion. It was this circumstance
that conferred upon them all their force. His
decision, on so delicate a topic, was not wanting
in sagacity and moderation; but, as a man, he
had his portion of defects, and his frame was enfeebled
by disease and care; yet he set no higher
value on the ease and independance of his former
condition, than any man of like experience. He
could not endure to exist on the fruits of his
daughter's labour. He ascribed her decision to a
spirit of excessive refinement, and was, of course,
disposed to give little quarter to maiden scruples.
They were phantoms, he believed, which experience
would dispel. His morality, besides, was
of a much more flexible kind; and the marriage
vows were, in his opinion, formal and unmeaning,
and neither in themselves, nor in the apprehension
of the world, accompanied with any rigorous
obligation. He drew more favorable
omens from the known capacity of his daughter,
and the flexibility of her lover.
She demanded his opinion and advice. She
listened to his reasonings, and revolved them with
candour and impartiality. She stated her objections
with simplicity, but the difference of age
and sex was sufficient to preclude agreement.
Arguments were of no use but to prolong the debate;
but, happily, the magnanimity of Mr.
Dudley would admit of no sacrifice. Her opinions,
it is true, were erroneous; but he was willing
that she should regulate her conduct by her
own conceptions of right, and not by those of
another. To refuse Balfour's offers was an evil;
but an evil inexpressibly exceeded by that of accepting
them contrary to her own sense of propriety.
Difficulties, likewise, arose from the consideration
of what was due to the man who had already
benefited her, and who, in this act, intended
to confer upon her further benefit. These,
though the source of some embarrassments, were
not sufficient to shake her resolution. Balfour
could not understand her principal objections.
They were of a size altogether disproportioned to
his capacity. Her moral speculations were quite
beyond the sphere of his reflections. She could not
expatiate, without a breach of civility, on the
disparity of their minds, and yet this was the only
or principal ground on which she had crected her
scruples.
Her father loved her too well not to be desirous
of relieving her from a painful task, though
undertaken without necessity, and contrary to
his opinion. Refer him to me, said he; I will
make the best of the matter, and render your refusal
as palatable as possible, but do you authorize
me to make it absolute, and without appeal?—
My dear father! how good you are! but that
shall be my province. If I err, let the consequences
of my mistake be confined to myself. It
would be cruel indeed, to make you the instrument
in a transaction which your judgment disapproves.
My reluctance was a weak and foolish
thing. Strange, indeed, if the purity of my
motives will not bear me out on this, as it has
done on many more arduous occasions.—
Well, be it so; that is best I believe. Ten to
one but I, with my want of eyes, would blunder,
while yours will be of no small use, in a contest
with a lover. They will serve you to watch the
transitions in his placid physiognomy, and overpower
his discontents.
She was aware of the inconveniences to which
this resolution would subject her, but since they
were unavoidable, she armed herself with the requisite
patience. Her apprehensions were not
without reason. More than one conference was
necessary to convince him of her meaning, and
in order to effect her purpose, she was obliged
to behave with so much explicitness, as to hazard
giving him offence. This affair was productive
of no small vexation. He had put too much faith
in the validity of his pretensions, and the benefits
of perseverance, to be easily shaken off.
This decision was not borne by him with as
much patience as she wished. He deemed himself
unjustly treated, and his resentment exceeded
those bounds of moderation which he prescribed
to himself on all other occasions. From
his anger, however, there was not much to be
dreaded, but, unfortunately, his sister partook
of his indignation and indulged her petulance,
which was enforced by every gossiping and tatling
propensity, to the irreparable disadvantage
of Constantia.
She owed her support to her needle. She was
dependant therefore on the caprice of customers.
This caprice was swayable by every breath, and
paid a merely subordinate regard, in the choice
of workwomen, to the circumstances of skill,
cheapness and diligence. In consequence of
this, her usual sources of subsistence began to
fail.
Indigence, as well as wealth, is comparative.
He, indeed, must be wretched, whose food,
cloathing and shelter are limited, both in kind
and quantity, by the standard of mere necessity;
who, in the choice of food, for example, is governed
by no consideration but its cheapness, and
of wretchedness was Miss Dudley reduced.
As her means of subsistence began to decay,
she reflected on the change of employment that
might become necessary. She was mistress of no
Iucrative art, but that which now threatened to
be useless. There was but one avenue through
which she could hope to escape from the pressure
of absolute want. This, she regarded with an
aversion, that nothing but extreme necessity, and
the failure of every other expedient, would be
able to subdue. This was the hiring herself as a
servant. Even that could not answer all her purposes.
If a subsistence were provided by it for
herself, whither should her father, and her Lucy
betake themselves for support.
Hitherto her labour had been sufficient to shut
out famine and the cold. It is true she had
been cut off from all the direct means of personal
or mental gratification: But her constitution
had exempted her from the insalutary effects of
sedentary application. She could not tell how
long she could enjoy this exemption, but it was
absurd to anticipate those evils which might never
arrive. Meanwhile, her situation was not
destitute of comfort. The indirect means of intellectual
improvement, in conversation and reflection,
the inexpensive amusement of singing,
and, above all, the consciousness of performing
her duty, and maintaining her independance inviolate,
were still in her possession. Her lodging
was humble, and her fare frugal, but these, temperance
and a due regard to the use of money,
would require from the most opulent.
Now, retrenchments must be made even from
this penurious provision. Her exertions might
somewhat defer, but could not prevent the ruin
exacter of his dues. The day of quarterly
payment was past, and he had not failed in his
usual punctuality. She was unable to satisfy his
demands, and Mr. Dudley was officially informed,
that unless payment was made before a day
fixed, resort would be had to the law, in that
case made and provided.
This seemed to be the completion of their misfortunes.
It was not enough to soften the implacability
of their landlord. A respite might
possibly be obtained from this harsh sentence.
Intreaties might prevail upon him to allow of
their remaining under this roof for some time
longer; but shelter at this inclement season was
not enough. Without fire they must perish with
the cold; and fuel could be procured only for
money, of which the last shilling was expended.
Food was no less indispensible, and, their credit
being gone, not a loaf could be extorted from the
avarice of the bakers in the neighbourhood.
The sensations produced by this accumulation
of distress may be more easily conceived than described.
Mr. Dudley sunk into despair, when
Lucy informed him that the billet of wood she
was putting on the fire was the last. Well, said
he, the game is up. Where is my daughter?—
The answer was, that she was up stairs.
Why, there she has been this hour. Tell her
to come down and warm herself. She must
needs be cold and here is a cheerful blaze. I
feel it myself. Like the lightning that precedes
death, it beams thus brightly, though, in a few
moments, it will be extinguished forever. Let
my darling come, and partake of its comforts before
they expire.
Constantia had retired in order to review her
situation, and devise some expedients that might
she was reduced. Things had come to a desperate
pass, and the remedy required must be no
less desperate. It was impossible to see her father
perish. She herself would have died before
she would have condescended to beg. It was
not worth prolonging a life which must subsist
upon alms. She would have wandered into the
fields at dusk, have seated herself upon an unfrequented
bank, and serenely waited the approach
of that death, which the rigours of the season
would have rendered sure. But, as it was, it
became her to act in a very different manner.
During her father's prosperity, some mercantile
intercourse had taken place between him and
a merchant of this city. The latter, on some occasion,
had spent a few nights at her father's
house. She was greatly charmed with the humanity
that shone forth in his conversation and
behaviour. From that time to this, all intercourse
had ceased. She was acquainted with the place
of his abode, and knew him to be affluent. To
him she determined to apply as a suppliant in
behalf of her father. She did not inform Mr.
Dadley of this intention, conceiving it best to
wait till the event had been ascertained, for fear
of exciting fallacious expectations. She was further
deterred by the apprehension of awakening
his pride, and bringing on herself an absolute
prohibition.
She arrived at the door of Mr. Melbourne's
house, and enquiring for the master of it, was informed
that he had gone out of town, and was
not expected to return within a week.
Her scheme, which was by no means unplausible,
was thus compleatly frustrated. There
was but one other resource, on which she had already
deliberated, and to which she had determined
claim assistance from the superintendants of the
poor. She was employed in considering to which
of them, and in what manner she should make
her application, when she turned the corner of
Lombard and Second Streets. That had scarcely
been done, when, casting her eyes mournfully
round her, she caught a glimpse of a person
whom she instantly recognized, passing into the
market-place. She followed him with quick
steps, and, on a second examination, found that
she had not been mistaken. This was no other
than Thomas Craig, to whose malignity and cunning,
all her misfortunes were imputable.
She was at first uncertain what use to make of
this discovery. She followed him almost instinctively,
and saw him at length enter the Indian
Queen Tavern. Here she stopped. She entertained
a confused conception, that some beneficial
consequences might be extracted from this
event. In the present hurry of her thoughts she
could form no satisfactory conclusion: But it instantly
occurred to her that it would, at least be
proper to ascertain the place of his abode. She
stept into the inn, and made the suitable enquiries.
She was informed that the gentleman had
come from Baltimore, a month before, and had
since resided at that house. How soon he meant
to leave the city, her informant was unable
to tell.
Having gained this intelligence, she returned
home, and once more shut herself in her chamber
to meditate on this new posture of affairs.
| CHAPTER IX. Ormond, or, The secret witness | |