 | CHAPTER XIV. Ormond, or, The secret witness |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
The narrative of Melbourne made a deeper
impression on the mind of his guest than was at
first apparent. This man's conduct was directed
by the present impulse, and however elaborate
his abstract notions, he seldom stopped to settle
the agreement between his principles and actions.
The use of money was a science like every other
branch of benevolence, not reducible to any fixed
principles. No man, in the disbursement of
money, could say whether he was conferring a
benefit or injury. The visible and immediate effects
might be good, but evil was its ultimate and
general tendency. To be governed by a view to
the present, rather than the future, was a human
infirmity from which he did not pretend to be
exempt. This, though an insufficient apology
for the conduct of a rational being, was suitable
to his indolence, and he was content in all cases
to employ it. It was thus that he reconciled himself
to beneficent acts, and humorously held himself
up as an object of censure, on occasions when
most entitled to applause.
He easily procured information as to the character
and situation of the Dudleys. Neigh
case, were enabled to make no unfavorable report.
He resolved, without hesitation, to supply
their wants. This he performed in a manner
truly characteristic. There was a method of
gaining access to families, and marking them in
their unguarded attitudes more easy and effectual
than any other: It required least preparation
and cost least pains: The disguise, also, was
of the most impenetrable kind. he had served a
sort of occasional apprenticeship to the art, and
executed its functions with perfect case. It was
the most entire and grotesque metamorphosis imaginable.
It was stepping from the highest to
the lowest rank in society, and shifting himself
into a form, as remote from his own, as those recorded
by Ovid. In a word, it was sometimes his
practice to exchange his complexion and habiliments
for those of a negro and a chimney-sweep,
and to call at certain doors for employment.
This he generally secured by importunities, and
the cheapness of his services.
When the loftiness of his port, and the punctiliousness
of his nicety were considered, we
should never have believed, what yet could be
truly asserted, that he had frequently swept his
own chimneys, without the knowledge of his own
servants.[1]
It was likewise true, though equally
incredible, that he had played at romps with his
scullion, and listened with patience to a thousand
slanders on his own character.
In this disguise he visited the house of Mr.
Dudley. It was nine o'clock in the morning.
He remarked, with critical eyes, the minutest
circumstance in the appearance and demeanour
of his customers, and glanced curiously at the
every thing pleased. The walls, though broken
into roughness, by carelessness or time, was
adorned with glistening white. The floor, though
loose and uneven, and with gaping seams, had
received all the improvements which cloth and
brush could give. The pine tables, rush chairs,
and uncurtained bed, had been purchased at half
price, at vendue, and exhibited various tokens of
decay, but care and neatness and order were displayed
in their condition and arrangement.
The lower apartment was the eating and sitting
room. It was likewise Mr. Dudley's bed
chamber. The upper room was occupied by
Constance and her Lucy. Ormond viewed
every thing with the accuracy of an artist, and
carried away with him a catalogue of every thing
visible. The faded form of Mr. Dudley that still
retained its dignity, the sedateness, graceful
condescension and personal elegance of Constantia,
were new to the apprehension of Ormond.
The contrast between the house and its inhabitants,
rendered the appearance more striking.
When he had finished his task, he retired, but returning
in a quarter of an hour, he presented a
letter to the young lady. He behaved as if by
no means desirous of eluding her interrogatories,
and when she desired him to stay, readily complied.
The letter, unsigned and unsuperscribed,
was to this effect.
“The writer of this is acquainted with the
transaction between Thomas Craig and Mr. Dudley.
The former is debtor to Mr. Dudley in a
large sum. I have undertaken to pay as much of
this debt, and at such times as suits my convenience.
I have had pecuniary engagements with
Craig. I hold myself, in the sum inclosed, discharging
so much of his debt. The future payments
to relieve the necessities of Mr. Dudley.”
Ormond had calculated the amount of what
would be necessary for the annual subsistence of
this family, on the present frugal plan. He had
regulated his disbursements accordingly.
It was natural to feel curiosity as to the writer
of this epistle. The bearer displayed a prompt
and talkative disposition. He had a staring eye
and a grin of vivacity forever at command.
When questioned by Constantia, he answered
that the gentleman had forbidden him to mention
his name or the place where he lived. Had he
ever met with the same person before? O yes.
He had lived with him from a child. His mother
lived with him still and his brothers. His master
had nothing for him to do at home, so he sent
him out sweeping chimneys, taking from him
only half the money that he earned, that way.
He was a very good master.
Then the gentleman had been a long time in
the city?
O yes. All his life he reckoned. He used to
live in Walnut-Street, but now he's moved down
town. Here he checked himself, and added, but
I forgets. I must not tell where he lives. He
told me I must'nt.
He has a family and children, I suppose?
O yes. Why don't you know Miss Hetty and
Miss Betsy —— there again. I was going to tell
the name, that he said I must not tell.
Constantia saw that the secret might be easily
discovered, but she forbore. She disdained to
take advantage of this messenger's imagined simplicity.
She dismissed him with some small addition
to his demand, and with a promise always
to employ him in this way.
By this mode, Ormond had effectually concealed
himself. The lady's conjectures, founded on
this delusive information, necessarily wandered
widely from the truth. The observations that he
had made during this visit afforded his mind considerable
employment. The manner in which
this lady had sustained so cruel a reverse of fortune,
the cheerfulness with which she appeared
to forego all the gratifications of affluence; the
skill with which she selected her path of humble
industry, and the steadiness with which she pursued
it, were proofs of a moral constitution, from
which he supposed the female sex to be debarred.
The comparison was obvious between Constantia
and Hellen, and the result was by no means advantageous
to the latter. Was it possible that
such an one descended to the level of her father's
apprentice? That she sacrificed her honor to a
wretch like that? This reflection tended to repress
the inclination he would otherwise have
felt for cultivating her society, but it did not indispose
him to benefit her in a certain way.
On his next visit to his “bella Siciliana,” as he
called her, he questioned her as to the need in
which she might stand of the services of a seamstress,
and being informed that they were sometimes
wanted, he recommended Miss Acworth to
her patronage. He said that he had heard her
spoken of in favorable terms, by the gossips at
Melbourne's. They represented her as a good
girl, slenderly provided for, and he wished that
Hellen would prefer her to all others.
His recommendation was sufficient. The
wishes of Ormond, as soon as they became known,
became hers. Her temper made her always diligent
in search of novelty. It was easy to make
work for the needle. In short she resolved to
send for her the next day. The interview accordingly
without mutual surprise, and, on the part of the
fair Sicilian, not without considerable embarrassment.
This circumstance arose from their having
changed their respective names, though from motives
of a very different kind. They were not
strangers to each other, though no intimacy had
ever subsisted between them. Each was merely
acquainted with the name, person, and general
character of the other. No circumstance in Constantia's
situation tended to embarrass her. Her
mind had attained a state of serene composure,
incapable of being ruffled by an incident of this
kind. She merely derived pleasure from the
sight of her old acquaintance. The aspect of
things around her was splendid and gay. She
seemed the mistress of the mansion, and her name
was changed. Hence it was unavoidable to conclude
that she was married.
Helena was conscious that appearances were
calculated to suggest this conclusion. The idea
was a painful one. She sorrowed to think that
this conclusion was fallacious. The consciousness
that her true condition was unknown to her visitant,
and the ignominiousness of that truth, gave
an air of constraint to her behaviour, which Constance
ascribed to a principle of delicacy.
In the midst of reflections relative to herself,
she admitted some share of surprise at the discovery
of Constance, in a situation so inferior to that
in which she had formerly known her. She had
heard, in general terms, of the misfortunes of Mr.
Dudley, but was unacquainted with particulars;
but this surprize, and the difficulty of adapting
her behaviour to circumstances, was only in part
the source of her embarrassment, though by her
companion it was wholly attributed to this cause.
open and unaffected manners. She therefore
said, in a sedate and cheerful tone, You see me,
Madam, in a situation somewhat unlike that in
which I formerly was placed. You will probably
regard the change as an unhappy one, but I assure
you, I have found it far less so than I expected.
I am thus reduced not by my own fault.
It is this reflection that enables me to conform to
it without a murmur. I shall rejoice to know that
Mrs. Eden is as happy as I am.
Helena was pleased with this address, and returned
an answer full of sweetness. She had
not, in her compassion for the fallen, a particle
of pride. She thought of nothing but the contrast
between the former situation of her visitant
and the present. The fame of her great qualities
had formerly excited veneration, and that reverence
was by no means diminished by a nearer
scrutiny. The consciousness of her own frailty,
meanwhile, diffused over the behaviour of Hellen,
a timidity and dubiousness uncommonly fascinating.
She solicited Constantia's friendship in a
manner that shewed she was afraid of nothing
but denial. An assent was eagerly given, and
thenceforth a cordial intercourse was established
between them.
The real situation of Helena was easily discovered.
The officious person who communicated
this information, at the same time cautioned
Constance against associating with one of tainted
reputation. This information threw some light
upon appearances. It accounted for that melancholy
which Hellen was unable to conceal. It
explained that solitude in which she lived, and
which Constantia had ascribed to the death or
absence of her husband. It justified the solicitous
silence she had hitherto maintained respecting
sense forbad her to employ any sinister means of
eluding.
No long time was necessary to make her mistress
of Helena's character. She loved her with
uncommon warmth, though by no means blind to
her defects. She formed no expectations, from
the knowledge of her character, to which this intelligence
operated as a disappointment. It merely
excited her pity, and made her thoughtful how
she might assist her in repairing this deplorable
error.
This design was of no ordinary magnitude. She
saw that it was previously necessary to obtain
the confidence of Helena. This was a task of easy
performance. She knew the purity of her own
motives and the extent of her powers, and embarked
in this undertaking with full confidence
of success. She had only to profit by a private
interview, to acquaint her friend with what she
knew, to solicit a compleat and satisfactory disclosure,
to explain the impressions which her intelligence
produced, and to offer her disinterested
advice. No one knew better how to couch
her ideas in words, suitable to the end proposed
by her in imparting them.
Hellen was at first terrified, but the benevolence
of her friend quickly entitled her to confidence
and gratitude that knew no limits. She
had been deterred from unveiling her heart by
the fear of exciting contempt or abhorrence: But
when she found that all due allowances were
made, that her conduct was treated as erroneous
in no atrocious or inexpiable degree, and as far
from being insusceptible of remedy; that the obloquy
with which she had been treated, found no
vindicator or participator in her friend, her heart
stranger to the sympathy and intercourse of her
own sex. Now, this good, in its most precious
form, was conferred upon her, and she experienced
an increase, rather than diminution of tenderness,
in consequence of her true situation being
known.
She made no secret of any part of her history.
She did full justice to the integrity of her lover,
and explained the unforced conditions on which
she had consented to live with him. This relation
exhibited the character of Ormond in a very
uncommon light. His asperities wounded, and
his sternness chilled. What unauthorised conceptions
of matrimonial and political equality did
he entertain! He had fashioned his treatment of
Helena on sullen and ferocious principles. Yet
he was able, it seemed, to mould her, by means
of them, nearly into the creature that he wished.
She knew too little of the man justly to estimate
his character. It remained to be ascertained
whether his purposes were consistent and upright,
or were those of a villain and betrayer.
Meanwhile what was to be done by Hellena?
Marriage had been refused on plausible pretences.
Her unenlightened understanding made her
no match for her lover. She would never maintain
her claim to nuptial privileges in his presence,
or if she did, she would never convince him of
their validity.
Were they indeed valid? Was not the desparity
between them incurable? A marriage of
minds so dissimilar could only be productive of
misery immediately to him, and by a reflex operation,
to herself. She could not be happy in a
union that was the source of regret to her husband.
Marriage therefore was not possible, or
what was the choice that remained?
To continue in her present situation was not to
be endured. Disgrace was a dæmon that would
blast every hope of happiness. She was excluded
from all society but that of the depraved. Her
situation was eminently critical. It depended,
perhaps, on the resolution she should now form
whether she should be enrolled among the worst
of mankind. Infamy is the worst of evils. It creates
innumerable obstructions in the path of virtue.
It manacles the hand, and entangles the
feet that are active only to good. To the weak
it is an evil of much greater magnitude. It determines
their destiny, and they hasten to merit
that reproach, which, at first it may be, they did
not deserve.
This connection is intrinsically flagitious. Hellen
is subjected by it to the worst ills that are incident
to humanity, the general contempt of mankind,
and the reproaches of her own conscience.
From these, there is but one method from which
she can hope to be relieved. The intercourse
must cease.
It was easier to see the propriety of separation,
than to project means for accomplishing it. It
was true that Helena loved; but what quarter
was due to this passion when divorced from integrity?
Is it not in every bosom a perishable sentiment?
Whatever be her warmth, absence will
congeal it. Place her in new scenes, and supply
her with new associates. Her accomplishments
will not fail to attract votaries. From these she
may select a conjugal companion suitable to her
mediocrity of talents.
But alas! What power on earth can prevail on
her to renounce Ormond? Others may justly entertain
this prospect, but it must be invisible to
her peace of mind or her reputation will be restored
by this means? In the opinion of the world
her offences cannot, by any perseverance in penitence,
be expiated. She will never believe
that separation will exterminate her passion.
Certain it is, that it will avail nothing to the reestablishment
of her fame: But if it were conducive
to these ends, how chimerical to suppose
that she will ever voluntarily adopt it? If Ormond
refuse his concurrence, there is absolutely
an end to hope. And what power on earth is
able to sway his determinations? At least what
influence was it possible for her to obtain over
them?
Should they separate, whither should she retire?
What mode of subsistence should she adopt?
She has never been accustomed to think beyond
the day. She has eaten and drank, but another
has provided the means. She scarcely comprehends
the principle that governs the world, and
in consequence of which, nothing can be gained
but by giving something in exchange for it. She
is ignorant and helpless as a child, on every topic
that relates to the procuring of subsistence. Her
education has disabled her from standing alone.
But this was not all. She must not only be supplied
by others, but sustained in the enjoyment
of a luxurious existence. Would you bereave
her of the gratifications of opulence? You had
better take away her life. Nay, it would ultimately
amount to this. She can live but in one
way.
At present she is lovely, and, to a certain degree,
innocent, but expose her to the urgencies
and temptations of want, let personal pollution
be the price set upon the voluptuous affluences of
her present condition, and it is to be feared there
her from making the purchase. In every respect
therefore the prospect was an hopeless one. So
hopeless that her mind insensibly returned to the
question which she had at first dismissed with very
slight examination, the question relative to the
advantages and probabilities of marriage. A
more accurate review convinced her that this was
the most eligible alternative. It was, likewise,
most easily effected. The lady, of course, would
be its fervent advocate. There did not want reasons
why Ormond should finally embrace it. In
what manner appeals to his reason or his passion
might most effectually be made, she knew not.
Hellen was illy qualified to be her own advocate.
Her unhappiness could not but be visible
to Ormond. He had shewn himself attentive and
affectionate. Was it impossible that, in time, he
should reason himself into a spontaneous adoption
of this scheme? This, indeed, was a slender foundation
for hope, but there was no other on which
she could build.
Such were the meditations of Constantia on
this topic. She was deeply solicitous for the happiness
of her friend. They spent much of their
time together. The consolations of her society
were earnestly sought by Helena, but to enjoy
them, she was for the most part obliged to visit
the former at her own dwelling. For this arrangement,
Constance apologized by saying, You will
pardon my requesting you to favor me with your
visits, rather than allowing you mine. Every
thing is airy and brilliant within these walls.
There is, besides, an air of seclusion and security
about you that is delightful. In comparison, my
dwelling is bleak, comfortless, and unretired, but
my father is entitled to all my care. His infirmity
heart is cheered by the mere sound of my voice,
though not addressed to him. The mere belief
of my presence seems to operate as an antidote to
the dreariness of solitude; and now you know my
motives, I am sure you will not only forgive but
approve of my request.
| CHAPTER XIV. Ormond, or, The secret witness | |