 | CHAPTER XVII. Ormond, or, The secret witness |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
The politeness of Melbourne had somewhat
abated Mr. Dudley's aversion to society. He allowed
himself sometimes to comply with urgent
invitations. On this evening he happened to be
at the house of that gentleman. Ormond entered,
and found Constantia alone. An interview of
this kind was seldom enjoyed, though earnestly
wished for by Constantia, who was eager to renew
the subject of her first conversation with Ormond.
I have already explained the situation of
her mind. All her wishes were concentred in the
marriage of Helena. The eligibility of this
scheme, in every view which she took of it, appeared
in a stronger light. She was not aware
that any new obstacle had arisen. She was free
from the consciousness of any secret bias. Much
less did her modesty suspect, that she herself
would prove an insuperable impediment to this
plan.
There was more than usual solemnity in Ormond's
demeanour. After he was seated, he
continued, contrary to his custom, to be silent.
These singularities were not unobserved by Constance.
They did not, however, divert her from
her purpose.
I am glad to see you, said she. We so seldom
enjoy the advantage of a private interview. I
have much to say to you. You authorize me to
deliberate on your actions, and, in some measure,
to prescribe to you. This is a province
which I hope to discharge with integrity and diligence.
I am convinced that Hellen's happiness
and your own, can be secured in one way only.
to the point. Why have you delayed so long the
justice that is due to this helpless and lovely girl?
There are a thousand reasons why you should
think of no other alternative. You have been
pleased to repose some degree of confidence in
my judgment. Hear my full and deliberate opinion.
Make Helena your wife. This is the unequivocal
prescription of your duty.
This address was heard by Ormond without
surprise; but his countenance betrayed the accuteness
of his feelings. The bitterness that
overflowed his heart, was perceptible in his tone
when he spoke.
Most egregiously are you deceived. Such is
the line with which human capacity presumes to
fathom futurity. With all your discernment, you
do not see that marriage would effectually destroy
me. You do not see that, whether beneficial, or
otherwise, in its effects, marriage is impossible.
You are merely prompting me to suicide; but
how shall I inflict the wound? Where is the
weapon? See you not that I am powerless? Leap,
say you, into the flames. See you not that I am
fettered? Will a mountain move at your bidding,
sooner than I in the path, which you prescribe
to me?
This speech was inexplicable. She pressed
him to speak less enigmatically. Had he formed
his resolution? If so, arguments and remonstrances
were superfluous. Without noticing her interrogatories,
he continued:
I am too hasty in condemning you. You judge,
not against, but without knowledge. When sufficiently
informed, your decision will be right:
Yet how can you be ignorant? Can you, for a
moment, contemplate yourself and me, and not
perceive an insuperable bar to this union?
You place me, said Constantia, in a very disagreeable
predicament. I have not deserved this
treatment from you. This is an unjustifiable deviation
from plain dealing. Of what impediment
do you speak. I can safely say that I know of
none.
Well, resumed he, with augmented eagerness,
I must supply you with knowledge. I repeat,
that I perfectly rely on the rectitude of
your judgment. Summon all your sagacity and
disinterestedness, and chuse for me. You know
in what light Hellen has been viewed by me. I
have ceased to view her in this light. She has
become an object of indifference: Nay, I am not
certain that I do not hate her. Not indeed for
her own sake, but because I love another. Shall
I marry her whom I hate, when there exists one
whom I love with unconquerable ardour?
Constantia was thunderstruck with this intelligence.
She looked at him with some expression
of doubt. How is this? said she: Why did you
not tell me this before?
When I last talked with you on this subject, I
knew it not myself. It has occurred since. I
have seized the first occasion that has offered, to
inform you of it. Say now, since such is my condition,
ought Hellen to be my wife?
Constantia was silent. Her heart bled for
what she foresaw, would be the sufferings and
forlorn destiny of Hellen. She had not courage
to enquire further into this new engagement.
I wait for your answer, Constance. Shall I
defraud myself of all the happiness which would
accrue, from a match of inclination? Shall I put
fetters on my usefulness? This is the style in
which you speak. Shall I preclude all the good
to others, that would flow from a suitable alliance?
her whom I hate?
Hatred, replied the lady, is an harsh word.
Hellen has not deserved that you should hate
her. I own this is a perplexing circumstance.
It would be wrong to determine hastily. Suppose
you give yourself to Hellen, will more than
yourself be injured by it? Who is this lady?
Will she be rendered unhappy by a determination
in favor of another? This is a point of the utmost
importance.
At these words, Ormond forsook his seat, and
advanced close up to Constantia. You say true.
This is a point of inexpressible importance. It
would be presumption in me to decide. That is
the lady's own province. And now, say truly,
are you willing to accept Ormond with all his
faults. Who but yourself could be mistress of all
the springs of my soul? I know the sternness of
your probity. This discovery will only make
you more strenuously the friend of Hellen. Yet
why should you not shun either extreme. Lay
yourself out of view. And yet, perhaps, the happiness
of Constance, is not unconcerned in this
question. Is there no part of me in which you
discover your own likeness? Am I deceived, or
is it an incontroulable destiny that unites us?
This declaration was truly unexpected by Constance.
She gathered from it nothing but excitements
of grief. After some pause, she said. This
appeal to me has made no change in my opinion.
I still think that justice requires you to become
the husband of Hellen. As to me, do you think
my happiness rests upon so slight a foundation?
I cannot love, but when my understanding points
out to me the propriety of love. Ever since I
have known you, I have looked upon you as
rightfully belonging to another. Love could not
conceal from you my sentiments. I am not sure
that in different circumstances, I should not have
loved. I am acquainted with your worth. I do
not look for a faultless man. I have met with
none whose blemishes were fewer.
It matters not, however, what I should have
been. I cannot interfere, in this case, with the
claims of my friend. I have no passion to struggle
with. I hope, in every vicissitude, to enjoy
your esteem, and nothing more. There is but
one way in which mine can be secured, and that
is by espousing this unhappy girl.
No, exclaimed Ormond. Require not impossibilities.
Hellen can never be any thing to me.
I should, with unspeakably more willingness, assail
my own life.
What, said the lady, will Hellen think of this
sudden and dreadful change. I cannot bear to
think upon the feelings that this information will
excite.
She knows it already. I have this moment left
her. I explained to her, in few words, my motives,
and assured her of my unalterable resolution.
I have vowed never to see her more, but
as a brother, and this vow she has just heard.
Constantia could not suppress her astonishment
and compassion at this intelligence. No surely,
you could not be so cruel! And this was done
with your usual abruptness, I suppose. Precipitate
and implacable man! Cannot you foresee
the effects of this madness? You have planted a
dagger in her heart. You have disappointed me.
I did not think you could act so inhumanly.
Nay, beloved Constance, be not so liberal of
your reproaches. Would you have me deceive
her? She must shortly have known it. Could
the truth be told too soon?
Much too soon, replied the lady, fervently. I
have always condemned the maxims by which
you act. Your scheme is headlong and barbarous.
Could you not regard, with some little
compassion, that love which sacrificed for your
unworthy sake, honest fame and the peace of virtue?
Is she not a poor outcast, goaded by compunction,
and hooted at by a malignant and misjudging
world, and who was it that reduced her
to this deplorable condition? For whose sake,
did she willingly consent to brave evils, by which
the stoutest heart is applled? Did this argue no
greatness of mind? Who ever surpassed her in
fidelity and tenderness? But thus has she been rewarded.
I shudder to think what may be the
event. Her courage cannot possibly support
her, against treatment so harsh; so perversely
and wantonly cruel. Heaven grant, that you
are not shortly made, bitterly to lament this
rashness.
Ormond was penetrated with these reproaches.
They persuaded him for a moment that his deed
was wrong; that he had not unfolded his intentions
to Helena, with a suitable degree of gentleness
and caution. Little more was said on
this occasion. Constantia exhorted him, in the
most earnest and pathetic manner, to return and
recant, or extenuate his former declarations. He
could not be brought to promise compliance.
When he parted from her, however, he was half
resolved to act as she advised. Solitary reflection
made him change this resolution, and he returned
to his own house.
During the night, he did little else, than ruminate
on the events of the preceding evening.
He entertained little doubt of his ultimate success
with Constance. She gratified him in nothing,
but left him every thing to hope. She had
but this had been sufficiently explained.
That conduct would be pursued, and that passion
be entertained, which her judgment should
previously approve. What then was the obstacle?
It originated in the claims of Hellen, but
what were these claims? It was fully ascertained
that he should never be united to this girl. If so,
the end contemplated by Constance, and for the
sake of which only, his application was rejected,
could never be obtained. Unless her rejection of
him, could procure a husband for her friend, it
would, on her own principles, be improper and
superfluous.
What was to be done with Hellen? It was a
terrible alternative to which he was reduced; to
marry her or see her perish: But was this alternative
quite sure? Could not she, by time or by
judicious treatment, be reconciled to her lot? It
was to be feared that he had not made a suitable
beginning; And yet, perhaps, it was most expedient,
that an hasty and abrupt sentence should
be succeeded by forbearance and lenity. He regretted
his precipitation, and though unused to
the melting mood, tears were wrung from him,
by the idea of the misery which he had probably
occasioned. He was determined to repair his
misconduct as speedily as possible, and to pay her
a conciliating visit the next morning.
He went early to her house. He was informed
by the servant that her mistress had not yet
risen. Was it usual, he asked, for her to lie so
late? No, he was answered; She never knew it
happen before, but she supposed her mistress
was not well. She was just going into her chamber
to see what was the matter.
Why, said Ormond, do you suppose that she is
sick?
She was poorly last night. About nine o'clock
she sent out for some physic to make her sleep.
To make her sleep? exclaimed Ormond, in a
faultering and affrighted accent.
Yes, she said, she wanted it for that. So I
went to the pothecary's. When I come back,
she was very poorly indeed. I asked her if I
mightn't set up with her. No she says: I do
not want any body. You may go to bed as soon
as you please, and tell Fabian to do the same.
I shall not want you again.
What did you buy?
Some kind of water, laud'num I think they call
it. She wrote it down and I carried the paper
to Mr. Eckhart's, and he gave it to me in a bottle,
and I gave it to my mistress.
'T is well: Retire: I will see how she is
myself.
Ormond had conceived himself fortified against
every disaster. He looked for nothing but evil,
and, therefore, in ordinary cases, regarded its
approach without fear or surprise. Now, however,
he found that his tremors would not be
stilled. His perturbations increased, with every
step that brought him nearer to her chamber.
He knocked, but no answer was returned. He
opened, advanced to the bed side, and drew
back the curtains. He shrunk from the spectacle
that presented itself—Was this the Hellen,
that a few hours before, was blithsome with
health and radiant with beauty! Her visage was
serene, but sunken and pale. Death was in every
line of it. To his tremulous and hurried scrutiny
every limb was rigid and cold.
The habits of Ormond tended to obscure the
appearances, if not to deaden the emotions of
sorrow. He was so much accustomed to the
so much in his own integrity, that he was not
easily disconcerted. He had merely to advert,
on this occasion, to the tumultuous state of his
feelings, in order to banish their confusion and
restore himself to calm. Well, said he, as he
dropped the curtain and turned towards another
part of the room, this, without doubt, is a rueful
spectacle: Can it be helped? Is there in man
the power of recalling her? There is none such
in me.
She is gone: Well then, she is gone. If she
were fool enough to die, I am not fool enough to
follow her. I am determined to live, and be
happy notwithstanding. Why not?
Yet, this is a piteous sight. What is impossible
to undo, might be easily prevented. A piteous
spectacle! But what else, on an ampler scale, is
the universe? Nature is a theatre of suffering.
What corner is unvisited by calamity and pain?
I have chosen, as became me. I would rather
precede thee to the grave, than live to be thy
husband.
Thou hast done my work for me. Thou hast
saved thyself and me from a thousand evils.
Thou has acted as seemed to thee best, and I am
satisfied.
Hast thou decided erroneously? They that
know thee, need not marvel at that. Endless
have been the proofs of thy frailty. In favor of
this last act, something may be said: It is the
last thou wilt ever commit. Others only will experience
its effects: Thou hast, at least, provided
for thy own safety.
But what is here? A letter for me? Had thy
understanding been as prompt as thy fingers, I
could have borne with thee. I can casily divine
the contents of this epistle.
He opened it, and found the tenor to be as
follows:
“You did not use, my dear friend, to part
with me in this manner. You never before treated
me so roughly. I am sorry, indeed I am, that
I ever offended you. Could you suppose that I
intended it? And if you knew that I meant not
offence, why did you take offence?
I am very unhappy, for I have lost you, my
friend. You will never see me more, you say.
That is very hard. I have deserved it to be sure,
but I do not know how it has happened. No
body more desired to please than I have done.
Morning, noon and night, it was my only study;
but you will love me no more; you will see
me no more. Forgive me, my friend, but I must
say it is very hard.
You said rightly; I do not wish to live without
my friend. I have spent my life happily, heretofore.
'Tis true, there have been transient uneasinesses,
but your love was a reward and a cure
for every thing. I desired nothing better in this
world. Did you ever hear me murmur? No: I
was not so unjust. My lot was happy, infinitely
beyond my deserving. I merited not to be loved
by you. O that I had suitable words to express
my gratitude, for your kindness! but this last
meeting—how different from that which went
before? Yet even then, there was something on
your brow like discontent, which I could not
warble nor whisper away, as I used to do. But,
sad as this was, it was nothing like the last.
Could Ormond be so stern and so terrible?
You knew that I would die, but you need not
have talked as if I were in the way, and as if you
had rather I should die than live. But one thing
I rejoice at: I am a poor silly girl, but Constance
do I resign you to her, my dear friend. You say
you love her: She need not be afraid of accepting
you. There will be no danger of your preferring
another to her. It was very natural and
very right for you to prefer her to me. She and
you will be happy in each other: It is this that
sweetens the cup I am going to drink. Never
did I go to sleep, with more good will, than I
now go to death. Fare you well, my dear
friend.”
This letter was calculated to make a deeper
impression on Ormond, than even the sight of
Hellen's corpse. It was in vain, for some time,
that he endeavoured to reconcile himself to this
event. It was seldom that he was able to forget
it. He was obliged to exert all his energies, to
enable him to support the remembrance. The
task was, of course, rendered easier by time.
It was immediately requisite to attend to the
disposal of the corpse. He felt himself unfit for
this mournful office. He was willing to relieve
himself from it, by any expedient. Helena's
next neighbour, was an old lady, whose scruples
made her shun all direct intercourse with this unhappy
girl; yet she had performed many acts of
neighbourly kindness. She readily obeyed the
summons of Ormond, on this occasion, to take
charge of affairs, till another should assume it.
Ormond returned home, and sent the following
note to Constance.
“You have predicted aright. Hellen is dead.
In a mind like yours every grief will be suspended,
and every regard absorbed in the attention
due to the remains of this unfortunate girl. I
cannot attend to them.”
Constantia was extremely shocked by this intelligence,
but she was not unmindful of her duty.
She prepared herself with mournful alacrity,
for the performance of it. Every thing that the
occasion demanded, was done with diligence and
care. Till this was accomplished, Ormond could
not prevail upon himself to appear upon the stage.
He was informed of this by a note from Constance,
who requested him to take possession of the un
occupied dwelling and its furniture.
Among the terms of his contract with Helena,
Ormond had voluntarily inserted the exclusive
property of an house and its furniture in this city,
with funds adequate to her plentiful maintainance.
These he had purchased and transferred to her.
To this he had afterwards added a rural retreat,
in the midst of spacious and well cultivated fields,
three miles from Perth-Amboy, and seated on the
right bank of the sound. It is proper to mention
that this farm was formerly the property of Mr.
Dudley; had been fitted up by him, and used as
his summer abode during his prosperity. In the
division of his property it had fallen to one of his
creditors, from whom it had been purchased by
Ormond. This circumstance, in conjunction with
the love, which she bore to Constance, had suggested
to Hellen a scheme, which her want of
foresight would, in different circumstances, have
occasioned her to overlook. It was that of making
her testament, by which she bequeathed all
that she possessed to her friend. This was not
done without the knowledge and cheerful concurrence
of Ormond, who, together with Melbourne
and another respectable citizen, were
named executors. Melbourne and his friend
were induced by their respect for Constantia, to
consent to this nomination.
This had taken place before Ormond and Constance
had been introduced to each other. After
this event, Ormond had sometimes been employed
in contriving means for securing to his
new friend and her father, a subsistence, more
certain than the will of Helena could afford. Her
death he considered as an event equally remote
and undesirable. This event, however unexpectedly,
had now happened, and precluded the necessity
of further consideration on this head.
Constantia could not but accept this bequest.
Had it been her wish to decline, it was not in her
power, but she justly regarded the leisure and independence
thus conferred upon her, as inestimable
benefits. It was a source of unbounded
satisfaction on her father's account, who was once
more seated in the bosom of affluence. Perhaps
in a rational estimate, one of the most fortunate
events that could have befallen those persons, was
that period of adversity through which they had
been doomed to pass. Most of the defects that
adhered to the character of Mr. Dudley, had, by
this means, been exterminated. He was now
cured of those prejudices which his early prosperity
had instilled, and which had flowed from
luxurious indulgences. He had learned to estimate
himself at his true value, and to sympathize
with sufferings which he himself had partaken.
It was easy to perceive in what light Constantia
was regarded by her father. He never reflected
on his relation to her without rapture. Her
qualities were the objects of his adoration. He
resigned himself with pleasure to her guidance.
The chain of subordination and duties was reversed.
By the asscendancy of her genius and wisdom,
the province of protection and the tribute
of homage, had devolved upon her. This had
resulted from incessant experience of the wisdom
and skill in every emergency.
It seemed as if but one evil adhered to the condition
of this man. His blindness was an impediment
to knowledge and enjoyment, of which,
the utmost to be hoped was, that he should regard
it without pungent regret, and that he should
sometimes forget it: That his mind should occasionally
stray into foreign paths, and lose itself
in sprightly conversations, or benign reveries.
This evil, however, was, by no means, remediless.
A surgeon of uncommon skill had lately arrived
from Europe. He was one of the numerous
agents and dependants of Ormond, and had been
engaged to abdicate his native country for purposes
widely remote from his profession. The
first use that ws made of him, was to introduce
him to Mr. Dudley. The diseased organs were
critically examined, and the patient was, with
considerable difficulty, prevailed upon to undergo
the necessary operation. His success corresponded
with Constantia's wishes, and her father
was once more restored to the enioyment of light.
These were auspicious events—Constantia held
herself amply repaid by them, for all that she
had suffered. These sufferings had indeed been
light, when compared with the effects usually
experienced by others in a similar condition.
Her wisdom had extracted its sting from adversity,
and without allowing herself to feel much of
the evils of its reign, had employed it as an instrument
by which the sum of her present happiness
was increased. Few suffered less, in the
midst of poverty, than she. No one ever extracted
more felicity from the prosperous reverse.
| CHAPTER XVII. Ormond, or, The secret witness | |