 | CHAPTER XXV. Ormond, or, The secret witness |  |
25. CHAPTER XXV.
MARTYNNE, while he expressed his
confidence, that the experiment would only confirm
his triumph, readily assented to the proposal,
and the interview above described, took place
accordingly, the next morning. Had he not been
taken by surprize, it is likely the address of a
man, who possessed no contemptible powers,
would have extricated him from some of his embarrassment.
That my portrait should be in the possession of
one, whom I had never before seen, and whose
character and manners entitled him to no respect,
was a source of some surprize. This mode of
multiplying faces is extremely prevalent in this
age, and was eminently characteristic of those
with whom I had associated in different parts of
Europe. The nature of my thoughts had modified
my features into an expression, which my
friends were pleased to consider as a model for
those who desired to personify the genius of suffering
and resignation.
Hence among those whose religion permitted
their devotion to a picture of a female, the symbols
of their chosen deity, were added to features
and shape that resembled mine. My own caprice,
as well as that of others, always dictated a symbolical,
and in every new instance, a different
accompaniment of this kind. Hence was offered
the means of tracing the history of that picture
which Martynne possessed.
It had been accurately examined by Miss
Ridgeley, and her description of the frame in
which it was placed, instantly informed me that
it was the same which, at our parting, I left in
the possession of Constance. My friend and myself
were desirous of employing the skill of a
Saxon painter, by name Eckstein. Each of us
were drawn by him, she with the cincture of
Venus, and I with the crescent of Dian. This
symbol was still conspicuous on the brow of that
image, which Miss Thornville had examined,
and served to indentify the original proprietor.
This circumstance tended to confirm my fears
that Constance was dead, since that she would
part with this picture during her life, was not to
be believed. It was of little moment to discover
how it came into the hands of the present possessor.
Those who carried her remains to the
grave, had probably torn it from her neck and
afterwards disposed of it for money.
By whatever means, honest or illicit, it had
been acquired by Martynne, it was proper that it
should be restored to me. It was valuable to me
because, it had been the property of one whom I
loved, and it might prove highly injurious to my
fame and my happiness, as the tool of this man's
vanity and the attester of his falsehood. I, therefore,
wrote him a letter, acquainting him with
my reasons for desiring the repossession of this
its value, as a mere article of traffic. Martynne
accepted the terms. He transmitted the
picture, and with it a note, apologizing for the
artifice of which he had been guilty, and mentioning,
in order to justify his acceptance of the
price which I had offered, that he had lately purchased
it for an equal sum of a Goldsmith in Philadelphia.
This information suggested a new reflection.
Constantia had engaged to preserve, for the use
of her friend, copious and accurate memorials of
her life. Copies of these were, on suitable occasions,
to be transmitted to me, during my residence
abroad. These I had never received, but
it was highly probable that her punctuality, in the
performance of the first part of her engagement,
had been equal to my own.
What, I asked, had become of these precious
memorials? In the wreck of her property were
these irretrievably ingulfed? It was not probable
that they had been wantonly destroyed. They
had fallen, perhaps, into hands careless or unconscious
of their value, or still lay, unknown
and neglected, at the bottom of some closet or
chest. Their recovery might be effected by vehement
exertions, or by some miraculous accident.
Suitable enquiries, carried on among those
who were active in those scenes of calamity,
might afford some clue by which the fate of the
Dudleys, and the disposition of their property,
might come into fuller light. These inquiries
could be made only in Philadelphia, and thither,
for that purpose, I now resolved to repair. There
was still an interval of some weeks, before the
departure of the packet in which I proposed to
embark.
Having returned to the capital, I devoted all
my zeal to my darling project. My efforts, however,
were without success. Those who administered
charity and succour during that memorable
season, and who survived, could remove none
of my doubts, nor answer any of my inquiries.
Innumerable tales, equally disastrous with those
which Miss Ridgeley had heard, were related;
but, for a considerable period, none of their circumstances
were sufficiently accordant with the
history of the Dudleys.
It is worthy of remark, in how many ways, and
by what complexity of motives, human curiosity
is awakened and knowledge obtained. By its
connection with my darling purpose, every event
in the history of this memorable pest, was earnestly
sought and deeply pondered. The powerful
considerations which governed me, made
me slight those punctilious impediments, which,
in other circumstances, would have debarred me
from intercourse with the immediate actors and
observers. I found none who were unwilling to
expatiate on this topic, or to communicate the
knowledge they possessed. Their details were
copious in particulars, and vivid in minuteness.
They exhibited the state of manners, the diversified
effects of evil or heroic passions, and the
endless forms which sickness and poverty assume
in the obscure recesses of a commercial and populous
city.
Some of these details are too precious to be
lost. It is above all things necessary that we
should be thoroughly acquainted with the condition
of our fellow-beings. Justice and compassion
are the fruit of knowledge. The misery that
overspreads so large a part of mankind, exists
chiefly because those who are able to relieve it do
not know that it exists. Forcibly to paint the
and seduce him into wishes, at least, if not
into exertions of beneficence.
The circumstances in which I was placed,
were, perhaps, wholly singular. Hence the knowledge
I obtained, was more comprehensive and
authentic than was possessed by any one, even
of the immediate actors or sufferers. This knowledge
will not be useless to myself or to the world.
The motives which dictated the present narrative,
will hinder me from relinquishing the pen,
till my fund of observation and experience be exhausted.
Meanwhile, let me resume the thread
of my tale.
The period allowed me before my departure
was nearly expired, and my purpose seemed to
be as far from its accomplishment as ever. One
evening I visited a lady, who was the widow of a
physician, whose disinterested exertions had cost
him his life. She dwelt with pathetic earnestness
on the particulars of her own distress, and listened
with deep attention to the inquiries and doubts
which I laid before her.
After a pause of consideration, she said, that
an incident like that related by me, she had previously
heard from one of her friends, whose
name she mentioned. This person was one of
those whose office consisted in searching out the
sufferers, and affording them unsought and unsolicited
relief. She was offering to introduce me
to this person, when he entered the apartment.
After the usual compliments, my friend led the
conversation as I wished. Between Mr. Thomson's
tale and that related to Miss Ridgeley, there
was an obvious resemblance. The sufferers resided
in an obscure alley. They had shut themselves
up from all intercourse with their neighbours,
and had died, neglected and unknown.
of this district, and had passed the house
frequently without suspicion of its being tenanted.
He was at length informed by one of those who
conducted an hearse, that he had seen the window
in the upper story of this house lifted, and a
female shew herself. It was night, and the hearse-man
chanced to be passing the door. He immediately
supposed that the person stood in need of
his services, and stopped.
This procedure was comprehended by the person
at the window, who, leaning out, addressed
him in a broken and feeble voice. She asked
him why he had not taken a different route, and
upbraided him for inhumanity in leading his noisy
vehicle past her door. She wanted repose, but
the ceaseless rumbling of his wheels would not allow
her the sweet respite of a moment.
This invective was singular, and uttered in a
voice which united the utmost degree of earnestness,
with a feebleness that rendered it almost
inarticulate. The man was at a loss for a suitable
answer. His pause only increased the impatience
of the person at the window, who called
upon him, in a still more anxious tone, to proceed,
and intreated him to avoid this alley for the future.
He answered that he must come whenever the
occasion called him. That three persons now lay
dead in this alley, and that he must be expeditious
in their removal, but that he would return
as seldom and make as little noise as possible.
He was interrupted by new exclamations and
upbraidings. These terminated in a burst of
tears, and assertions, that God and man were her
enemies. That they were determined to destroy
her, but she trusted that the time would come
when their own experience would avenge her
misery of others.—Saying this, she shut the window
with violence, and retired from it sobbing
with a vehemence, that could be distinctly overheard
by him in the street.
He paused for some time, listening when this
passion should cease. The habitation was slight,
and he imagined that he heard her traversing the
floor. While he staid, she continued to vent her
anguish in exclamations and sighs, and passionate
weeping. It did not appear that any other
person was within.
Mr. Thomson being next day informed of these
incidents, endeavoured to enter the house, but
his signals, though loud and frequently repeated,
being unnoticed, he was obliged to gain admission
by violence. An old man, and a female, lovely
in the midst of emaciation and decay, were
discovered without signs of life. The death of
the latter appeared to have been very recent.
In examining the house, no traces of other inhabitants
were to be found. Nothing, serviceable
as food, was discovered, but the remnants
of mouldy bread scattered on a table. No information
could be gathered from neighbours respecting
the condition and name of these unfortunate
people. They had taken possession of
this house, during the rage of this malady, and
refrained from all communication with their neighbours.
There was too much resemblance between this
and the story formerly heard, not to produce the
belief that they related to the same persons. All
that remained was to obtain directions to the proprietor
of this dwelling, and exact from him all
that he knew respecting his tenants.
I found in him a man of worth and affability.
He readily related, that a man applied to him for
received. At the beginning of the pestilence, a
numerous family inhabited this tenement, but had
died in rapid succession. This new applicant
was the first to apprize him of this circumstance,
and appeared extremely anxious to enter on immediate
possession.
It was intimated to him that danger would
arise from the pestilential condition of the house.
Unless cleansed and purified, disease would be
unavoidably contracted. The inconvenience and
hazard, this applicant was willing to encounter,
and, at length, hinted that no alternative was allowed
him, by his present landlord, but to lie in
the street or to procure some other abode.
What was the external appearance of this person?
He was infirm, past the middle age, of melancholy
aspect, and indigent garb. A year had
since elapsed, and more characteristic particulars
had not been remarked or were forgotten.
The name had been mentioned, but in the midst
of more recent and momentous transactions, had
vanished from remembrance. Dudley, or Dolby,
or Hadley, seemed to approach more nearly than
any other sounds.
Permission to inspect the house was readily
granted. It had remained, since that period, unoccupied.
The furniture and goods were scanty
and wretched, and he did not care to endanger
his safety, by meddling with them. He believed
that they had not been removed or touched.
I was insensible of any hazard which attended
my visit, and, with the guidance of a servant,
who felt as little apprehension as myself, hastened
to the spot. I found nothing but tables and
chairs. Cloathing was no where to be seen. An
earthen pot, without handle and broken, stood
or vessel for the preparation of food, appeared.
These forlorn appearances were accounted for
by the servant, by supposing the house to have
been long since rifled of every thing worth the
trouble of removal, by the villains who occupied
the neighbouring houses; this alley, it seems, being
noted for the profligacy of its inhabitants.
When I reflected that a wretched hovel like
this, had been, probably, the last retreat of the
Dudleys, when I painted their sufferings, of
which the numberless tales of distress, of which
I had lately been an auditor, enabled me to form
an adequate conception, I felt as if to lie down
and expire on the very spot where Constance had
fallen, was the only sacrifice to friendship, which
time had left to me.
From this house I wandered to the field,
where the dead had been, promiscuously and by
hundreds, interred. I counted the long series of
graves, which were closely ranged, and, being
recently levelled, exhibited the appearance of an
harrowed field. Methought I could have given
thousands, to know in what spot the body of my
friend lay, that I might moisten the sacred earth
with my tears. Boards hastily nailed together,
formed the best receptacle, which the exigences
of the time could grant to the dead. Many
corpses were thrown into a single excavation,
and all distinctions founded on merit and rank,
were obliterated. The father and child had
been placed in the same cart, and thrown into
the same hole.
Despairing, by any longer stay in this city, to
effect my purpose, and the period of my embarkation
being near, I prepared to resume my journey.
I should have set out the next day, but a
family, with whom I had made acquaintance, expecting
I consented to be their companion, and, for that
end, to delay my departure.
Meanwhile, I shut myself up in my apartment,
and pursued avocations, that were adapted to
the melancholy tenor of my thoughts. The day,
preceding that appointed for my journey, arrived.
It was necessary to compleat my arrangements
with the family, with whom I was to travel,
and to settle with the lady, whose apartments
I occupied.
On how slender threads does our destiny hang!
Had not a momentary impulse tempted me to
sing my favorite ditty to the harpsichord, to beguile
the short interval, during which my hostess
was conversing with her visitor in the next
apartment, I should have speeded to New-York,
have embarked for Europe, and been eternally
severed from my friend, whom I believed to have
died in phrenzy and beggary, but who was alive
and affluent, and who sought me with a diligence,
scarcely inferior to my own. We imagined ourselves
severed from each other, by death or by
impassable seas, but, at the moment when our
hopes had sunk to the lowest ebb, a mysterious
destiny conducted our footsteps to the same
spot.
I heard a murmuring exclamation; I heard my
hostess call, in a voice of terror, for help; I
rushed into the room; I saw one stretched on
the floor, in the attitude of death; I sprung forward
and fixed my eyes upon her countenance;
I clasped my hands and articulated—Constance!—
She speedily recovered from her swoon. Her
eyes opened, she moved, she spoke: Still methought
it was an illusion of the senses, that created
the phantom. I could not bear to withdraw
for a moment, I fell into doubt and perplexity,
and again fixed them upon her, to assure myself
of her existence.
The succeeding three days, were spent in a
state of dizziness and intoxication. The ordinary
functions of nature were disturbed. The appetite
for sleep and for food were confounded and
lost, amidst the impetuosities of a master-passion.
To look and to talk to each other, afforded enchanting
occupation for every moment. I would
not part from her side, but eat and slept, walked
and mused and read, with my arm locked in her's,
and with her breath fanning my cheek.
I have indeed much to learn. Sophia Courtland
has never been wise. Her affections disdain
the cold dictates of discretion, and spurn at every
limit, that contending duties and mixed obligations
prescribe.
And yet, O! precious inebriation of the heart!
O! pre-eminent love! What pleasure of reason
or of sense, can stand in competition with those,
attendant upon thee?—Whether thou hiest to
the fanes of a benevolent deity, or layest all thy
homage at the feet of one, who most visibly resembles
the perfections of our Maker, surely thy
sanction is divine; thy boon is happiness!—
| CHAPTER XXV. Ormond, or, The secret witness | |