 | CHAPTER XXVI. Ormond, or, The secret witness |  |
26. CHAPTER XXVI.
The tumults of curiosity and pleasure did
not speedily subside. The story of each other's
wanderings, was told with endless amplifieation
existence was to mix; we were to act and to
think in common: Casual witnesses and written
testimony should become superfluous: Eyes and
ears were to be eternally employed upon the conduct
of each other: Death, when it should come,
was not to be deplored, because it was an unavoidable
and brief privation to her that should
survive. Being, under any modification, is
dear, but that state to which death is a passage,
is all-desirable to virtue and all-compensating to
grief.
Meanwhile, precedent events were made the
themes of endless conversation. Every incident
and passion, in the course of four years, was
revived and exhibited. The name of Ormond,
was, of course, frequently repeated by
my friend: His features and deportment were
described: Her meditations and resolutions, with
regard to him, fully disclosed. My counsel was
asked, in what manner it became her to act.
I could not but harbour aversion to a scheme,
which should tend to sever me from Constance,
or to give me a competitor in her affections. Besides
this, the properties of Ormond were of too
mysterious a nature, to make him worthy of acceptance.
Little more was known, concerning him,
than what he himself had disclosed to the Dudleys,
but this knowledge would suffice to invalidate
his claims.
He had dwelt, in his conversations with Constantia,
sparingly on his own concerns. Yet he
did not hide from her, that he had been left in
early youth, to his own guidance: That he had
embraced, when almost a child, the trade of
arms: That he had found service and promotion
in the armies of Potemkin and Romanzow: That
he had executed secret and diplomatic functions,
city, he had met with schemers and reasoners,
who aimed at the new-modelling of the world,
and the subversion of all that has hitherto been
conceived elementary and fundamental, in the
constitution of man and of government: that
some of those reformers had secretly united, to
break down the military and monarchical fabric of
German policy: That others, more wisely, had
devoted their secret efforts, not to overturn, but
to build: That, for this end, they embraced an
exploring and colonizing project: That he had
allied himself to these, and, for the promotion of
their projects, had spent six years of his life, in
journeys by sea and land, in tracts unfrequented,
till then, by any European.
What were the moral or political maxims,
which this adventurous and visionary sect had
adopted, and what was the seat of their newborn
empire, whether on the shore of an Austral
continent, or in the heart of desert America, he
carefully concealed. These were exhibited or
hidden, or shifted, according to his purpose.
Not to reveal too much, and not to tire curiosity
or over-task belief, was his daily labour. He
talked of alliance with the family whose name he
bore, and who had lost their honors and estates,
by the Hanoverian succession to the crown of
England.
I had seen too much of innovation and imposture,
in France and Italy, not to regard a man
like this, with aversion and fear. The mind of
my friend was wavering and unsuspicious. She
had lived at a distance from scenes, where principles
are hourly put to the test of experiment;
where all extremes of fortitude and pusillanimity
are accustomed to meet; where recluse virtue
and speculative heroism give place as if by magie,
where pillage and murder are engrafted,
on systems of all-embracing and self-oblivious benevolence;
and the good of mankind is professed
to be pursued, with bonds of association and covenants
of secrecy. Hence my friend had decided
without the sanction of experience, had
allowed herself to wander into untried paths,
and had hearkened to positions, pregnant with
destruction and ignominy.
It was not difficult to exhibit, in their true light,
the enormous errors of this man, and the danger
of prolonging their intercourse. Her assent to
accompany me to England, was readily obtained.
Too much dispatch could not be used, but the
disposal of her property must first take place.
This was necessarily productive of some delay.
I had been made, contrary to inclination, expert
in the management of all affairs, relative to
property. My mother's lunacy, subsequent disease
and death, had imposed upon me obligations
and cares, little suitable to my sex and age.
They could not be eluded or transferred to others,
and, by degrees, experience enlarged my knowledge
and familiarized my tasks.
It was agreed that I should visit and inspect my
friend's estate, in Jersey, while she remained in
her present abode, to put an end to the views
and expectations of Ormond, and to make preparation
for her voyage. We were reconciled to
a temporary separation, by the necessity that prescribed
it.
During our residence together, the mind of
Constance was kept in perpetual ferment. The
second day after my departure, the turbulence of
her feelings began to subside, and she found herself
at leisure to pursue those measures which her
present situation prescribed.
The time prefixed by Ormond for the termination
of his absence, had nearly arrived. Her resolutions
respecting this man, lately formed, now
occurred to her. Her heart drooped as she revolved
the necessity of disuniting their fates; but
that this disunion was proper, could not admit of
doubt. How information of her present views
might be most satisfactorily imparted to him, was
a question not instantly decided. She reflected
on the impetuosity of his character; and conceived
that her intentions might be most conveniently
unfolded in a letter. This letter she immediately
sat down to write. Just then the door opened,
and Ormond entered the apartment.
She was somewhat, and for a moment, startled
by this abrupt and unlooked for entrance. Yet
she greeted him with pleasure. Her greeting
was received with coldness. A second glance at
his countenance informed her that his mind was
somewhat discomposed.
Folding his hands on his breast, he stalked to
the window, and looked up at the moon. Presently
he withdrew his gaze from this object, and
fixed them upon Constance. He spoke, but his
words were produced by a kind of effort:
Fit emblem, he exclaimed, of human versatility!
One impediment is gone. I hoped it was
the only one, but no: The removal of that merely
made room for another. Let this be removed.
Well: Fate will interplace a third. All our toils
will thus be frustrated, and the ruin will finally
redound upon our heads.—There he stopped.
This strain could not be interpreted by Constance.
She smiled, and without noticing his incoherences,
proceeded to inquire into his adventures
during their separation. He listened to
her, but his eyes, fixed upon her's, and his solemnity
paused, he seated himself close to her, and grasped
her hand with a vehemence that almost pained
her, said:
Look at me; steadfastly. Can you read my
thoughts? Can your discernment reach the bounds
of my knowledge and the bottom of my purposes?
Catch you not a view of the monsters that are
starting into birth here (and he put his left hand to
his forehead.) But you cannot. Should I paint
them to you verbally, you would call me jester or
deceiver. What pity that you have not instruments
for piercing into thoughts!—
I presume, said Constance, affecting cheerfulness
which she did not feel, such instruments
would be useless to me. You never scruple to
say what you think. Your designs are no sooner
conceived than they are expressed. All you
know, all you wish, and all you purpose, are
known to others as soon as to yourself. No
scruples of decorum; no foresight of consequences,
are obstacles in your way.
True, replied he, all obstacles are trampled
under foot, but one.
What is the insuperable one?
Incredulity in him that hears. I must not say
what will not be credited. I must not relate feats
and avow sehemes, when my hearer will say,
Those feats were never performed: These
schemes are not your's. I care not if the truth
of my tenets and the practicability of my purposes,
be denied. Still I will openly maintain
them: But when my assertions will, themselves,
be disbelieved; when it is denied, that I adopt
the creed and project the plans, which I affirm
to be adopted and projected by me, it is needless
to affirm.
Tomorrow, I mean to ascertain the height of the
lunar mountains, by travelling to the top of them.
Then I will station myself in the tract of the last
comet, and wait till its circumvolution suffers me
to leap upon it; Then, by walking on its surface,
I will ascertain whether it be hot enough to burn
my soles. Do you believe that this can be done?
No.
Do you believe, in consequence of my assertion,
that I design to do this, and that, in my apprehension,
it is easy to be done?
Not; Unless I previously believe you to be
lunatic.
Then why should I assert my purposes? Why
speak, when the hearer will infer nothing from
my speech, but that I am either lunatic or liar?
In that predicament, silence is best.
In that predicament, I now stand. I am not
going to unfold myself. Just now, I pitied thee
for want of eyes: 'Twas a foolish compassion.
Thou art happy, because thou seest not an inch
before thee or behind.—Here he was for a moment
buried in thought; then breaking from his
reverie, he said: So; your father is dead?
True, said Constance, endeavoaring to suppress
her rising emotions, he is no more. It is so
recent an event, that I imagined you a stranger
to it.
False imagination! Thinkest thou, I would
refrain from knowing what so nearly concerns us
both? Perhaps your opinion of my ignorance extends
beyond this: Perhaps, I know not your
fruitless search for a picture: Perhaps, I neither
followed you, nor led you to a being called Sophia
Courtland. I was not present at the meeting.
I am unapprized of the effects of your romantic
passion for each other. I did not witness
the rapturous effusions and inexorable counsels of
letter which you are preparing to write.—
As he spoke this, the accents of Ormond gradually
augmented in vehemence. His countenance
bespoke a deepening inquietude and growing
passion. He stopped at the mention of the
letter, because his voice was overpowered by
emotion. This pause afforded room for the astonishment
of Constance. Her interviews and conversations
with me, took place at seasons of general
repose, when all doors were fast and avenues
shut, in the midst of silence, and in the bosom
of retirement. The theme of our discourse
was, commonly, too sacred for any ears but our
own: Disclosures were of too intimate and delicate
a nature, for any but a female audience:
they were too injurious to the fame and peace of
Ormond, for him to be admitted to partake of
them: Yet his words implied a full acquaintance
with recent events, and with purposes and deliberations,
shrowded, as we imagined, in impenetrable
secrecy.
As soon as Constantia recovered from the confusion
of these thoughts, she eagerly questioned
him: What do you know? How do you know
what has happened, or what is intended?
Poor Constance! he exclaimed, in a tone bitter
and sarcastic. How hopeless is thy ignorance!
To enlighten thee is past my power. What do I
know? Every thing. Not a tittle has escaped
me. Thy letter is superfluous: I know its contents
before they are written. I was to be told
that a soldier and a traveller, a man who refused
his faith to dreams, and his homage to shadows,
merited only scorn and forgetfulness. That thy
affections and person were due to another; that
intercourse between us was henceforth to cease;
that preparation was making for a voyage to Britain,
alone!
In spite of harsh tones and inflexible features,
these words were accompanied with somewhat
that betrayed a mind full of discord and agony.
Constantia's astonishment was mingled with
dejection. The discovery of a passion, deeper
and less curable than she suspected; the perception
of embarrassments and difficulties in the path
which she had chosen, that had not previously
occurred to her, threw her mind into anxious
suspense.
The measures she had previously concerted,
were still approved. To part from Ormond was
enjoined by every dictate of discretion and duty.
An explanation of her motives and views, could
not take place more seasonably than at present.
Every consideration of justice to herself and humanity
to Ormond, made it desirable that this interview
should be the last. By inexplicable
means, he had gained a knowledge of her intentions.
It was expedient, therefore, to state them
with clearness and force. In what words this
was to be done, was the subject of momentary
deliberation.
Her thoughts were discerned, and her speech
anticipated by her companion.—Why droopest
thou, and why thus silent, Constance? The secret
of thy fate will never be detected. Till thy
destiny be finished, it will not be the topic of a
single fear. But not for thyself, but me, art
thou concerned. Thou dreadest, yet determinest
to confirm my predictions of thy voyage to
Europe, and thy severance from me.
Dismiss thy inquietudes on that score. What
misery thy scorn and thy rejection are able to inflict,
is inflicted already. Thy decision was known
were known. Not an argument or plea of thy
counsellor, not a syllable of her invective, not a
sound of her persuasive rhetorick escaped my
hearing. I know thy decree to be immutable.
As my doubts, so my wishes have taken their
flight. Perhaps, in the depth of thy ignorance,
it was supposed, that I should struggle to reverse
thy purpose, by menaces or supplications. That
I should boast of the cruelty with which I should
avenge an imaginary wrong upon myself. No.
All is very well: Go. Not a whisper of objection
or reluctance, shalt thou hear from me.
If I could think, said Constantia, with tremulous
hesitation, that you part from me without
anger; that you see the rectitude of my proceeding
—
Anger! Rectitude. I pr'ythee peace. I know
thou art going. I know that all objection to thy
purpose would be vain. Thinkest thou that thy
stay, undictated by love, the mere fruit of compassion,
would afford me pleasure or crown my
wishes? No. I am not so dastardly a wretch.
There was something in thy power to bestow, but
thy will accords not with thy power. I merit not
the boon, and thou refusest it. I am content.
Here Ormond fixed more significant eyes upon
her. Poor Constance! he continued. Shall
I warn thee of the danger that awaits thee? For
what end! To elude it, is impossible. It will
come, and thou, perhaps, wilt be unhappy. Foresight,
that enables not to shun, only pre-creates
the evil.
Come, it will. Though future, it knows not
the empire of contingency. An inexorable and
immutable decree enjoins it. Perhaps, it is thy
nature to meet with calmness what cannot be
shunned. Perhaps, when it is passed, thy reason
thee to peace. Such is the conduct of the wise,
but such, I fear, the education of Constantia Dudley,
will debar her from pursuing.
Faign would I regard it as the test of thy wisdom.
I look upon thy past life. All the forms
of genuine adversity have beset thy youth. Poverty,
disease, servile labour, a criminal and hapless
parent, have been evils which thou hast not
ungracefully sustained. An absent friend and
murdered father, were added to thy list of woes,
and here thy courage was deficient. Thy soul
was proof against substantial misery, but sunk
into helpless cowardice, at the sight of phantoms.
One more disaster remains. To call it by its
true name would be useless or pernicious. Useless,
because thou wouldst pronouce its occurrence
impossible: Pernicious, because, if its possibility
were granted, the omen would distract
thee with fear. How shall I describe it? Is it
loss of fame? No. The deed will be unwitnessed
by an human creature. Thy reputation
will be spotless, for nothing will be done by
thee, unsuitable to the tenor of thy past life.
Calumny will not be heard to whisper. All that
know thee, will be lavish of their eulogies as
ever. Their eulogies will be as justly merited.
Of this merit thou wilt entertain as just and as
adequate conceptions as now.
It is no repetition of the evils thou hast already
endured: It is neither drudgery nor sickness, nor
privation of friends. Strange perverseness of human
reason! It is an evil: It will be thought upon
with agony: It will close up all the sources of
pleasurable recollection: It will exterminate
hope: It will endear oblivion, and push thee into
an untimely grave. Yet to grasp it is impossible.
The moment we inspect it nearly, it vanishes.
divine applause, will be undiminished and unaltered
by it. The testimony of approving conscience,
will have lost none of its explicitness
and energy. Yet thou wilt feed upon sighs: Thy
tears will flow without remission: Thou wilt
grow enamoured of death, and perhaps wilt anticipate
the stroke of disease.
Yet, perhaps, my prediction is groundless as my
knowledge. Perhaps, thy discernment will avail,
to make thee wise and happy. Perhaps, thou wilt
perceive thy privilege of sympathetic and intellectual
activity, to be untouched. Heaven grant
the non-fulfilment of my prophecy, thy disenthrallment
from error, and the perpetuation of
thy happiness.
Saying this, Ormond withdrew. His words
were always accompanied with gestures and
looks, and tones, that fastened the attention of
the hearer, but the terms of his present discourse,
afforded, independently of gesticulation and utterance,
sufficient motives to attention and remembrance.
He was gone, but his image was
contemplated by Constance: His words still
rung in her ears.
The letter she designed to compose, was rendered,
by this interview, unnecessary. Meanings,
of which she and her friend alone were conscious,
were discovered by Ormond, through
some other medium than words: Yet that was
impossible: A being, unendowed with preternatural
attributes, could gain the information
which this man possessed, only by the exertion
of his senses.
All human precautions had been used, to baffle
the attempts of any secret witness. She recalled
to mind, the circumstances, in which conversations
with her friend had taken place. All had
hours usually dedicated to sleep, had been devoted
to this better purpose. Much had been
said, in a voice, low and scarcely louder than
a whisper. To have overheard it at the distance
of a few feet, was apparently impossible.
Their conversations had not been recorded by
her. It could not be believed, that this had been
done by Sophia Courtland. Had Ormond and
her friend met, during the interval that had elapsed,
between her separation from the latter, and
her meeting with the former? Human events are
conjoined by links, imperceptible to keenest
eyes. Of Ormond's means of information, she
was wholly unapprized. Perhaps, accident
would, sometime, unfold them. One thing was
incontestable. That her schemes and her reasons
for adopting them, were known to him.
What unforeseen effects had that knowledge
produced! In what ambiguous terms had he
couched his prognostics, of some mighty evil that
awaited her! He had given a terrible, but contradictory
description, of her destiny. An event
was to happen, akin to no calamity which she
had already endured, disconnected with all which
the imagination of man is accustomed to deprecate,
capable of urging her to suicide, and yet of
a kind, which left it undecided, whether she
would regard it with indifference.
What reliance should she place upon prophetic
incoherencies, thus wild? What precautions
should she take, against a danger thus inscrutable
and imminent?
| CHAPTER XXVI. Ormond, or, The secret witness | |