 | CHAPTER XXIX. Ormond, or, The secret witness |  |
29. CHAPTER XXIX.
It will be requisite to withdraw your attention
from this scene for a moment, and fix it on
myself. My impatience of my friend's delay, for
some days preceding this disastrous interview, became
continually more painful. As the time of
our departure approached, my dread of some misfortune
or impediment increased. Ormond's disappearance
from the scene, contributed but little
to my consolation. To wrap his purposes in mystery,
to place himself at seeming distance, was
the usual artifice of such as he; was necessary to
the maturing of his project, and the hopeless entanglement
of his victim. I saw no means of
placing the safety of my friend beyond his reach.
Between different methods of procedure, there
was, however, room for choice. Her present
abode was more hazardous than abode in the city.
To be alone, argued a state more defenceless and
perilous, than to be attended by me.
I wrote her an urgent admonition to return.
My remonstrances were couched in such terms,
as, in my own opinion, laid her under the necessity
of immediate compliance. The letter was
dispatched by the usual messenger, and for some
hours I solaced myself with the prospect of a
speedy meeting.
These thoughts gave place to doubt and apprehension.
I began to distrust the efficacy of
my arguments, and to invent a thousand reasons,
inducing her, in defiance of my rhetorick, at
least to protract her absence. These reasons, I
had not previously conceived, and had not, therefore,
force. This omission was possible to be supplied
in a second epistle, but, meanwhile, time would
be lost, and my new arguments, might, like the
old, fail to convince her. At least, the tongue
was a much more versatile and powerful advocate
than the pen, and by hastening to her habitation,
I might either compell her to return with me, or
ward off danger by my presence, or share it with
her. I finally resolved to join her, by the speediest
conveyance.
This resolution was suggested, by the meditations
of a sleepless night. I rose with the dawn
and sought out the means of transporting myself,
with most celerity, to the abode of my friend.
A stage-boat, accustomed, twice a day, to cross
New-York bay to Staten-Island, was prevailed
upon, by liberal offers, to set out upon the voyage
at the dawn of day. The sky was gloomy,
and the air boisterous and unsettled. The wind,
suddenly becoming tempestuous and adverse,
rendered the voyage at once tedious and full of
peril. A voyage of nine miles was not effected
in less that eight hours, and without imminent
and hair-breadth danger of being drowned.
Fifteen miles of the jonrney remained to be
performed by land. A carriage, with the utmost
difficulty, was procured, but lank horses and a
crazy vehicle were but little in unison with my
impatience. We reached not Amboy-ferry till
some hours after nightfall. I was rowed across
the sound, and proceeded to accomplish the remainder
of my journey, about three miles, on foot.
I was actuated to this speed, by indefinite, but
powerful motives. The belief that my speedy
arrival was essential to the rescue of my friend
from some inexpiable injury, haunted me with
ceaseless importunity. On no account would I
till the morrow.
I, at length, arrived at Dudley's farm-house.
The inhabitants were struck with wonder at the
sight of me. My cloathes were stained by the
water, by which every passenger was copiously
sprinkled, during our boisterous navigation, and
soiled by dust: My frame was almost overpowered
by fatigue and abstinence.
To my anxious enqniries respecting my friend,
they told me that her evenings were usually spent
at the mansion, where, it was probable, she was
now to be found. They were not apprized of
any inconvenience or danger, that betided her.
It was her custom sometimes to prolong her absence
till midnight.
I could not applaud the discretion nor censure
the temerity of this proceeding. My mind was
harrassed by unintelligible omens and self-confuted
fears. To obviate the danger and to banish
my inquietudes, was my first duty. For this end
I hastened to the mansion. Having passed the
intervening hillocks and copses, I gained a view
of the front of the building. My heart suddenly
sunk, on observing that no apartment, not even
that in which I knew it was her custom to sit at
these unseasonable hours, was illuminated. A
gleam from the window of the study, I should
have regarded as an argument, at once, of her
presence and her safety.
I approached the house with misgiving and
faultering steps. The gate leading into a spacious
court was open. A sound on one side attracted
my attention. In the present state of my
thoughts, any near or unexplained sound, sufficed
to startle me. Looking towards the quarter,
whence my panic was excited, I espied, through
thrown over his neck.
This appearance was a new source of perplexity
and alarm. The inference was unavoidable,
that a visitant was here. Who that visitant
was, and how he was now employed, was a subject
of eager but fruitless curiosity. Within and
around the mansion, all was buried in the deepest
repose. I now approached the principal
door, and looking through the key-hole, perceived
a lamp, standing on the lowest step of the
stair-case. It shed a pale light over the lofty
cieling and marble balustrades. No face or
movement of an human being was perceptible.
These tokens assured me that some one was
within; they also accounted for the non-appearance
of light, at the window above. I withdrew
my eye from this avenue, and was preparing to
knock loudly for admission, when my attention
was awakened by some one, who advanced to
the door from the inside, and seemed busily engaged
in unlocking. I started back and waited
with impatience, till the door should open and
the person issue forth.
Presently I heard a voice within, exclaim, in
accents of mingled terror and grief—O what—
what will become of me? Shall I never be released
from this detested prison?
The voice was that of Constance. It penetrated
to my heart like an ice-bolt. I once more
darted a glance through the crevice. A figure,
with difficulty recognized to be that of my friend,
now appeared in sight. Her hands were clasped
on her breast, her eyes wildly fixed upon the
cieling and streaming with tears, and her hair
unbound and falling confusedly over her bosom
and neck.
My sensations scarcely permitted me to call—
Constance! For Heaven's sake what has happened
to you? Open the door I beseech you.
What voice is that? Sophia Courtland! O my
friend! I am imprisoned. Some dæmon has barred
the door, beyond my power to unfasten. Ah!
Why comest thou so late? Thy succour would
have somewhat profited, if sooner given, but
now, the lost Constantia—here her voice sunk
into convulsive sobs.—
In the midst of my own despair, on perceiving
the fulfilment of my apprehensions, and what I
regarded as the fatal execution of some project of
Ormond, I was not insensible to the suggestions
of prudence. I intreated my friend to retain her
courage, while I flew to Laffert's, and returned
with suitable assistance to burst open the door.
The people of the farm-house readily obeyed
my summons. Accompanied by three men of
powerful sinews, sons and servants of the farmer,
I returned with the utmost expedition to the mansion.
The lamp still remained in its former
place, but our loudest calls were unanswered.
The silence was uninterrupted and profound.
The door yielded to strenuous and repeated efforts,
and I rushed into the hall. The first object
that met my sight, was my friend, stretched
upon the floor, pale and motionless, supine and
with all the tokens of death!
From this object my attention was speedily attracted,
by two figures, breathless and supine,
like that of Constance. One of them was Ormond.
A smile of disdain still sat upon his features.
The wound, by which he fell, was secret,
and was scarcely betrayed by the effusion of a
drop of blood. The face of the third victim was
familiar to my early days. It was that of the imposter,
his peace and fortune.
An explication of this scene was hopeless. By
what disastrous and inscrutable fate, a place like
this became the scene of such complicated havock,
to whom Craig was indebted for his death, what
evil had been meditated or inflicted by Ormond,
and by what means his project had arrived at this
bloody consummation, were topics of wild and
fearful conjecture.
But my friend—the first impulse of my fears
was, to regard her as dead. Hope and a closer
observation, outrooted, or at least, suspended
this opinion. One of the men lifted her in his
arms. No trace of blood or mark of fatal violence
was discoverable, and the effusion of cold water
restored her, though slowly, to life.
To withdraw her from this spectacle of death
was my first care. She suffered herself to be led
to the farm-house. She was carried to her chamber.
For a time she appeared incapable of recollection.
She grasped my hand, as I sat by her
bed-fide, but scarcely gave any other tokens of
life.
From this state of inactivity she gradually recovered.
I was actuated by a thousand forebodings,
but refrained from molesting her by interrogation
or condolence. I watched by her side
in silence, but was eager to collect from her
own lips, an account of this mysterious transaction.
At length she opened her eyes, and appeared
to recollect her present situation, and the events
which led to it. I inquired into her condition,
and asked if there were any thing in my power to
procure or perform for her.
O! my friend! she answered, what have I
done; what have I suffered within the last dreadful
will never leave me. You can do nothing
for my relief. All I claim, is your compassion
and your sympathy.
I hope, said I, that nothing has happened to
load you with guilt or with shame.
Alas! I know not. My deed was scarcely the
fruit of intention. It was suggested by a momentary
frenzy. I saw no other means of escaping
from vileness and pollution. I was menaced with
an evil worse than death. I forbore till my
strength was almost subdued: The lapse of another
moment would have placed me beyond hope.
My stroke was desperate and at random. It
answered my purpose too well. He cast at me a
look of terrible upbraiding, but spoke not. His
heart was pierced, and he sunk, as if struck by
lightning, at my feet. O much-erring and unhappy
Ormond! That thou shouldst thus untimely
perish! That I should be thy executioner!
These words sufficiently explained the scene
that I had witnessed. The violence of Ormond
had been repulsed by equal violence. His soul
attempts had been prevented by his death. Not
to deplore the necessity which had produced this
act was impossible; but, since this necessity existed,
it was surely not a deed to be thought upon
with lasting horror, or to be allowed to generate
remorse.
In consequence of this catastrophe, arduous duties
had devolved upon me. The people that
surrounded me, were powerless with terror,
Their ignorance and cowardice left them at a
loss how to act in this emergency. They besought
my direction, and willingly performed
whatever I thought proper to enjoin upon them.
No deliberation was necessary to acquaint me
with my duty. Laffert was dispatched to the
presence was intreated, and these transactions
were briefly explained. Early the next
day the formalities of justice, in the inspection of
the bodies and the examination of witnesses, were
executed. It would be needless to dwell on the
particulars of this catastrophe. A sufficient explanation
has been given of the causes that led to
it. They were such as exempted my friend from
legal animadversion. Her act was prompted by
motives which every scheme of jurisprudence
known in the world not only exculpates but applauds.
To state these motives, before a tribunal
hastily formed, and exercising its functions
on the spot, was a task not to be avoided, though
infinitely painful. Remonstrances, the most urgent
and pathetic, could scarcely conquer her reluctance.
This task, however, was easy, in comparison
with that which remained. To restore health
and equanimity to my friend; to repel the erroneous
accusations of her conscience; to hinder her
from musing, with eternal anguish, upon this catastrophe;
to lay the spirit of secret upbraiding
by which she was incessantly tormented; which
bereft her of repose; empoisoned all her enjoyments,
and menaced, not only, the subversion of
her peace, but the speedy destruction of her life,
became my next employment.
My counsels and remonstrances were not wholly
inefficacious. They afforded me the prospect
of her ultimate restoration to tranquillity. Meanwhile,
I called to my aid, the influence of time
and of a change of scene. I hastened to embark
with her for Europe. Our voyage was tempestuous
and dangerous, but storms and perils at
length gave way to security and repose.
Before our voyage was commenced, I endeavoured
to procure tidings of the true condition
and designs of Ormond. My information extended
no further, than that he had put his American
property into the hands of Mr. Melbourne,
and was preparing to embark for France. Courtland,
who has since been at Paris, and who,
while there, became confidentially acquainted
with Martinette de Beauvais, has communicated
facts of an unexpected nature.
At the period of Ormond's return to Philadelphia,
at which his last interview with Constance,
in that city, took place, he visited Martinette.
He avowed himself to be her brother, and supported
his pretentions, by relating the incidents
of his early life. A separation, at the age of fifteen,
and which had lasted for the same number
of years, may be supposed to have considerably
changed the countenance and figure she had formerly
known. His relationship was chiefly proved,
by the enumeration of incidents, of which her
brother only could be apprized.
He possessed a minute acquaintance with her
own adventures, but concealed from her the
means by which he had procured the knowledge.
He had rarely and imperfectly alluded to his
own opinions and projects, and had maintained an
invariable silence, on the subject of his connection
with Constance and Hellen. Being informed
of her intention to return to France, he readily
complied with her request to accompany her in
this voyage. His intentions in this respect, were
frustrated by the dreadful catastrophe that has
been just related. Respecting this event, Martinette
had collected only vague and perplexing
information. Courtland, though able to remove
her doubts, thought proper to with-hold from her
the knowledge he possessed.
Since her arrival in England, the life of my
friend has experienced little variation. Of her
personal deportment and domestic habits, you
have been a witness. These, therefore, it would
be needless for me to exhibit. It is sufficient to
have related events, which the recentness of your
intercourse with her hindered you from knowing,
but by means of some formal narrative like the
present. She and her friend only were able to
impart to you the knowledge which you have so
anxiously sought. In consideration of your merits
and of your attachment to my friend, I have
consented to devote my leisure to this task.
It is now finished, and, I have only to add my
wishes, that the perusal of this tale may afford
you as much instruction, as the contemplation of
the sufferings and vicissitudes of Constantia Dudley
has afforded to me. Farewell.
| CHAPTER XXIX. Ormond, or, The secret witness | |