It may be asked if a woman of this character did not attract the notice
of the world. Her station, no less than her modes of thinking, excluded
her from the concourse of the opulent and the gay. She kept herself in
privacy: her engagements confined her to her own fireside, and her
neighbours enjoyed no means of penetrating through that obscurity in
which she wrapt herself. There were, no doubt, persons of her own sex
capable of estimating her worth, and who could have hastened to raise so
much merit from the indigence to which it was condemned. She might, at
least, have found associates and friends justly entitled to her
affection. But whether she were peculiarly unfortunate in this respect,
or whether it arose from a jealous and unbending spirit that would
remit none of its claims to respect, and was backward in its overtures
to kindness and intimacy, it so happened that her hours were, for a long
period, enlivened by no companion but her father and her faithful Lucy.
The humbleness of her dwelling, her plain garb, and the meanness of her
occupation, were no passports to the favour of the rich and vain. These,
added to her youth and beauty, frequently exposed her to insults, from
which, though productive for a time of mortification and distress, she,
for the most part, extricated herself by her spirited carriage and
presence of mind.
One incident of this kind it will be necessary to mention. One evening
her engagements carried her abroad. She had proposed to return
immediately, finding by experience the danger that was to be dreaded by
a woman young and unprotected. Something occurred that unavoidably
lengthened her stay, and she set out on her return at a late hour. One
of the other sex offered her his guardianship; but this she declined,
and proceeded homeward alone.
Her way lay through streets but little inhabited, and whose few
inhabitants were of the profligate class. She was conscious of the
inconveniences to which she was exposed, and therefore tripped along
with all possible haste. She had not gone far before she perceived,
through the dusk, two men standing near a porch before her. She had gone
too far to recede or change her course without exciting observation, and
she flattered herself that the persons would behave with decency.
Encouraged by these reflections, and somewhat hastening her pace, she
went on. As soon as she came opposite the place where they stood, one of
them threw himself round, and caught her arm, exclaiming, in a broad
tone, "Whither so fast, my love, at this time of night?" The other, at
the same time, threw his arm round her waist, crying out, "A pretty
prize, by G--: just in the nick of time."
They were huge and brawny fellows, in whose grasp her feeble strength
was annihilated. Their motions were so sudden that she had not time to
escape by flight. Her struggles merely furnished them with a subject of
laughter. He that held her waist proceeded to pollute her cheeks with
his kisses, and drew her into the porch. He tore her from the grasp of
him who first seized her, who seemed to think his property invaded, and
said, in a surly tone, "What now, Jemmy? Damn your heart, d'ye think
I'll be fobbed? Have done with your slabbering, Jemmy. First come, first
served," and seemed disposed to assert his claims by force.
To this brutality Constantia had nothing to oppose but fruitless
struggles and shrieks for help. Succour was, fortunately, at hand. Her
exclamations were heard by a person across the street, who instantly
ran, and with some difficulty disengaged her from the grasp of the
ruffians. He accompanied her the rest of the way, bestowed on her every
polite attention, and, though pressed to enter the house, declined the
invitation. She had no opportunity of examining the appearance of her
new friend: this the darkness of the night, and her own panic,
prevented.
Next day a person called upon her whom she instantly recognized to be
her late protector. He came with some message from his sister. His
manners were simple and unostentatious and breathed the genuine spirit
of civility. Having performed his commission, and once more received the
thanks which she poured forth with peculiar warmth for his last night's
interposition, he took his leave.
The name of this man was Balfour. He was middle-aged, of a figure
neither elegant nor ungainly, and an aspect that was mild and placid,
but betrayed few marks of intelligence. He was an adventurer from
Scotland, whom a strict adherence to the maxims of trade had rendered
opulent. He was governed by the principles of mercantile integrity in
all his dealings, and was affable and kind, without being generous, in
his treatment of inferiors. He was a stranger to violent emotions of any
kind, and his intellectual acquisitions were limited to his own
profession.
His demeanour was tranquil and uniform. He was sparing of words, and
these were uttered in the softest manner. In all his transactions he wad
sedate and considerate. In his dress and mode of living there were no
appearances of parsimony, but there were, likewise, as few traces of
profusion.
His sister had shared in his prosperity. As soon as his affairs would
permit, he sent for her to Scotland, where she had lived in a state
little removed from penury, and had for some years been vested with the
superintendence of his household. There was a considerable resemblance
between them in person and character. Her profession, or those arts in
which her situation had compelled her to acquire skill, had not an equal
tendency to enlarge the mind as those of her brother, but the views of
each were limited to one set of objects. His superiority was owing, not
to any inherent difference, but to accident.
Balfour's life had been a model of chasteness and regularity,--though
this was owing more to constitutional coldness, and a frugal spirit,
than to virtuous forbearance; but, in his schemes for the future, he did
not exclude the circumstance of marriage. Having attained a situation
secure as the nature of human affairs will admit from the chances of
poverty, the way was sufficiently prepared for matrimony. His thoughts
had been for some time employed in the selection of a suitable
companion, when this rencounter happened with Miss Dudley.
Balfour was not destitute of those feelings which are called into play
by the sight of youth and beauty in distress. This incident was not
speedily forgotten. The emotions produced by it were new to him. He
reviewed them oftener, and with more complacency, than any which he had
before experienced. They afforded him so much satisfaction, that, in
order to preserve them undiminished, he resolved to repeat his visit.
Constantia treated him as one from whom she had received a considerable
benefit. Her sweetness and gentleness were uniform, and Balfour found
that her humble roof promised him more happiness than his own fireside,
or the society of his professional brethren.
He could not overlook, in the course of such reflections as these, the
question relative to marriage, and speedily determined to solicit the
honour of her hand. He had not decided without his usual foresight and
deliberation; nor had he been wanting in the accuracy of his
observations and inquiries. Those qualifications, indeed, which were of
chief value in his eyes, lay upon the surface. He was no judge of her
intellectual character, or of the loftiness of her morality. Not even
the graces of person, or features or manners, attracted much of his
attention. He remarked her admirable economy of time, and money, and
labour, the simplicity of her dress, her evenness of temper, and her
love of seclusion. These ware essential requisites of a wife, in his
apprehension. The insignificance of his own birth, the lowness of his
original fortune, and the efficacy of industry and temperance to confer
and maintain wealth, had taught him indifference as to birth or fortune
in his spouse. His moderate desires in this respect were gratified, and
he was anxious only for a partner that would aid him in preserving
rather than in enlarging his property. He esteemed himself eminently
fortunate in meeting with one in whom every matrimonial qualification
concentred.
He was not deficient in modesty, but he fancied that, on this occasion,
there was no possibility of miscarriage. He held her capacity in deep
veneration, but this circumstance rendered him more secure of success.
He conceived this union to be even more eligible with regard to her than
to himself, and confided in the rectitude of her understanding for a
decision favourable to his wishes.
Before any express declaration was made, Constantia easily predicted the
event from the frequency of his visits; and the attentiveness of his
manners. It was no difficult task to ascertain this man's character. Her
modes of thinking were, in few respects, similar to those of her lover.
She was eager to investigate, in the first place, the attributes of his
mind. His professional and household maxims were not of inconsiderable
importance, but they were subordinate considerations. In the poverty of
his discourse and ideas she quickly found reasons for determining her
conduct.
Marriage she had but little considered, as it is in itself. What are the
genuine principles of that relation, and what conduct with respect to it
is prescribed to rational beings by their duty, she had not hitherto
investigated. But she was not backward to inquire what are the precepts
of duty in her own particular case. She knew herself to be young; she
was sensible of the daily enlargement of her knowledge: every day
contributed to rectify some error, or confirm some truth. These benefits
she owed to her situation, which, whatever were its evils, gave her as
much freedom from restraint as is consistent with the state of human
affairs. Her poverty fettered her exertions, and circumscribed her
pleasures. Poverty, therefore, was an evil, and the reverse of poverty
was to be desired. But riches were not barren of constraint, and its
advantages might be purchased at too dear a rate.
Allowing that the wife is enriched by marriage, how humiliating were the
conditions annexed to it in the present case! The company of one with
whom we have no sympathy, nor sentiments in common, is, of all species
of solitude, the most loathsome and dreary. The nuptial life is attended
with peculiar aggravations, since the tie is infrangible, and the choice
of a more suitable companion, if such a one should offer, is for ever
precluded. The hardships of wealth are not incompensated by some
benefits; but these benefits, false and hollow as they are, cannot be
obtained by marriage. Her acceptance of Balfour would merely aggravate
her indigence.
Now she was at least mistress of the product of her own labour. Her
tasks were toilsome, but the profits, though slender, were sure, and
she administered her little property in what manner she pleased.
Marriage would annihilate this, power. Henceforth she would he bereft
even of personal freedom. So far from possessing property, she herself
would become the property of another.
She was not unaware of the consequences flowing from differences of
capacity, and that power, to whomsoever legally granted, will be
exercised by the most addressful; but she derived no encouragement from
these considerations. She would not stoop to gain her end by the hateful
arts of the sycophant, and was too wise to place an unbounded reliance
on the influence of truth. The character, likewise, of this man,
sufficiently exempted him from either of those influences.
She did not forget the nature of the altar-vows. To abdicate the use of
her own understanding was scarcely justifiable in any case; but to vow
an affection that was not felt, and could not be compelled, and to
promise obedience to one whose judgment was glaringly defective, were
acts atrociously criminal. Education, besides, had created in her an
insurmountable abhorrence of admitting to conjugal privileges the man
who had no claim upon her love. It could not be denied that a state of
abundant accommodation was better than the contrary; but this
consideration, though, in the most rational estimate, of some weight,
she was not so depraved and effeminate as to allow to overweigh the
opposite evils. Homely liberty was better than splendid servitude.
Her resolution was easily formed, but there were certain impediments in
the way of its execution. These chiefly arose from deference to the
opinion, and compassion for the infirmities of her father. He assumed no
control over her actions. His reflections in the present case were
rather understood than expressed. When uttered, it was with the
mildness of equality, and the modesty of persuasion. It was this
circumstance that conferred upon them all their force. His decision on
so delicate a topic was not wanting in sagacity and moderation; but, as
a man, he had his portion of defects, and his frame was enfeebled by
disease and care; yet he set no higher value on the ease and
independence of his former condition than any man of like experience. He
could not endure to exist on the fruits of his daughter's labour. He
ascribed her decision to a spirit of excessive refinement, and was, of
course, disposed to give little quarter to maiden scruples. They were
phantoms, he believed, which experience would dispel. His morality,
besides, was of a much more flexible kind; and the marriage vows were,
in his opinion, formal and unmeaning, and neither in themselves, nor in
the opinion of the world, accompanied with any rigorous obligation. He
drew more favourable omens from the known capacity of his daughter, and
the flexibility of her lover.
She demanded his opinion and advice. She listened to his reasonings, and
revolved them with candour and impartiality. She stated her objections
with simplicity; but the difference of age and sex was sufficient to
preclude agreement. Arguments were of no use but to prolong the debate;
but, happily, the magnanimity of Mr. Dudley would admit of no sacrifice.
Her opinions, it is true, were erroneous; but he was willing that she
should regulate her conduct by her own conceptions of right, and not by
those of another. To refuse Balfour's offers was an evil, but an evil
inexpressibly exceeded by that of accepting them contrary to her own
sense of propriety.
Difficulties, likewise, arose from the consideration of what was due to
the man who had already benefited her, and who, in this act, intended to
confer upon her further benefit. These, though the source of some
embarrassment, were not sufficient to shake her resolution. Balfour
could not understand her principal objections. They were of a size
altogether disproportioned to his capacity. Her moral speculations were
quite beyond the sphere of his reflections. She could not expatiate,
without a breach of civility, on the disparity of their minds, and yet
this was the only or principal ground on which she had erected her
scruples.
Her father loved her too well not to be desirous of relieving her from a
painful task, though undertaken without necessity, and contrary to his
opinion. "Refer him to me," said he; "I will make the best of the
matter, and render your refusal as palatable as possible; but do you
authorize me to make it absolute, and without appeal."
"My dear father! how good you are! but that shall be my province. If I
err, let the consequences of my mistake be confined to myself. It would
be cruel indeed to make you the instrument in a transaction which your
judgment disapproves. My reluctance was a weak and foolish thing.
Strange, indeed, if the purity of my motives will not bear me out on
this, as it has done on many more arduous occasions."
"Well, be it so; that is best I believe. Ten to one but I, with my want
of eyes would blunder, while yours will be of no small use in a contest
with a lover. They will serve you to watch the transitions in his placid
physiognomy, and overpower his discontents."
She was aware of the inconveniences to which this resolution would
subject her; but since they were unavoidable, she armed herself with the
requisite patience. Her apprehensions were not without reason. More than
one conference was necessary to convince him of her meaning, and in
order to effect her purpose she was obliged to behave with so much
explicitness as to hazard giving him offence. This affair was
productive of no small vexation. He had put too much faith in the
validity of his pretensions, and the benefits of perseverance, to be
easily shaken off.
This decision was not borne by him with as much patience as she wished.
He deemed himself unjustly treated, and his resentment exceeded those
bounds of moderation which he prescribed to himself on all other
occasions. From his anger, however, there was not much to be dreaded;
but, unfortunately, his sister partook of his indignation and indulged
her petulance, which was enforced by every gossiping and tattling
propensity, to the irreparable disadvantage of Constantia.
She owed her support to her needle. She was dependent therefore on the
caprice of customers. This caprice was swayable by every breath, and
paid a merely subordinate regard, in the choice of workwomen, to the
circumstances of skill, cheapness and diligence. In consequence of
this, her usual sources of subsistence began to fail.
Indigence, as well as wealth, is comparative. He indeed must be
wretched, whose food, clothing, and shelter, are limited, both in kind
and quantity, by the standard of mere necessity; who, in the choice of
food, for example, is governed by no consideration but its cheapness,
and its capacity to sustain nature. Yet to this degree of wretchedness
was Miss Dudley reduced.
As her means of subsistence began to decay, she reflected on the change
of employment that might become necessary. She was mistress of no
lucrative art but that which now threatened to be useless. There was but
one avenue through which she could hope to escape from the pressure of
absolute want. This she regarded with an aversion that nothing but
extreme necessity, and the failure of every other expedient, would be
able to subdue. This was the hiring herself as a servant. Even that
could not answer all her purposes. If a subsistence were provided by it
for herself, whither should her father and her Lucy betake themselves
for support?
Hitherto her labour had been sufficient to shut out famine and the cold.
It is true she had been cut off from all the direct means of personal or
mental gratification; but her constitution had exempted her from the
insalutary effects of sedentary application. She could not tell how long
she could enjoy this exemption, but it was absurd to anticipate those
evils which might never arrive. Meanwhile, her situation was not
destitute of comfort. The indirect means of intellectual improvement in
conversation and reflection, the inexpensive amusement of singing, and,
above all, the consciousness of performing her duty, and maintaining her
independence inviolate, were still in her possession. Her lodging was
humble, and her fare frugal, but these temperance and a due regard to
the use of money would require from the most opulent.
Now retrenchments must be made even from this penurious provision. Her
exertions might somewhat defer, but could not prevent, the ruin of her
unhappy family. Their landlord was a severe exacter of his dues. The day
of quarterly payment was past, and he had not failed in his usual
punctuality. She was unable to satisfy his demands, and Mr. Dudley was
officially informed, that unless payment was made before a day fixed,
resort would be had to the law, in that case made and provided.
This seemed to be the completion of their misfortunes. It was not enough
to soften the implacability of their landlord. A respite might possibly
be obtained from this harsh sentence. Entreaties might prevail upon him
to allow of their remaining under this roof for some time longer; but
shelter at this inclement season was not enough. Without fire they must
perish with the cold; and fuel could be procured only for money, of
which the last shilling was expended. Food was no less indispensable;
and, their credit being gone, not a loaf could be extorted from the
avarice of the bakers in the neighbourhood.
The sensations produced by this accumulation of distress may be more
easily conceived than described. Mr. Dudley sunk into despair, when Lucy
informed him that the billet of wood she was putting on the fire was the
last. "Well," said he, "the game is up. Where is my daughter?" The
answer was, that she was up-stairs.
"Why, there she has been this hour. Tell her to come down and warm
herself. She must needs be cold, and here is a cheerful blaze. I feel it
myself. Like the lightning that precedes death, it beams thus brightly,
though in a few moments it will be extinguished forever. Let my darling
come and partake of its comforts before they expire."
Constantia had retired in order to review her situation and devise some
expedients that might alleviate it. It was a sore extremity to which she
was reduced. Things had come to a desperate pass, and the remedy
required must be no less desperate. It was impossible to see her father
perish. She herself would have died before she would have condescended
to beg. It was not worth prolonging a life which must subsist upon alms.
She would have wandered into the fields at dusk, have seated herself
upon an unfrequented bank, and serenely waited the approach of that
death which the rigours of the season would have rendered sure. But as
it was, it became her to act in a very different manner.
During her father's prosperity, some mercantile intercourse had taken
place between him and a merchant of this city. The latter on some
occasion had spent a few nights at her father's house. She was greatly
charmed with the humanity that shone forth in his conversation and
behaviour. From that time to this all intercourse had ceased. She was
acquainted with the place of his abode, and knew him to be affluent. To
him she determined to apply as a suppliant in behalf of her father. She
did not inform Mr. Dudley of this intention, conceiving it best to wait
till the event had been ascertained, for fear of exciting fallacious
expectations. She was further deterred by the apprehension of awakening
his pride, and bringing on herself an absolute prohibition.
She arrived at the door of Mr. Melbourne's house, and inquiring for the
master of it, was informed that he had gone out of town, and was not
expected to return for a week.
Her scheme, which was by no means unplausible, was thus completely
frustrated. There was but one other resource, on which she had already
deliberated, and to which she had determined to apply if that should
fail. That was to claim assistance from the superintendants of the poor.
She was employed in considering to which of them, and in what manner she
should make her application, when she turned the corner of Lombard and
Second Streets. That had scarcely been done, when casting her eyes
mournfully round her, she caught a glimpse of a person whom she
instantly recognized passing into the market-place. She followed him
with quick steps, and on a second examination found that she had not
been mistaken. This was no other than Thomas Craig, to whose malignity
and cunning all her misfortunes were imputable.
She was at first uncertain what use to make of this discovery. She
followed him instinctively, and saw him at length enter the Indian Queen
Tavern. Here she stopped. She entertained a confused conception that
some beneficial consequences might be extracted from this event. In the
present hurry of her thoughts she could form no satisfactory conclusion;
but it instantly occurred to her that it would at least be proper to
ascertain the place of his abode. She stept into the inn, and made the
suitable inquiries. She was informed that the gentleman had come from
Baltimore a month before, and had since resided at that house. How soon
he meant to leave the city her informant was unable to tell.
Having gained this intelligence, she returned home, and once more shut
herself in her chamber to meditate on this new posture of affairs.