Craig was indebted to her father. He had defrauded him by the most
atrocious and illicit arts. On either account he was liable to
prosecution; but her heart rejected the thought of being the author of
injury to any man. The dread of punishment, however, might induce him to
refund, uncoercively, the whole or some part of the stolen property.
Money was at this moment necessary to existence, and she conceived
herself justly entitled to that of which her father had been
perfidiously despoiled.
But the law was formal and circuitous. Money itself was necessary to
purchase its assistance. Besides, it could not act with unseen virtue
and instantaneous celerity. The co-operation of advocates and officers
was required. They must be visited, and harangued, and importuned. Was
she adequate to the task? Would the energy of her mind supply the place
of experience, and with a sort of miraculous efficacy, afford her the
knowledge of official processes and dues? As little on this occasion
could be expected from her father as from her. He was infirm and blind.
The spirit that animated his former days was flown. His heart's blood
was chilled by the rigours of his fortune. He had discarded his
indignation and his enmities, and together with them, hope itself had
perished in his bosom. He waited in tranquil despair, for that stroke
which would deliver him from life, and all the woes that it inherits.
But these considerations were superfluous. It was enough that justice
must be bought, and that she had not the equivalent. Legal proceedings
are encumbered with delay, and her necessities were urgent. Succour, if
withheld till the morrow, would be useless. Hunger and cold would not
be trifled with. What resource was there left in this her uttermost
distress? Must she yield, in imitation of her father, to the cowardly
suggestions of despair?
Craig might be rich: his coffers might be stuffed with thousands. All
that he had, according to the principles of social equity, was hers; yet
he, to whom nothing belonged, rioted in superfluity, while she, the
rightful claimant, was driven to the point of utmost need. The proper
instrument of her restoration was law, but its arm was powerless, for
she had not the means of bribing it into activity. But was law the only
instrument?
Craig perhaps was accessible. Might she not, with propriety, demand an
interview, and lay before him the consequences of his baseness? He was
not divested of the last remains of humanity. It was impossible that he
should not relent at the picture of those distresses of which he was the
author. Menaces of legal prosecution she meant not to use, because she
was unalterably resolved against that remedy. She confided in the
efficacy of her pleadings to awaken his justice. This interview she was
determined immediately to seek. She was aware that by some accident her
purpose might be frustrated. Access to his person might, for the
present, be impossible, or might be denied. It was proper, therefore to
write him a letter, which might be substituted in place of an interview.
It behoved her to be expeditious, for the light was failing, and her
strength was nearly exhausted by the hurry of her spirits. Her fingers
likewise were benumbed with the cold. She performed her task, under
these disadvantages, with much difficulty. This was the purport of her
letter:--
"THOMAS CRAIG,
"An hour ago I was in Second Street, and saw you. I followed you
till you entered the Indian Queen Tavern. Knowing where you are, I
am now preparing to demand an interview. I may he disappointed in
this hope, and therefore write you this.
"I do not come to upbraid you, to call you to a legal, or any other
account for your actions. I presume not to weigh your merits. The
God of equity be your judge. May he be as merciful in the hour of
retribution as I am disposed to be!
"It is only to inform you that my father is on the point of
perishing with want. You know who it was that reduced him to this
condition. I persuade myself I shall not appeal to your justice in
vain. Learn of this justice to afford him instant succour.
"You know who it was that took you in, an houseless wanderer,
protected and fostered your youth, and shared with you his
confidence and his fortune. It is he who now, blind and indigent,
is threatened by an inexorable landlord to be thrust into the
street, and who is, at this moment without fire and without bread.
"He once did you some little service; now he looks to be
compensated. All the retribution he asks is to be saved from
perishing. Surely you will not spurn at his claims. Thomas Craig
has done nothing that shows him deaf to the cries of distress. He
would relieve a dog from such sufferings.
"Forget that you have known my father in any character but that of
a supplicant for bread. I promise you that on this condition I also
will forget it. If you are so far just, you have nothing to fear.
Your property and reputation shall both be safe. My father knows
not of your being in this city. His enmities are extinct, and if
you comply with this request, he shall know you only as a
benefactor.
"C. DUDLEY."
Having finished and folded this epistle, she once more returned to the
tavern. A waiter informed her that Craig had lately been in, and was now
gone out to spend the evening. "Whither had he gone?" she asked.
"How was he to know where gentlemen eat their suppers? Did she take him
for a witch? What, in God's name, did she want with him at that hour?
Could she not wait, at least, till he had done his supper? He warranted
her pretty face would bring him home time enough."
Constantia was not disconcerted at the address. She knew that females
are subjected, through their own ignorance and cowardice, to a thousand
mortifications. She set its true value on base and low-minded treatment.
She disdained to notice this ribaldry, but turned away from the servant
to meditate on this disappointment.
A few moments after, a young fellow smartly dressed entered the
apartment. He was immediately addressed by the other, who said to him,
"Well, Tom, where's your master: there's a lady wants him," (pointing to
Constantia, and laying a grinning emphasis on the word "lady".) She
turned to the new-comer: "Friend, are you Mr. Craig's servant?"
The fellow seemed somewhat irritated at the bluntness of her
interrogatory. The appellation of servant sat uneasily, perhaps, on his
pride, especially as coming from a person of her appearance. He put on
an air of familiar ridicule, and surveyed her in silence. She resumed,
in an authoritative tone:--"Where does Mr. Craig spend this evening? I
have business with him of the highest importance, and that will not bear
delay. I must see him this night." He seemed preparing to make some
impertinent answer, but she anticipated it: "You had better answer me
with decency. If you do not, your master shall hear of it."
This menace was not ineffectual. He began in perceive himself in the
wrong, and surlily muttered, "Why, if you must know, he is gone to Mr.
Ormond's." And where lived Mr. Ormond? In Arch Street; he mentioned the
number on her questioning him to that effect.
Being furnished with this information, she left them. Her project was
not to be thwarted by slight impediments, and she forthwith proceeded to
Ormond's dwelling. "Who was this Ormond?" she inquired of herself as she
went along: "whence originated and of what nature is the connection
between him and Craig? Are they united by unison of designs and sympathy
of character, or is this stranger a new subject on whom Craig is
practising his arts? The last supposition is not impossible. Is it not
my duty to disconcert his machinations and save a new victim from his
treachery? But I ought to be sure before I act. He may now be honest, or
tending to honesty, and my interference may cast him backward, or
impede his progress."
The house to which she had been directed was spacious and magnificent.
She was answered by a servant, whose uniform was extremely singular and
fanciful, whose features and accents bespoke him to be English, with a
politeness to which she knew that the simplicity of her dress gave her
no title. Craig, he told her, was in the drawing-room above stairs. He
offered to carry him any message, and ushered her, meanwhile, into a
parlour. She was surprised at the splendour of the room. The ceiling was
painted with a gay design, the walls stuccoed in relief, and the floor
covered with a Persian carpet, with suitable accompaniments of mirrors,
tables, and sofas.
Craig had been seated at the window above. His suspicions were ever on
the watch. He suddenly espied a figure and face on the opposite side of
the street, which an alteration of garb and the improvements of time
could not conceal from his knowledge. He was startled at this incident,
without knowing the extent of its consequences. He saw her cross the way
opposite this house, and immediately after heard the bell ring. Still he
was not aware that he himself was the object of this visit, and waited
with some degree of impatience for the issue of this adventure.
Presently he was summoned to a person below, who wished to see him. The
servant shut the door as soon as he had delivered the message and
retired.
Craig was thrown into considerable perplexity. It was seldom that he was
wanting in presence of mind and dexterity, but the unexpectedness of
this incident made him pause. He had not forgotten the awful charms of
his summoner. He shrunk at the imagination of her rebukes. What purpose
could be answered by admitting her? It was undoubtedly safest to keep
at a distance; but what excuse should be given for refusing this
interview? He was roused from his reverie by a second and more urgent
summons. The person could not conveniently wait; her business was of the
utmost moment, and would detain him but a few minutes.
The anxiety which was thus expressed to see him only augmented his
solicitude to remain invisible. He had papers before him, which he had
been employed in examining. This suggested an excuse--"Tell her that I
am engaged just now, and cannot possibly attend to her. Let her leave
her business. If she has any message, you may bring it to me."
It was plain to Constantia that Craig suspected the purpose of her
visit. This might have come to his knowledge by means impossible for her
to divine. She now perceived the wisdom of the precaution she had taken.
She gave her letter to the servant with this message:--"Tell him I
shall wait here for an answer, and continue to wait till I receive one."
Her mind was powerfully affected by the criticalness of her situation.
She had gone thus far, and saw the necessity of persisting to the end.
The goal was within view, and she formed a sort of desperate
determination not to relinquish the pursuit. She could not overlook the
possibility that he might return no answer, or return an unsatisfactory
one. In either case, she was resolved to remain in the house till driven
from it by violence. What other resolution could she form? To return to
her desolate home, pennyless, was an idea not to be endured.
The letter was received, and perused. His conscience was touched, but
compunction was a guest whose importunities he had acquired a peculiar
facility of eluding. Here was a liberal offer. A price was set upon his
impunity. A small sum, perhaps, would secure him from all future
molestation.--"She spoke, to-be-sure, in a damned high tone. 'Twas a
pity that the old man should be hungry before supper-time. Blind too!
Harder still, when he cannot find his way to his mouth. Rent unpaid, and
a flinty-hearted landlord. A pretty pickle, to-be-sure. Instant payment,
she says. Won't part without it. Must come down with the stuff. I know
this girl. When her heart is once set upon a thing, all the devils will
not turn her out of her way. She promises silence. I can't pretend to
bargain with her. I'd as lief be ducked, as meet her face to face. I
know she'll do what she promises: that was always her grand failing. How
the little witch talks! Just the dreamer she ever was! Justice!
Compassion! Stupid fool! One would think she'd learned something of the
world by this time."
He took out his pocket-book. Among the notes it contained the lowest was
fifty dollars. This was too much, yet there was no alternative;
something must be given. She had detected his abode, and he knew it was
in the power of the Dudleys to ruin his reputation, and obstruct his
present schemes. It was probable that, if they should exert themselves,
their cause would find advocates and patrons. Still the gratuitous gift
of fifty dollars sat uneasily upon his avarice. One idea occurred to
reconcile him to the gift. There was a method he conceived of procuring
the repayment of it with interest: he enclosed the note in a blank piece
of paper, and sent it to her.
She received the paper, and opened it with trembling fingers: when she
saw what were its contents, her feelings amounted to rapture. A sum like
this was affluence to her in her present condition; at least it would
purchase present comfort and security. Her heart glowed with exultation,
and she seemed to tread with the lightness of air as she hied homeward.
The languor of a long fast, the numbness of the cold, were forgotten.
It is worthy of remark how much of human accommodation was comprised
within this small compass; and how sudden was this transition from the
verge of destruction to the summit of security.
Her first business was to call upon her landlord, and pay him his
demand. On her return she discharged the little debts she had been
obliged to contract, and purchased what was immediately necessary. Wood
she could borrow from her next neighbour, and this she was willing to
do, now that she had the prospect of repaying it.
END OF VOL. I.