The narrative of Melbourne made a deeper impression on the mind of his
guest than was at first apparent. This man's conduct was directed by the
present impulse; and, however elaborate his abstract notions, he seldom
stopped to settle the agreement between his principles and actions. The
use of money was a science like every other branch of benevolence, not
reducible to any fixed principles. No man, in the disbursement of money,
could say whether he was conferring a benefit or injury. The visible and
immediate effects might be good, but evil was its ultimate and general
tendency. To be governed by a view to the present rather than the future
was a human infirmity from which he did not pretend to be exempt. This,
though an insufficient apology for the conduct of a rational being, was
suitable to his indolence, and he was content in all cases to employ it.
It was thus that he reconciled himself to beneficent acts, and
humourously held himself up as an object of censure, on occasions when
most entitled to applause.
He easily procured information as to the character and situation of the
Dudleys. Neighbours are always inquisitive, and happily, in this case,
were enabled to make no unfavourable report. He resolved without
hesitation to supply their wants. This he performed in a manner truly
characteristic. There was a method of gaining access to families, and
marking them in their unguarded attitudes, more easy and effectual than
any other: it required least preparation and cost least pains; the
disguise, also, was of the most impenetrable kind. He had served a sort
of occasional apprenticeship to the art, and executed its functions with
perfect ease. It was the most entire and grotesque metamorphosis
imaginable. It was stepping from the highest to the lowest rank in
society, and shifting himself into a form as remote from his own as
those recorded by Ovid. In a word, it was sometimes his practice to
exchange his complexion and habiliments for those of a negro and a
chimney-sweep, and to call at certain doors for employment. This he
generally secured by importunities, and the cheapness of his services.
When the loftiness of his port, and the punctiliousness of his nicety
were considered, we should never have believed--what yet could be truly
asserted--that he had frequently swept his own chimneys, without the
knowledge of his own servants.[1] It was likewise true, though equally
incredible, that he had played at romps with his scullion, and listened
with patience to a thousand slanders on his own character.
[1] Similar exploits are related of Count de la Lippe and
Wortley Montague.
In this disguise he visited the house of Mr. Dudley. It was nine o'clock
in the morning. He remarked with critical eyes, the minutest
circumstance in the appearance and demeanour of his customers, and
glanced curiously at the house and furniture. Every thing was new and
every thing pleased. The walls, though broken into roughness by
carelessness or time, were adorned with glistening white. The floor,
though loose and uneven, and with gaping seams, had received all the
improvements which cloth and brush could give. The pine tables, rush
chairs, and uncurtained bed, had been purchased at half price, at
vendue, and exhibited various tokens of decay; but care and neatness and
order were displayed in their condition and arrangement.
The lower apartment was the eating and sitting room. It was likewise
Mr. Dudley's bed chamber. The upper room was occupied by Constantia and
Lucy. Ormond viewed every thing with the accuracy of an artist, and
carried away with him a catalogue of every thing visible. The faded form
of Mr. Dudley, that still retained its dignity, the sedateness, graceful
condescension, and personal elegance of Constantia, were new to the
apprehension of Ormond. The contrast between the house and its
inhabitants rendered the appearance more striking. When he had finished
his task he retired, but returning in a quarter of an hour, he presented
a letter to the young lady. He behaved as if by no means desirous of
eluding her interrogatories, and, when she desired him to stay, readily
complied. The letter, unsigned, and without superscription, was to this
effect:--
"The writer of this is acquainted with the transaction between Thomas
Craig and Mr. Dudley. The former is debtor to Mr. Dudley in a large
sum. I have undertaken to pay as much of this debt, and at such times,
as suits my convenience. I have had pecuniary engagements with Craig. I
hold myself, in the sum enclosed, discharging so much of his debt. The
future payments are uncertain, but I hope they will contribute to
relieve the necessities of Mr. Dudley."
Ormond had calculated the amount of what would be necessary for the
annual subsistence of this family on the present frugal plan. He had
regulated his disbursements accordingly.
It was natural to feel curiosity as to the writer of this epistle. The
bearer displayed a prompt and talkative disposition. He had a staring
eye and a grin of vivacity forever at command. When questioned by
Constantia, he answered that the gentleman had forbidden him to mention
his name or the place where he lived. Had he ever met with the same
person before? O yes. He had lived with him from a child. His mother
lived with him still, and his brothers. His master had nothing for him
to do at home, so he sent him out sweeping chimneys, taking from him
only half the money that he earned that way. He was a very good master.
"Then the gentleman had been a long time in the city?"
"O yes. All his life he reckoned. Ho used to live in Walnut Street, but
now he's moved down town." Here he checked himself, and added,--"But I
forgets. I must not tell where he livest. He told me I must'nt."
"He has a family and children, I suppose?"
"O yes. Why, don't you know Miss Hetty and Miss Betsy? There again! I
was going to tell the name, that he said I must not tell."
Constantia saw that the secret might be easily discovered, but she
forbore. She disdained to take advantage of this messenger's imagined
simplicity. She dismissed him with some small addition to his demand,
and with a promise always to employ him in this way.
By this mode Ormond had effectually concealed himself. The lady's
conjectures, founded on this delusive information, necessarily wandered
widely from the truth. The observations that he had made during this
visit afforded his mind considerable employment. The manner in which
this lady had sustained so cruel a reverse of fortune, the cheerfulness
with which she appeared to forego all the gratifications of affluence,
the skill with which she selected her path of humble industry, and the
steadiness with which she pursued it, were proofs of a moral
constitution, from which he supposed the female sex to be debarred. The
comparison was obvious between Constantia and Helena, and the result was
by no means advantageous to the latter. Was it possible that such a one
descended to the level of her father's apprentice? That she sacrificed
her honour to a wretch like that? This reflection tended to repress the
inclination he would otherwise have felt for cultivating her society,
but it did not indispose him to benefit her in a certain way.
On his next visit to his "Bella Siciliana," as he called her, he
questioned her as to the need in which she might stand of the services
of a seamstress; and being informed that they were sometimes wanted, he
recommended Miss Acworth to her patronage. He said that he had heard her
spoken of in favourable terms by the gossips at Melbourne's. They
represented her as a good girl, slenderly provided for, and he wished
that Helena would prefer her to all others.
His recommendation was sufficient. The wishes of Ormond, as soon as they
became known, became hers. Her temper made her always diligent in search
of novelty. It was easy to make work for the needle. In short, she
resolved to send for her the next day. The interview accordingly took
place on the ensuing morning, not without mutual surprise, and, on the
part of the fair Sicilian, not without considerable embarrassment.
This circumstance arose from their having changed their respective
names, though from motives of a very different kind. They were not
strangers to each other, though no intimacy had ever subsisted between
them. Each was merely acquainted with the name, person, and general
character of the other. No circumstance in Constantia's situation tended
to embarrass her. Her mind had attained a state of serene composure,
incapable of being ruffled by an incident of this kind. She merely
derived pleasure from the sight of her old acquaintance. The aspect of
things around her was splendid and gay. She seemed the mistress of the
mansion, and her name was changed. Hence it was unavoidable to conclude
that she was married.
Helena was conscious that appearances were calculated to suggest this
conclusion. The idea was a painful one. She sorrowed to think that this
conclusion was fallacious. The consciousness that her true condition was
unknown to her visitant, and the ignominiousness of that truth, gave an
air of constraint to her behaviour, which Constantia ascribed to a
principle of delicacy.
In the midst of reflections relative to herself, she admitted some share
of surprise at the discovery of Constantia in a situation so inferior to
that in which she had formerly known her. She had heard, in general
terms of the misfortunes of Mr Dudley, but was unacquainted with
particulars; but this surprise, and the difficulty of adapting her
behaviour to circumstances, was only in part the source of her
embarrassment, though by her companion it was wholly attributed to this
cause. Constantia thought it her duty to remove it by open and
unaffected manners. She therefore said, in a sedate and cheerful tone,
"You see me, Madam, in a situation somewhat unlike that in which I
formerly was placed. You will probably regard the change as an unhappy
one; but, I assure you, I have found it far less so than I expected. I
am thus reduced not by my own fault. It is this reflection that enables
me to conform to it without a murmur. I shall rejoice to know that Mrs.
Eden is as happy as I am."
Helena was pleased with this address, and returned an answer full of
sweetness. She had not in her compassion for the fallen, a particle of
pride. She thought of nothing but the contrast between the former
situation of her visitant and the present. The fame of her great
qualities had formerly excited veneration, and that reverence was by no
means diminished by a nearer scrutiny. The consciousness of her own
frailty meanwhile diffused over the behaviour of Helena a timidity and
dubiousness uncommonly fascinating. She solicited Constantia's
friendship in a manner that showed she was afraid of nothing but denial.
An assent was eagerly given, and thenceforth a cordial intercourse was
established between them.
The real situation of Helena was easily discovered. The officious person
who communicated this information, at the same time cautioned Constantia
against associating with one of tainted reputation. This information
threw some light upon appearances. It accounted for that melancholy
which Helena was unable to conceal. It explained that solitude in which
she lived, and which Constantia had ascribed to the death or absence of
her husband. It justified the solicitous silence she had hitherto
maintained respecting her own affairs, and which her friend's good sense
forbade her to employ any sinister means of eluding.
No long time was necessary to make her mistress of Helena's character.
She loved her with uncommon warmth, though by no means blind to her
defects. She formed no expectations from the knowledge of her character,
to which this intelligence operated as a disappointment. It merely
excited her pity, and made her thoughtful how she might assist her in
repairing this deplorable error.
This design was of no ordinary magnitude. She saw that it was previously
necessary to obtain the confidence of Helena. This was a task of easy
performance. She knew the purity of her own motives and the extent of
her powers, and embarked in this undertaking with full confidence of
success. She had only to profit by a private interview, to acquaint her
friend with what she knew, to solicit a complete and satisfactory
disclosure, to explain the impressions which her intelligence produced,
and to offer her disinterested advice. No one knew better how to couch
her ideas in words suitable to the end proposed by her in imparting
them.
Helena was at first terrified, but the benevolence of her friend quickly
entitled her to confidence and gratitude that knew no limits. She had
been deterred from unveiling her heart by the fear of exciting contempt
or abhorrence; but when she found that all due allowances were
made,--that her conduct was treated as erroneous in no atrocious or
inexpiable degree, and as far front being insusceptible of remedy,--that
the obloquy with which she had been treated found no vindicator or
participator in her friend, her heart was considerably relieved. She had
been long a stranger to the sympathy and intercourse of her own sex. Now
this good, in its most precious form, was conferred upon her, and she
experienced an increase rather than diminution of tenderness, in
consequence of her true situation being known.
She made no secret of any part of her history. She did full justice to
the integrity of her lover, and explained the unforced conditions on
which she had consented to live with him. This relation exhibited the
character of Ormond in a very uncommon light. His asperities wounded,
and his sternness chilled. What unauthorised conceptions of matrimonial
and political equality did he entertain! He had fashioned his treatment
of Helena on sullen and ferocious principles. Yet he was able, it
seemed, to mould her, by means of them, nearly into the creature that he
wished. She knew too little of the man justly to estimate his character.
It remained to be ascertained whether his purposes were consistent and
upright, or were those of a villain and betrayer.
Meanwhile what was to be done by Helena? Marriage had been refused op
plausible pretences. Her unenlightened understanding made her no match
for her lover. She would never maintain her claim to nuptial privileges
in his presence, or, if she did, she would never convince him of their
validity.
Were they indeed valid? Was not the disparity between them incurable? A
marriage of minds so dissimilar could only be productive of misery
immediately to him, and, by a reflex operation, to herself. She could
not be happy in a union that was the source of regret to her husband.
Marriage, therefore, was not possible, or if possible, was not, perhaps,
to be wished. But what was the choice that remained?
To continue in her present situation was not to be endured. Disgrace was
a daemon that would blast every hope of happiness. She was excluded from
all society but that of the depraved. Her situation was eminently
critical. It depended, perhaps, on the resolution she should now form
whether she would be enrolled among the worst of mankind. Infamy is the
worst of evils. It creates innumerable obstructions in the paths of
virtue. It manacles the hand, and entangles the feet that are active
only to good. To the weak it is an evil of much greater magnitude. It
determines their destiny; and they hasten to merit that reproach, which,
at first it may be, they did not deserve.
This connection is intrinsically flagitious. Helena is subjected by it
to the worst ills that are incident to humanity, the general contempt of
mankind, and the reproaches of her own conscience. From these there is
but one method from which she can hope to be relieved. The intercourse
must cease.
It wad easier to see the propriety of separation, than to project means
for accomplishing it. It was true that Helena loved; but what quarter
was due to this passion when divorced from integrity? Is it not in every
bosom a perishable sentiment? Whatever be her warmth, absence will
congeal it. Place her in new scenes, and supply her with new associates.
Her accomplishments will not fail to attract votaries. From these she
may select a conjugal companion suitable to her mediocrity of talents.
But alas! what power on earth can prevail on her to renounce Ormond?
Others may justly entertain this prospect, but it must be invisible to
her. Besides, is it absolutely certain that either her peace of mind or
her reputation will be restored by this means? In the opinion of the
world her offences cannot, by any perseverance in penitence, be
expiated. She will never believe that separation will exterminate
her passion. Certain it is that it will avail nothing to the
re-establishment of her fame. But if it were conducive to these ends,
how chimerical to suppose that she will ever voluntarily adopt it! If
Ormond refuse his concurrence, there is absolutely an end to hope. And
what power on earth is able to sway his determinations? At least, what
influence was it possible for her to obtain over them?
Should they separate, whither should she retire? What mode of
subsistence should she adopt? She has never been accustomed to think
beyond the day. She has eaten and drank, but another has provided the
means. She scarcely comprehends the principle that governs the world,
and in consequence of which nothing can be gained but by giving
something in exchange for it. She is ignorant and helpless as a child,
on every topic that relates to the procuring of subsistence. Her
education has disabled her from standing alone.
But this was not all. She must not only be supplied by others, but
sustained in the enjoyment of a luxurious existence. Would you bereave
her of the gratifications of opulence? You had better take away her
life. Nay, it would ultimately amount to this. She can live but in one
way.
At present she is lovely, and, to a certain degree, innocent; but expose
her to the urgencies and temptations of want, let personal pollution be
the price set upon the voluptuous affluences of her present condition,
and it is to be feared there is nothing in the contexture of her mind to
hinder her from making the purchase. In every respect therefore the
prospect was an hopeless one,--so hopeless, that her mind insensibly
returned to the question which she had at first dismissed with very
slight examination,--the question relative to the advantages and
probabilities of marriage. A more accurate review convinced her that
this was the most eligible alternative. It was, likewise, most easily
effected. The lady, of course, would be its fervent advocate. There did
not want reasons why Ormond should finally embrace it. In what manner
appeals to his reason of his passion might most effectually be made she
knew not.
Helena was not qualified to be her own advocate. Her unhappiness could
not but be visible to Ormond. He had shown himself attentive and
affectionate. Was it impossible that, in time, he should reason himself
into a spontaneous adoption of this scheme? This, indeed, was a slender
foundation for hope, but there was no other on which she could build.
Such were the meditations of Constantia on this topic. She was deeply
solicitous for the happiness of her friend. They spent much of their
time together. The consolations of her society were earnestly sought by
Helena; but to enjoy them, she was for the most part obliged to visit
the former at her own dwelling. For this arrangement, Constantia
apologized by saying, "You will pardon my requesting you to favour me
with your visits, rather than allowing you mine. Every thing is airy
and brilliant within these walls. There is, besides, an air of seclusion
and security about you that is delightful. In comparison, my dwelling is
bleak, comfortless, and unretired, but my father is entitled to all my
care. His infirmity prevents him from amusing himself, and his heart is
cheered by the mere sound of my voice, though not addressed to him. The
mere belief of my presence seems to operate as an antidote to the
dreariness of solitude; and, now you know my motives, I am sure you will
not only forgive but approve of my request."