Here ended this conference. She had by no means suspected the manner in
which it would be conducted. All punctilios were trampled under foot by
the impetuosity of Ormond. Things were, at once, and without delay,
placed upon a certain footing. The point, which ordinary persons would
have employed months in attaining, was reached in a moment. While these
incidents were fresh in her memory, they were accompanied with a sort of
trepidation, the offspring at once of pleasure and surprise.
Ormond had not deceived her expectations; but hearsay and personal
examination, however uniform their testimony may be, produce a very
different impression. In her present reflections, Helena and her lover
approached to the front of the stage, and were viewed with equal
perspicuity. One consequence of this was, that their characters were
more powerfully contrasted with each other, and the eligibility of
marriage appeared not quite so incontestable as before.
Was not equality implied in this compact? Marriage is an instrument of
pleasure or pain in proportion as this equality is more or less. What
but the fascination of his senses is it that ties Ormond to Helena. Is
this a basis en which marriage may properly be built?
If things had not gone thus far, the impropriety of marriage could not
be doubted; but, at present, there is a choice of evils, and that may
now be desirable which at a former period, and in different
circumstances, would have been clearly otherwise.
The evils of the present connection are known; those of marriage are
future and contingent. Helena cannot be the object of a genuine and
lasting passion; another may; this is not merely possible; nothing is
more likely to happen. This event, therefore, ought to be included in
our calculation. There would be a material deficiency without it. What
was the amount of the misery that would in this case ensue?
Constantia was qualified, beyond most others, to form an adequate
conception of this misery. One of the ingredients in her character was a
mild and steadfast enthusiasm. Her sensibilities to social pleasure, and
her conceptions of the benefits to flow from the conformity and
concurrence of intentions and wishes, heightening and refining the
sensual passion, were exquisite.
There, indeed, were evils, the foresight of which tended to prevent
them; but was there wisdom in creating obstacles in the way of a
suitable alliance. Before we act, we must consider not only the misery
produced, but the happiness precluded by our measures.
In no case, perhaps, is the decision of a human being impartial, or
totally uninfluenced by sinister and selfish motives. If Constantia
surpassed others, it was not because her motives were pure, but because
they possessed more of purity than those of others. Sinister
considerations flow in upon us through imperceptible channels, and
modify our thoughts in numberless ways, without our being truly
conscious of their presence. Constantia was young, and her heart was
open at a thousand pores, to the love of excellence. The image of Ormond
occupied the chief place in her fancy, and was endowed with attractive
and venerable qualities. A bias was hence created that swayed her
thoughts, though she knew not that they were swayed. To this might
justly be imputed some part of that reluctance which she now felt to
give Ormond to Helena. But this was not sufficient to turn the scale.
That which had previously mounted was indeed heavier than before; but
this addition did not enable it to outweigh its opposite. Marriage was
still the best upon the whole; but her heart was tortured to think that,
best as it was, it abounded with so many evils.
On the evening of the next day, Ormond entered, with careless
abruptness, Constantia's sitting-apartment. He was introduced to her
father. A general and unrestrained conversation immediately took place.
Ormond addressed Mr. Dudley with the familiarity of an old acquaintance.
In three minutes, all embarrassment was discarded. The lady and her
visitant were accurate observers of each other. In the remarks of the
latter, (and his vein was an abundant one) there was a freedom and
originality altogether new to his hearers. In his easiest and
sprightliest sallies were tokens of a mind habituated to profound and
extensive views. His associations were forced on a comprehensive scale.
He pretended to nothing, and studied the concealments of ambiguity more
in reality than in appearance. Constantia, however, discovered a
sufficient resemblance between their theories of virtue and duty. The
difference between them lay in the inferences arbitrarily deduced, and
in which two persons may vary without end, and yet never be repugnant.
Constantia delighted her companions by the facility with which she
entered into his meaning, the sagacity she displayed in drawing out his
hints, circumscribing his conjectures, and thwarting or qualifying his
maxims. The scene was generally replete with ardour and contention, and
yet the impression left on the mind of Ormond was full of harmony. Her
discourse tended to rouse him from his lethargy, to furnish him with
powerful excitements; and the time spent in her company seemed like a
doubling of existence.
The comparison could not but suggest itself between this scene and that
exhibited by Helena. With the latter, voluptuous blandishments, musical
prattle, and silent but expressive homage, composed a banquet delicious
fur awhile, but whose sweetness now began to pall upon his taste. It
supplied him with no new ideas, and hindered him, by the lulling
sensations it inspired, from profiting by his former acquisitions.
Helena was beautiful. Apply the scale, and not a member was found
inelegantly disposed, or negligently moulded. Not a curve that was
blemished by an angle or ruffled by asperities. The irradiations of her
eyes were able to dissolve the knottiest fibres, and their azure was
serene beyond any that nature had elsewhere exhibited. Over the rest of
her form the glistening and rosy hues were diffused with prodigal
luxuriance, and mingled in endless and wanton variety. Yet this image
had fewer attractions even to the senses than that of Constantia. So
great is the difference between forms animated by different degrees of
intelligence.
The interviews of Ormond and Constantia grew more frequent. The progress
which they made in acknowledgement of each other was rapid. Two
positions, that were favourite ones with him, were quickly subverted. He
was suddenly changed, from being one of the calumniators of the female
sex, to one of its warmest eulogists. This was a point on which
Constantia had ever been a vigorous disputant; but her arguments, in
their direct tendency, would never have made a convert of this man.
Their force, intrinsically considered, was nothing. He drew his
conclusions from incidental circumstances. Her reasonings might be
fallacious or valid, but they were composed, arranged, and delivered,
were drawn from such sources, and accompanied with such illustrations,
as plainly testified a manlike energy in the reasoner. In this indirect
and circuitous way her point was unanswerably established.
"Your reasoning is bad," he would say: "every one of your conclusions is
false. Not a single allegation but may be easily confuted; and yet I
allow that your position is incontrovertibly proved by them. How
bewildered is that man who never thinks for himself! who rejects a
principle merely because the arguments brought in support of it are
insufficient! I must not reject the truth because another has
unjustifiably adopted it. I want to reach a certain hill-top. Another
has reached it before me, but the ladder he used is too weak to bear me.
What then? Am I to stay below on that account? No; I have only to
construct one suitable to the purpose, and of strength sufficient."
A second maxim had never been confuted till now. It inculcated the
insignificance and hollowness of love. No pleasure he thought was to be
despised for its own sake. Every thing was good in its place, but
amorous gratifications were to be degraded to the bottom of the
catalogue. The enjoyments of music and landscape were of a much higher
order. Epicurism itself was entitled to more respect. Love, in itself,
was in his opinion of little worth, and only of importance as the source
of the most terrible of intellectual maladies. Sexual sensations
associating themselves, in a certain way, with our ideas, beget a
disease, which has, indeed, found no place in the catalogue, but is a
case of more entire subversion and confusion of mind than any other. The
victim is callous to the sentiments of honour and shame, insensible to
the most palpable distinctions of right and wrong, a systematic opponent
of testimony and obstinate perverter of truth.
Ormond was partly right. Madness like death can be averted by no
foresight or previous contrivance; This probably is one of its
characteristics. He that witnesses its influence on another with most
horror, and most fervently deprecates its ravages, is not therefore more
safe. This circumstance was realized in the history of Ormond.
This infatuation, if it may so be called, was gradual in its progress.
The sensations which Helena was now able to excite were of a new kind.
Her power was not merely weakened, but her endeavours counteracted their
own end. Her fondness was rejected with disdain, or borne with
reluctance. The lady was not slow in perceiving this change. The stroke
of death would have been more acceptable. His own reflections were too
tormenting to make him willing to discuss them in words. He was not
aware of the effects produced by this change in his demeanour, till
informed of it by herself.
One evening he displayed symptoms of uncommon dissatisfaction. Her
tenderness was unable to dispel it. He complained of want of sleep. This
afforded a hint which she drew forth in one of her enchanting ditties.
Habit had almost conferred upon her the power of spontaneous poesy, and,
while she pressed his forehead to her bosom, she warbled forth a strain
airy and exuberant in numbers, tender and ecstatic in its imagery:--
Sleep, extend thy downy pinion
Hasten from thy cell with speed;
Spread around thy soft dominion;
Much those brows thy balmy presence need.
Wave thy wand of slumberous power,
Moistened in Lethean dews,
To charm the busy spirits of the hour,
And brighten memory's malignant hues.
Thy mantle, dark and starless, cast
Over my selected youth;
Bury in thy womb the mournful past,
And soften with thy dreams th' asperities of truth.
The changeful hues of his impassioned sleep,
My office it shall be to watch the while;
With thee, my love, when fancy prompts, to weep,
And when thou smil'st, to smile.
But sleep! I charge thee, visit not these eyes,
Nor raise thy dark pavilion here,
'Till morrow from the cave of ocean arise,
And whisper tuneful joy in nature's ear.
But mutely let me lie, and sateless gaze
At all the soul that in his visage sits,
While spirits of harmonious air--
Here her voice sunk, and the line terminated in a sigh. Her museful
ardours were chilled by the looks of Ormond. Absorbed in his own
thoughts, he appeared scarcely to attend to this strain. His sternness
was proof against her accustomed fascinations. At length she
pathetically complained of his coldness, and insinuated her suspicions
that his affection was transferred to another object. He started from
her embrace, and after two or three turns across the room, he stood
before her. His large eyes were steadfastly fixed upon her face.
"Aye," said he, "thou hast guessed right. The love, poor as it was, that
I had for thee, is gone: henceforth thou art desolate indeed. Would to
God thou wert wise. Thy woes are but beginning; I fear they will
terminate fatally; if so, the catastrophe cannot come too quickly.
"I disdain to appeal to thy justice, Helena, to remind thee of
conditions solemnly and explicitly assumed. Shall thy blood be upon thy
own head? No. I will bear it myself. Though the load would crush a
mountain, I will bear it.
"I cannot help it; I make not myself; I am moulded by circumstances;
whether I shall love thee or not is no longer in my own choice. Marriage
if indeed still in my power. I may give thee any name, and share with
thee my fortune. Will these content thee? Thou canst not partake of my
love. Thou canst have no part in my tenderness. These, are reserved for
another more worthy than thou.
"But no. Thy state is to the last degree forlorn, even marriage is
denied thee. Thou wast contented to take me without it,--to dispense
with the name of wife; but the being who has displaced thy image in thy
heart is of a different class. She will be to me a wife, or nothing; and
I must be her husband, or perish.
"Do not deceive thyself, Helena. I know what it is in which thou hast
placed thy felicity. Life is worth retaining by thee but on one
condition. I know the incurableness of thy infirmity; but be not
deceived. Thy happiness is ravished from thee. The condition on which
thou consentedst to live is annulled. I love thee no longer.
"No truth was ever more delicious; none was ever more detestable. I
fight against conviction, and I cling to it. That I love thee no longer
is at once a subject of joy, and of mourning. I struggle to believe
thee superior to this shock; that thou wilt be happy, though deserted by
me. Whatever be thy destiny, my reason will not allow me to be miserable
on that account. Yet I would give the world--I would forfeit every claim
but that which I hope upon the heart of Constantia--to be sure that thy
tranquillity will survive this stroke.
"But let come what will, look no longer to me for offices of love.
Henceforth all intercourse of tenderness ceases,--perhaps all personal
intercourse whatever. But though this good be refused, thou art sure of
independence. I will guard thy ease and thy honour with a father's
scrupulousness. Would to Heaven a sister could be created by adoption! I
am willing, for thy sake, to be an impostor. I will own thee to the
world for my sister, and carry thee whither the cheat shall never be
detected. I would devote my whole life to prevarication and falsehood
for thy sake, if that would suffice to make thee happy."
To this speech Helena had nothing to answer: her sobs and tears choked
all utterance. She hid her face with her handkerchief, and sat powerless
and overwhelmed with despair. Ormond traversed the room uneasily,
sometimes moving to and fro with quick steps, sometimes standing and
eyeing her with looks of compassion. At length he spoke:--
"It is time to leave you. This is the first night that you will spend in
dreary solitude. I know it will be sleepless and full of agony; but the
sentence cannot be recalled. Henceforth regard me as a brother. I will
prove myself one. All other claims are swallowed up in a superior
affection." In saying this, he left the house, and, almost without
intending it, found himself in a few minutes at Mr. Dudley's door.