The politeness of Melbourne had somewhat abated Mr. Dudley's aversion to
society. He allowed himself sometimes to comply with urgent invitations.
On this evening he happened to be at the house of that gentleman. Ormond
entered, and found Constantia alone. An interview of this kind was
seldom enjoyed, though earnestly wished for, by Constantia, who was
eager to renew the subject of her first conversation with Ormond. I have
already explained the situation of her mind. All her wishes were
concentred in the marriage of Helena. The eligibility of this scheme, in
every view which she took of it, appeared in a stronger light. She was
not aware that any new obstacle had arisen. She was free from the
consciousness of any secret bias. Much less did her modesty suspect
that she herself would prove an insuperable impediment to this plan.
There was more than usual solemnity in Ormond's demeanour. After he was
seated, he continued, contrary to his custom, to be silent. These
singularities were not unobserved by Constantia. They did not, however,
divert her from her purpose.
"I am glad to see you," said she. "We so seldom enjoy the advantage of a
private interview. I have much to say to you. You authorize me to
deliberate on your actions, and, in some measure, to prescribe to you.
This is a province which I hope to discharge with integrity and
diligence. I am convinced that Helena's happiness and your own can be
secured in one way only. I will emulate your candour, and come at once
to the point. Why have you delayed so long the justice that is due to
this helpless and lovely girl? There are a thousand reasons why you
should think of no other alternative. You have been pleased to repose
some degree of confidence in my judgement. Hear my full and deliberate
opinion. Make Helena your wife. This is the unequivocal prescription of
your duty."
This address was heard by Ormond without surprise; but his countenance
betrayed the acuteness of his feelings. The bitterness that overflowed
his heart was perceptible in his tone when he spoke:--
"Most egregiously are you deceived. Such is the line with which human
capacity presumes to fathom futurity. With all your discernment you do
not see that marriage would effectually destroy me. You do not see that,
whether beneficial or otherwise in its effects, marriage is impossible.
You are merely prompting me to suicide: but how shall I inflict the
wound? Where is the weapon? See you not that I am powerless? Leap, say
you, into the flames. See you not that I am fettered? Will a mountain
move at your bidding? Sooner than I in the path which you prescribe to
me."
This speech was inexplicable. She pressed him to speak less
enigmatically. Had he formed his resolution? If so, arguments and
remonstrances were superfluous. Without noticing her interrogatories, he
continued:--
"I am too hasty in condemning you. You judge, not against, but without
knowledge. When sufficiently informed, your decision will be right. Yet
how can you be ignorant? Can you for a moment contemplate yourself and
me, and not perceive an insuperable bar to this union?"
"You place me," said Constantia, "in a very disagreeable predicament. I
have not deserved this treatment from you. This is an unjustifiable
deviation from plain dealing. Of what impediment do you speak. I can
safely say that I know of none."
"Well," resumed he, with augmented eagerness, "I must supply you with
knowledge. I repeat, that I perfectly rely on the rectitude of your
judgement. Summon all your sagacity and disinterestedness and choose for
me. You know in what light Helena has been viewed by me. I have ceased
to view her in this light. She has become an object of indifference.
Nay, I am not certain that I do not hate her,--not indeed for her own
sake, but because I love another. Shall I marry her whom I hate, when
there exists one whom I love with unconquerable ardour?"
Constantia was thunderstruck with this intelligence. She looked at him
with some expression of doubt. "How is this?" said she. "Why did you not
tell me this before?"
"When I last talked with you on this subject I knew it not myself. It
has occurred since. I have seized the first occasion that has offered
to inform you of it. Say now, since such is my condition, ought Helena
to be my wife?"
Constantia was silent. Her heart bled for what she foresaw would be the
sufferings and forlorn destiny of Helena. She had not courage to inquire
further into this new engagement.
"I wait for your answer, Constantia. Shall I defraud myself of all the
happiness which would accrue from a match of inclination? Shall I put
fetters on my usefulness? This is the style in which you speak. Shall I
preclude all the good to others that would flow from a suitable
alliance? Shall I abjure the woman I love, and marry her whom I hate?"
"Hatred," replied the lady, "is a harsh word. Helena has not deserved
that you should hate her. I own this is a perplexing circumstance. It
would be wrong to determine hastily. Suppose you give yourself to
Helena: will more than yourself be injured by it? Who is this lady?
Will she be rendered unhappy by a determination in favour of another?
This is a point of the utmost importance."
At these words Ormond forsook his seat, and advanced close up to
Constantia:--"You say true. This is a point of inexpressible importance.
It would be presumption in me to decide. That is the lady's own
province. And now, say truly, are you willing to accept Ormond with all
his faults? Who but yourself could be mistress of all the springs of my
soul? I know the sternness of your probity. This discovery will only
make you more strenuously the friend of Helena. Yet why should you not
shun either extreme? Lay yourself out of view. And yet, perhaps the
happiness of Constantia is not unconcerned in this question. Is there no
part of me in which you discover your own likeness? Am I deceived, or is
it an incontrollable destiny that unites us?"
This declaration was truly unexpected by Constantia. She gathered from
it nothing but excitements of grief. After some pause she said:--"This
appeal to me has made no change in my opinion. I still think that
justice requires you to become the husband of Helena. As to me, do you
think my happiness rests upon so slight a foundation? I cannot love but
when my understanding points out to me the propriety of love. Ever since
I have known you I have looked upon you as rightfully belonging to
another. Love could not take place in my circumstances. Yet I will not
conceal from you my sentiments. I am not sure that, in different
circumstances, I should not have loved. I am acquainted with your worth.
I do not look for a faultless man. I have met with none whose blemishes
were fewer.
"It matters not, however, what I should have been. I cannot interfere,
in this case, with the claims of my friend. I have no passion to
struggle with. I hope, in every vicissitude, to enjoy your esteem, and
nothing more. There is but one way in which mine can be secured, and
that is by espousing this unhappy girl."
"No!" exclaimed Ormond. "Require not impossibilities. Helena can never
be any thing to me. I should, with unspeakably more willingness, assail
my own life."
"What," said the lady, "will Helena think of this sudden and dreadful
change? I cannot bear to think upon the feelings that this information
will excite."
"She knows it already. I have this moment left her. I explained to her,
in a few words, my motives, and assured her of my unalterable
resolution. I have vowed never to see her more but as a brother; and
this vow she has just heard."
Constantia could not suppress her astonishment and compassion at this
intelligence:--"No surely; you could not be so cruel! And this was done
with your usual abruptness, I suppose. Precipitate and implacable man!
Cannot you foresee the effects of this madness? You have planted a
dagger in her heart. You have disappointed me. I did not think you could
act so inhumanly."
"Nay, beloved Constantia, be not so liberal of your reproaches. Would
you have me deceive her? She must shortly have known it. Could the truth
be told too soon?"
"Much too soon," replied the lady, fervently. "I have always condemned
the maxims by which you act. Your scheme is headlong and barbarous.
Could not you regard with some little compassion that love that
sacrificed, for your unworthy sake, honest fame and the peace of virtue?
Is she not a poor outcast, goaded by compunction, and hooted at by a
malignant and misjudging world? And who was it that reduced her to this
deplorable condition? For whose sake did she willingly consent to brave
evils, by which the stoutest heart is appalled? Did this argue no
greatness of mind? Who ever surpassed her in fidelity and tenderness?
But thus has she been rewarded. I shudder to think what may be the
event. Her courage cannot possibly support her against treatment so
harsh, so perversely and wantonly cruel. Heaven grant that you are not
shortly made bitterly to lament this rashness!"
Ormond was penetrated with these reproaches. They persuaded him for a
moment that his deed was wrong; that he had not unfolded his intentions
to Helena with a suitable degree of gentleness and caution. Little more
was said on this occasion. Constantia exhorted him, in the most earnest
and pathetic manner, to return and recant, or extenuate, his former
declarations. He could not be brought to promise compliance. When he
parted from her, however, he was half resolved to act as she advised.
Solitary reflection made him change this resolution, and he returned to
his own house.
During the night he did little else than ruminate on the events of the
preceding evening. He entertained little doubt of his ultimate success
with Constantia. She gratified him in nothing, but left him every thing
to hope. She had hitherto, it seems, regarded him with indifference, but
this had been sufficiently explained. That conduct would be pursued, and
that passion be entertained, which her judgement should previously
approve. What then was the obstacle? It originated in the claims of
Helena. But what were these claims? It was fully ascertained that he
should never be united to this girl. If so, the end contemplated by
Constantia, and for the sake of which only his application was rejected,
could never be obtained. Unless her rejection of him could procure a
husband for her friend, it would, on her own principles, be improper and
superfluous.
What was to be done with Helena? It was a terrible alternative to which
he was reduced:--to marry her or see her perish. But was this
alternative quite sure? Could not she, by time or by judicious
treatment, be reconciled to her lot? It was to be feared that he had not
made a suitable beginning: and yet, perhaps it was most expedient that a
hasty and abrupt sentence should be succeeded by forbearance and lenity.
He regretted his precipitation, and though unused to the melting mood,
tears were wrung from him by the idea of the misery which he had
probably occasioned. He was determined to repair his misconduct as
speedily as possible, and to pay her a conciliating visit the next
morning.
He went early to her house. He was informed by the servant that her
mistress had not yet risen. "Was it usual," he asked, "for her to lie so
late?" "No," he was answered, "she never knew it happen before, but she
supposed her mistress was not well. She was just going into her chamber
to see what was the matter."
"Why," said Ormond, "do you suppose that she is sick?"
"She was poorly last night. About nine o'clock she sent out for some
physic to make her sleep."
"To make her sleep?" exclaimed Ormond, in a fettering and affrighted
accent.
"Yes: she said she wanted it for that. So I went to the 'pothecary's.
When I came back she was very poorly indeed. I asked her if I might not
sit up with her. 'No,' she said, 'I do not want anybody. You may go to
bed as soon as you please, and tell Fabian to do the same. I shall not
want you again.'"
"What did you buy?"
"Some kind of water,--laud'num I think they call it. She wrote it down,
and I carried the paper to Mr. Eckhart's, and he gave it to me in a
bottle, and I gave it to my mistress."
"'Tis well: retire: I will see how she is myself."
Ormond had conceived himself fortified against every disaster: he looked
for nothing but evil, and therefore, in ordinary cases, regarded its
approach without fear or surprise. Now, however, he found that his
tremors would not be stilled: his perturbations increased with every
step that brought him nearer to her chamber. He knocked, but no answer
was returned. He opened the door, advanced to the bed side, and drew
back the curtains. He shrunk from the spectacle that presented itself.
Was this the Helena that, a few hours before, was blithesome with health
and radiant with beauty? Her visage was serene, but sunken and pale.
Death was in every line of it. To his tremulous and hurried scrutiny
every limb was rigid and cold.
The habits of Ormond tended to obscure the appearances, if not to deaden
the emotions of sorrow. He was so much accustomed to the frustration of
well-intended efforts, and confided so much in his own integrity, that
he was not easily disconcerted. He had merely to advert, on this
occasion, to the tumultuous state of his feelings, in order to banish
their confusion and restore himself to calm. "Well," said he, as he
dropped the curtain and turned towards another part of the room, "this,
without doubt, is a rueful spectacle. Can it be helped? Is there in man
the power of recalling her? There is none such in me.
"She is gone: well then, she _is_ gone. If she were fool enough to die,
I am not fool enough to follow her. I am determined to live and be happy
notwithstanding. Why not?
"Yet, this is a piteous night. What is impossible to undo, might be
easily prevented. A piteous spectacle! But what else, on an ampler
scale, is the universe? Nature is a theatre of suffering. What corner
is unvisited by calamity and pain? I have chosen as became me. I would
rather precede thee to the grave, than live to be thy husband.
"Thou hast done my work for me. Thou hast saved thyself and me from a
thousand evils. Thou hast acted as seemed to thee best, and I am
satisfied.
"Hast thou decided erroneously? They that know thee need not marvel at
that. Endless have been the proofs of thy frailty. In favour of this
last act something may be said. It is the last thou wilt ever commit.
Others only will experience its effects; thou hast, at least, provided
for thy own safety.
"But what is here? A letter for me? Had thy understanding been as prompt
as thy fingers, I could have borne with thee. I can easily divine the
contents of this epistle."
He opened it, and found the tenor to be as follows:--
"You did not use, my dear friend, to part with me in this manner.
You never before treated me so roughly. I am, sorry, indeed I am,
that I ever offended you. Could you suppose that I intended it? And
if you knew that I meant not offence, why did you take offence?
"I'm very unhappy, for I have lost you, my friend. You will never
see me more, you say. That is very hard. I have deserved it
to-be-sure, but I do not know how it has happened. Nobody more
desired to please than I have done. Morning, noon, night, it was my
only study; but you will love me no more; you will see me no more.
Forgive me, my friend, but I must say it is very hard.
"You said rightly; I do not wish to live without my friend. I have
spent my life happily heretofore. 'Tis true, these have been
transient uneasinesses, but your love was a reward and a cure for
every thing. I desired nothing better in this world. Did you ever
hear me murmur? No; I was not so unjust. My lot was happy,
infinitely beyond my deserving. I merited not to be loved by you.
Oh that I had suitable words to express my gratitude for your
kindness! but this last meeting,--how different from that which
went before? Yet even then there was something on your brow like
discontent, which I could not warble nor whisper away as I used to
do. But sad as this was, it was nothing like the last.
"Could Ormond be so stern and so terrible? You knew that I would
die, but you need not have talked as if I were in the way, and as
if you had rather I should die than live. But one thing I rejoice
at; I am a poor silly girl, but Constantia is a noble and
accomplished one. Most joyfully do I resign you to her, my dear
friend. You say you love her. She need not be afraid of accepting
you. There will be no danger of your preferring another to her. It
was very natural and very right for you to prefer her to me. She
and you will be happy in each other. It is this that sweetens the
cup I am going to drink. Never did I go to sleep with more
good-will than I now go to death. Fare you well, my dear friend."
This letter was calculated to make a deeper impression on Ormond than
even the sight of Helena's corpse. It was in vain, for some time, that
he endeavoured to reconcile himself to this event. It was seldom that he
was able to forget it. He was obliged to exert all his energies to
enable him to support the remembrance. The task was of course rendered
easier by time.
It was immediately requisite to attend to the disposal of the corpse. He
felt himself unfit for this mournful office. He was willing to relieve
himself from it by any expedient. Helena's next neighbour was an old
lady, whose scruples made her shun all direct intercourse with this
unhappy girl; yet she had performed many acts of neighbourly kindness.
She readily obeyed the summons of Ormond, on this occasion, to take
charge of affairs till another should assert it. Ormond returned home,
and sent the following note to Constantia:--
"You have predicted aright. Helena is dead. In a mind like your's
every grief will be suspended, and every regard absorbed in the
attention due to the remains of this unfortunate girl. _I_ cannot
attend to them."
Constantia was extremely shocked by this intelligence, but she was not
unmindful of her duty. She prepared herself, with mournful alacrity, for
the performance of it. Every thing that the occasion demanded was done
with diligence and care. Till this was accomplished, Ormond could not
prevail upon himself to appear upon the stage. He was informed of this
by a note from Constantia, who requested him to take possession of the
unoccupied dwelling and its furniture.
Among the terms of his contract with Helena, Ormond had voluntarily
inserted the exclusive property of a house and its furniture in this
city, with funds adequate to her plentiful maintenance. These he had
purchased and transferred to her. To this he had afterwards added a
rural retreat, in the midst of spacious and well-cultivated fields,
three miles from Perth-Amboy, and seated on the right bank of the Sound.
It is proper to mention that this farm was formerly the property of Mr.
Dudley,--had been fitted up by him, and used as his summer abode during
his prosperity. In the division of his property it had fallen to one of
his creditors, from whom it had been purchased by Ormond. This
circumstance, in conjunction with the love which she bore to Constantia,
had suggested to Helena a scheme, which her want of foresight would, in
different circumstances, have occasioned her to overlook. It was that of
making her testament, by which she bequeathed all that she possessed to
her friend. This was not done without the knowledge and cheerful
concurrence of Ormond, who, together with Melbourne and another
respectable citizen, were named executors. Melbourne and his friend were
induced by their respect for Constantia to consent to this nomination.
This had taken place before Ormond and Constantia had been introduced to
each other. After this event, Ormond had sometimes been employed in
contriving means for securing to his new friend and her father a
subsistence, more certain than the will of Helena could afford. Her
death he considered as an event equally remote and undesirable. This
event, however unexpectedly, had now happened, and precluded the
necessity of further consideration on this head.
Constantia could not but accept this bequest. Had it been her wish to
decline it, it was not in her power, but she justly regarded the
leisure and independence thus conferred upon her, as inestimable
benefits. It was a source of unbounded satisfaction on her father's
account, who was once more seated in the bosom of affluence. Perhaps, in
a rational estimate, one of the most fortunate events that could have
befallen those persons, was that period of adversity through which they
had been doomed to pass. Most of the defects that adhered to the
character of Mr. Dudley, had, by this means, been exterminated. He was
now cured of those prejudices which his early prosperity had instilled,
and which had flowed from luxurious indigencies. He had learned to
estimate himself at his true value, and to sympathize with sufferings
which he himself had partaken.
It was easy to perceive in what light Constantia was regarded by her
father. He never reflected on his relation to her without rapture. Her
qualities were the objects of his adoration. He resigned himself with
pleasure to her guidance. The chain of subordination and duties was
reversed. By the ascendancy of her genius and wisdom the province of
protection and the tribute of homage had devolved upon her. This had
resulted from incessant experience of the wisdom of her measures, and
the spectacle of her fortitude and skill in every emergency.
It seemed as if but one evil adhered to the condition of this man. His
blindness was an impediment to knowledge and enjoyment, of which, the
utmost to be hoped was, that he should regard it without pungent regret,
and that he should sometimes forget it; that his mind should
occasionally stray into foreign paths, and lose itself in sprightly
conversations, or benign reveries. This evil, however, was by no means
remediless.
A surgeon of uncommon skill had lately arrived from Europe. He was one
of the numerous agents and dependants of Ormond and had been engaged to
abdicate his native country for purposes widely remote from his
profession. The first use that was made of him was to introduce him to
Mr. Dudley. The diseased organs were critically examined, and the
patient was, with considerable difficulty, prevailed upon to undergo the
necessary operation. His success corresponded with Constantia's wishes,
and her father was once more restored to the enjoyment of light.
These were auspicious events. Constantia held herself amply repaid by
them for all that she had suffered. These sufferings had indeed been
light, when compared with the effects usually experienced by others in a
similar condition. Her wisdom had extracted its sting from adversity,
and without allowing herself to feel much of the evils of its reign,
had employed it as an instrument by which the sum of her present
happiness was increased. Few suffered less in the midst of poverty, than
she. No one ever extracted more felicity from the prosperous reverse.