After a night of repose rather than of sleep, I began the search after
my friend. I went to the house which the Dudleys formerly inhabited, and
which had been the asylum of my infancy. It was now occupied by
strangers, by whom no account could be given of its former tenants. I
obtained directions to the owner of the house. He was equally unable to
satisfy my curiosity. The purchase had been made at a public sale, and
terms had been settled, not with Dudley, but with the sheriff.
It is needless to say that the history of Craig's imposture and its
consequences were confirmed by every one who resided at that period in
New York. The Dudleys were well remembered, and their disappearance,
immediately after their fall, had been generally noticed; but whither
they had retired was a problem which no one was able to solve.
This evasion was strange. By what motives the Dudleys were induced to
change their ancient abode could be vaguely guessed. My friend's
grandfather was a native of the West Indies. Descendants of the same
stock still resided in Tobago. They might be affluent, and to them it
was possible that Mr. Dudley, in this change of fortune, had betaken
himself for relief. This was a mournful expedient, since it would raise
a barrier between my friend and myself scarcely to be surmounted.
Constantia's mother was stolen by Mr. Dudley from a convent at Amiens.
There were no affinities, therefore, to draw them to France. Her
grandmother was a native of Baltimore, of a family of some note, by name
Ridgeley. This family might still exist, and have either afforded an
asylum to the Dudleys, or, at least, be apprized of their destiny. It
was obvious to conclude that they no longer existed within the precincts
of New York. A journey to Baltimore was the next expedient.
This journey was made in the depth of winter, and by the speediest
conveyance. I made no more than a day's sojourn in Philadelphia. The
epidemic by which that city had been lately ravaged, I had not heard of
till my arrival in America. Its devastations were then painted to my
fancy in the most formidable colours. A few months only had elapsed
since its extinction, and I expected to see numerous marks of misery and
depopulation.
To my no small surprise, however, no vestiges of this calamity were to
be discerned. All houses were open, all streets thronged, and all faces
thoughtless or busy. The arts and the amusements of life seemed as
sedulously cultivated as ever. Little did I then think what had been,
and what at that moment was, the condition of my friend. I stopped for
the sake of respite from fatigue, and did not, therefore, pass much time
in the streets. Perhaps, had I walked seasonably abroad, we might have
encountered each other, and thus have saved ourselves from a thousand
anxieties.
At Baltimore I made myself known, without the formality of introduction,
to the Ridgeleys. They acknowledged their relationship to Mr. Dudley,
but professed absolute ignorance of his fate. Indirect intercourse only
had been maintained, formerly, by Dudley with his mother's kindred. They
had heard of his misfortune a twelvemonth after it happened; but what
measures had been subsequently pursued, their kinsman had not thought
proper to inform them.
The failure of this expedient almost bereft me of hope. Neither my own
imagination nor the Ridgeleys could suggest any new mode by which my
purpose was likely to be accomplished. To leave America without
obtaining the end of my visit could not be thought of without agony; and
yet the continuance of my stay promised me no relief from my
uncertainties.
On this theme I ruminated without ceasing. I recalled every conversation
and incident of former times, and sought in them a clue by which my
present conjectures might be guided. One night, immersed alone in my
chamber, my thoughts were thus employed. My train of meditation was, on
this occasion, new. From the review of particulars from which no
satisfaction had hitherto been gained, I passed to a vague and
comprehensive retrospect.
Mr. Dudley's early life, his profession of a painter, his zeal in this
pursuit, and his reluctance to quit it, were remembered. Would he not
revert to this profession when other means of subsistence were gone? It
is true, similar obstacles with those which had formerly occasioned his
resort to a different path existed at present, and no painter of his
name was to be found in Philadelphia, Baltimore, or New York. But would
it not occur to him, that the patronage denied to his skill by the
frugal and unpolished habits of his countrymen might, with more
probability of success, be sought from the opulence and luxury of
London? Nay, had he not once affirmed, in my hearing, that, if he ever
were reduced to poverty, this was the method he would pursue?
This conjecture was too bewitching to be easily dismissed. Every new
reflection augmented its force. I was suddenly raised by it from the
deepest melancholy to the region of lofty and gay hopes. Happiness, of
which I had begun to imagine myself irretrievably bereft, seemed once
more to approach within my reach. Constantia would not only be found,
but be met in the midst of those comforts which her father's skill could
not fail to procure, and on that very stage where I most desired to
encounter her. Mr. Dudley had many friends and associates of his youth
in London. Filial duty had repelled their importunities to fix his abode
in Europe, when summoned home by his father. On his father's death these
solicitations had been renewed, but were disregarded for reasons which
he, afterwards, himself confessed were fallacious. That they would a
third time be preferred, and would regulate his conduct, seemed to me
incontestable.
I regarded with wonder and deep regret the infatuation that had
hitherto excluded these images from my understanding and my memory. How
many dangers and toils had I endured since my embarkation at Naples, to
the present moment! How many lingering minutes had I told since my first
interview with Courtland! All were owing to my own stupidity. Had my
present thoughts been seasonably suggested, I might long since have been
restored to the embraces of my friend, without the necessity of an
hour's separation from my husband.
These were evils to be repaired as far as it was possible. Nothing now
remained but to procure a passage to Europe. For this end diligent
inquiries were immediately set on foot. A vessel was found, which, in a
few weeks, would set out upon the voyage. Having bespoken a conveyance,
it was incumbent on me to sustain with patience the unwelcome delay.
Meanwhile, my mind, delivered from the dejection and perplexities that
lately haunted it, was capable of some attention to surrounding objects.
I marked the peculiarities of manners and language in my new abode, and
studied the effects which a political and religious system so opposite
to that with which I had conversed in Italy and Switzerland had
produced. I found that the difference between Europe and America lay
chiefly in this:--that, in the former, all things tended to extremes,
whereas, in the latter, all things tended to the same level. Genius, and
virtue, and happiness, on these shores, were distinguished by a sort of
mediocrity. Conditions were less unequal, and men were strangers to the
heights of enjoyment and the depths of misery to which the inhabitants
of Europe are accustomed.
I received friendly notice and hospitable treatment from the Ridgeleys.
These people were mercantile and plodding in their habits. I found in
their social circle little exercise for the sympathies of my heart, and
willingly accepted their aid to enlarge the sphere of my observation.
About a week before my intended embarkation, and when suitable
preparation had been made for that event, a lady arrived in town, who
was cousin to my Constantia. She had frequently been mentioned in
favourable terms in my hearing. She had passed her life in a rural
abode with her father, who cultivated his own domain, lying forty miles
from Baltimore.
On an offer being made to introduce us to each other, I consented to
know one whose chief recommendation in my eyes consisted in her affinity
to Constantia Dudley. I found an artless and attractive female,
unpolished and undepraved by much intercourse with mankind. At first
sight, I was powerfully struck by the resemblance of her features to
those of my friend, which sufficiently denoted their connection with a
common stock.
The first interview afforded mutual satisfaction. On our second meeting,
discourse insensibly led to the mention of Miss Dudley, and of the
design which had brought me to America. She was deeply affected by the
earnestness with which I expatiated on her cousin's merits, and by the
proofs which my conduct had given of unlimited attachment.
I dwelt immediately on the measures which I had hitherto ineffectually
pursued to trace her footsteps, and detailed the grounds of my present
belief that we should meet in London. During this recital, my companion
sighed and wept. When I finished my tale, her tears, instead of ceasing,
flowed with new vehemence. This appearance excited some surprise, and I
ventured to ask the cause of her grief.
"Alas!" she replied, "I am personally a stranger to my cousin, but her
character has been amply displayed to me by one who knew her well. I
weep to think how much she has suffered. How much excellence we have
lost!"
"Nay," said I, "all her sufferings will, I hope, be compensated, and I
by no means consider her as lost. If my search in London be
unsuccessful, then shall I indeed despair."
"Despair, then, already," said my sobbing companion, "for your search
will be unsuccessful. How I feel for your disappointment! but it cannot
be known too soon. My cousin is dead!"
These tidings were communicated with tokens of sincerity and sorrow that
left me no room to doubt that they were believed by the relater. My own
emotions were suspended till interrogations had obtained a knowledge of
her reasons for crediting this fatal event, and till she had explained
the time and manner of her death. A friend of Miss Ridgeley's father had
witnessed the devastations of the yellow fever in Philadelphia. He was
apprized of the relationship that subsisted between his friend and the
Dudleys. He gave a minute and circumstantial account of the arts of
Craig. He mentioned the removal of my friends to Philadelphia, their
obscure and indigent life, and, finally, their falling victims to the
pestilence.
He related the means by which he became apprized of their fate, and drew
a picture of their death, surpassing all that imagination can conceive
of shocking and deplorable. The quarter where they lived was nearly
desolate. Their house was shut up, and, for a time, imagined to be
uninhabited. Some suspicions being awakened in those who superintended
the burial of the dead, the house was entered, and the father and child
discovered to be dead. The former was stretched upon his wretched
pallet, while the daughter was found on the floor of the lower room, in
a state that denoted the sufferance not only of disease, but of famine.
This tale was false. Subsequent discoveries proved this to be a
detestable artifice of Craig, who, stimulated by incurable habits, had
invented these disasters, for the purpose of enhancing the opinion of
his humanity and of furthering his views on the fortune and daughter of
Mr. Ridgeley.
Its falsehood, however, I had as yet no means of ascertaining. I
received it as true, and at once dismissed all my claims upon futurity.
All hope of happiness, in this mutable and sublunary scene, was fled.
Nothing remained but to join my friend in a world where woes are at an
end and virtue finds recompense. "Surely," said I, "there will some time
be a close to calamity and discord. To those whose lives have been
blameless, but harassed by inquietudes to which not their own but the
errors of others have given birth, a fortress will hereafter be
assigned unassailable by change, impregnable to sorrow.
"O my ill-fated Constantia! I will live to cherish thy remembrance, and
to emulate thy virtue. I will endure the privation of thy friendship and
the vicissitudes that shall befall me, and draw my consolation and
courage from the foresight of no distant close to this terrestrial
scene, and of ultimate and everlasting union with thee."
This consideration, though it kept me from confusion and despair, could
not, but with the healing aid of time, render me tranquil or strenuous.
My strength was unequal to the struggle of my passions. The ship in
which I engaged to embark could not wait for my restoration to health,
and I was left behind.
Mary Ridgeley was artless and affectionate. She saw that her society was
dearer to me than that of any other, and was therefore seldom willing to
leave my chamber. Her presence, less on her own account than by reason
of her personal resemblance and her affinity by birth to Constantia, was
a powerful solace.
I had nothing to detain me longer in America. I was anxious to change my
present lonely state, for the communion of those friends in England, and
the performance of those duties, which were left to me. I was informed
that a British packet would shortly sail from New York. My frame was
sunk into greater weakness than I had felt at any former period; and I
conceived that to return to New York by water was more commodious than
to perform the journey by land.
This arrangement was likewise destined to be disappointed. One morning I
visited, according to my custom, Mary Ridgeley. I found her in a temper
somewhat inclined to gayety. She rallied me, with great archness, on the
care with which I had concealed from her a tender engagement into which
I had lately entered.
I supposed myself to comprehend her allusion, and therefore answered
that accident, rather than design, had made me silent on the subject of
marriage. She had hitherto known me by no appellation but Sophia
Courtland. I had thought it needless to inform her that I was indebted
for my name to my husband, Courtland being his name.
"All that," said my friend, "I know already. And so you sagely think
that my knowledge goes no further than that? We are not bound to love
our husbands longer than their lives. There is no crime, I believe, in
referring the living to the dead; and most heartily do congratulate you
on your present choice."
"What mean you? I confess, your discourse surpasses my comprehension."
At that moment the bell at the door rung a loud peal. Miss Ridgeley
hastened down at this signal, saying, with much significance,--
"I am a poor hand at solving a riddle. Here comes one who, if I mistake
not, will find no difficulty in clearing up your doubts."
Presently she came up, and said, with a smile of still greater archness,
"Here is a young gentleman, a friend of mine, to whom I must have the
pleasure of introducing you. He has come for the special purpose of
solving my riddle." I attended her to the parlour without hesitation.
She presented me, with great formality, to a youth, whose appearance did
not greatly prepossess me in favour of his judgement. He approached me
with an air supercilious and ceremonious; but the moment he caught a
glance at my face, he shrunk back, visibly confounded and embarrassed. A
pause ensued, in which Miss Ridgeley had opportunity to detect the error
into which she had been led by the vanity of this young man.
"How now, Mr. Martynne!" said my friend, in a tone of ridicule; "is it
possible you do not know the lady who is the queen of your affections,
the tender and indulgent fair one whose portrait you carry in your
bosom, and whose image you daily and nightly bedew with your tears and
kisses?"
Mr. Martynne's confusion, instead of being subdued by his struggle, only
grew more conspicuous; and, after a few incoherent speeches and
apologies, during which he carefully avoided encountering my eyes, he
hastily departed.
I applied to my friend, with great earnestness, for an explanation of
this scene. It seems that, in the course of conversation with him on the
preceding day, he had suffered a portrait which hung at his breast to
catch Miss Ridgeley's eye. On her betraying a desire to inspect it more
nearly, he readily produced it. My image had been too well copied by the
artist not to be instantly recognised.
She concealed her knowledge of the original, and, by questions well
adapted to the purpose, easily drew from him confessions that this was
the portrait of his mistress. He let fall sundry innuendoes and
surmises, tending to impress her with a notion of the rank, fortune, and
intellectual accomplishments of the nymph, and particularly of the
doting fondness and measureless confidence with which she regarded him.
Her imperfect knowledge of my situation left her in some doubt as to the
truth of these pretensions, and she was willing to ascertain the truth
by bringing about an interview. To guard against evasions and artifice
in the lover, she carefully concealed from him her knowledge of the
original, and merely pretended that a friend of hers was far more
beautiful than her whom this picture represented. She added, that she
expected a visit from her friend the next morning, and was willing, by
showing her to Mr. Martynne, to convince him how much he was mistaken in
supposing the perfections of his mistress unrivalled.