The tumults of curiosity and pleasure did not speedily subside. The
story of each other's wanderings was told with endless amplification and
minuteness. Henceforth, the stream of our existence was to mix; we were
to act and to think in common; casual witnesses and written testimony
should become superfluous. Eyes and ears were to be eternally employed
upon the conduct of each other; death, when it should come, was not to
be deplored, because it was an unavoidable and brief privation to her
that should survive. Being, under any modification, is dear; but that
state to which death is a passage is all-desirable to virtue and
all-compensating to grief.
Meanwhile, precedent events were made the themes of endless
conversation. Every incident and passion in the course of four years was
revived and exhibited. The name of Ormond was, of course, frequently
repeated by my friend. His features and deportment were described; her
meditations and resolutions, with regard to him, fully disclosed. My
counsel was asked, in what manner it became her to act.
I could not but harbour aversion to a scheme which should tend to sever
me from Constantia, or to give me a competitor in her affections.
Besides this, the properties of Ormond were of too mysterious a nature
to make him worthy of acceptance. Little more was known concerning him
than what he himself had disclosed to the Dudleys, but this knowledge
would suffice to invalidate his claims.
He had dwelt, in his conversations with Constantia, sparingly on his own
concerns. Yet he did not hide from her that he had been left in early
youth to his own guidance; that he had embraced, when almost a child,
the trade of arms; that he had found service and promotion in the armies
of Potemkin and Romanzow; that he had executed secret and diplomatic
functions at Constantinople and Berlin; that in the latter city he had
met with schemers and reasoners who aimed at the new-modelling of the
world, and the subversion of all that has hitherto been conceived
elementary and fundamental in the constitution of man and of government;
that some of those reformers had secretly united to break down the
military and monarchical fabric of German policy; that others, more
wisely, had devoted their secret efforts, not to overturn, but to build;
that, for this end, they embraced an exploring and colonizing project;
that he had allied himself to these, and for the promotion of their
projects had spent six years of his life in journeys by sea and land, in
tracts unfrequented till then by any European.
What were the moral or political maxims which this adventurous and
visionary sect had adopted, and what was the seat of their new-born
empire,--whether on the shore of an _austral_ continent, or in the heart
of desert America,--he carefully concealed. These were exhibited or
hidden, or shifted, according to his purpose. Not to reveal too much,
and not to tire curiosity or overtask belief, was his daily labour. He
talked of alliance with the family whose name he bore, and who had lost
their honours and estates by the Hanoverian succession to the crown of
England.
I had seen too much of innovation and imposture, in, France and Italy,
not to regard a man like this with aversion and fear. The mind of my
friend was wavering and unsuspicious. She had lived at a distance from
scenes where principles are hourly put to the test of experiment; where
all extremes of fortitude and pusillanimity are accustomed to meet;
where recluse virtue and speculative heroism gives place, as if by
magic, to the last excesses of debauchery and wickedness; where pillage
and murder are engrafted on systems of all-embracing and self-oblivious
benevolence, and the good of mankind is professed to be pursued with
bonds of association and covenants of secrecy. Hence, my friend had
decided without the sanction of experience, had allowed herself to
wander into untried paths, and had hearkened to positions pregnant with
destruction and ignominy.
It was not difficult to exhibit in their true light the enormous errors
of this man, and the danger of prolonging their intercourse. Her assent
to accompany me to England was readily obtained. Too much despatch could
not be used; but the disposal of her property must first take place.
This was necessarily productive of some delay.
I had been made, contrary to inclination, expert in the management of
all affairs relative to property. My mother's lunacy, subsequent
disease, and death, had imposed upon me obligations and cares little
suitable to my sex and age. They could not be eluded or transferred to
others; and, by degrees, experience enlarged my knowledge and
familiarized my tasks.
It was agreed that I should visit and inspect my friend's estate in
Jersey, while she remained in her present abode, to put an end to the
views and expectations of Ormond, and to make preparation for her
voyage. We were reconciled to a temporary separation by the necessity
that prescribed it.
During our residence together, the mind of Constantia was kept in
perpetual ferment. The second day after my departure, the turbulence of
her feelings began to subside, and she found herself at leisure to
pursue those measures which her present situation prescribed.
The time prefixed by Ormond for the termination of his absence had
nearly arrived. Her resolutions respecting this man, lately formed, now
occurred to her. Her heart drooped as she revolved the necessity of
disuniting their fates; but that this disunion was proper could not
admit of doubt. How information of her present views might be most
satisfactorily imparted to him, was a question not instantly decided.
She reflected on the impetuosity of his character, and conceived that
her intentions might be most conveniently unfolded in a letter. This
letter she immediately sat down to write. Just then the door opened, and
Ormond entered the apartment.
She was somewhat, and for a moment, startled by this abrupt and
unlooked-for entrance. Yet she greeted him with pleasure. Her greeting
was received with coldness. A second glance at his countenance informed
her that his mind was somewhat discomposed.
Folding his hands on his breast, ho stalked to the window and looked up
at the moon. Presently he withdrew his gaze from this object, and fixed
it upon Constantia. He spoke, but his words were produced by a kind of
effort.
"Fit emblem," he exclaimed, "of human versatility! One impediment is
gone. I hoped it was the only one. But no! the removal of that merely
made room for another. Let this be removed. Well, fate will interplace a
third. All our toils will thus be frustrated, and the ruin will finally
redound upon our heads." There he stopped.
This strain could not be interpreted by Constantia. She smiled, and,
without noticing his incoherences, proceeded to inquire into his
adventures during their separation. He listened to her, but his eyes,
fixed upon hers, and his solemnity of aspect, were immovable. When she
paused, he seated himself close to her, and, grasping her hand with a
vehemence that almost pained her, said,--
"Look at me; steadfastly. Can you read my thoughts? Can your discernment
reach the bounds of my knowledge and the bottom of my purposes? Catch
you not a view of the monsters that are starting into birth _here_?"
(and he put his left hand to his forehead.) "But you cannot. Should I
paint them to you verbally, you would call me jester or deceiver. What
pity that you have not instruments for piercing into thoughts!"
"I presume," said Constantia, affecting cheerfulness which she did not
feel, "such instruments would be useless to me. You never scruple to say
what you think. Your designs are no sooner conceived than they are
expressed. All you know, all you wish, and all you purpose, are known
to others as soon as to yourself. No scruples of decorum, no foresight
of consequences, are obstacles in your way."
"True," replied he; "all obstacles are trampled under foot but one."
"What is the insuperable one?"
"Incredulity in him that hears. I must not say what will not be
credited. I must not relate feats and avow schemes, when my hearer will
say, 'Those feats were never performed; these schemes are not yours.' I
care not if the truth of my tenets and the practicability of my purposes
be denied. Still, I will openly maintain them; but when my assertions
will themselves be disbelieved, when it is denied that I adopt the creed
and project the plans which I affirm to be adopted and projected by me,
it is needless to affirm.
"To-morrow I mean to ascertain the height of the lunar mountains by
travelling to the top of them. Then I will station myself in the track
of the last comet, and wait till its circumvolution suffers me to leap
upon it; then, by walking on its surface, I will ascertain whether it be
hot enough to burn my soles. Do you believe that this can be done?"
"No."
"Do you believe, in consequence of my assertion, that I design to do
this, and that, in my apprehension, it is easy to be done?"
"Not unless I previously believe you to be lunatic."
"Then why should I assert my purposes? Why speak, when the hearer will
infer nothing from my speech but that I am either lunatic or liar?"
"In that predicament, silence is best."
"In that predicament I now stand. I am not going to unfold myself. Just
now, I pitied thee for want of eyes. 'Twas a foolish compassion. Thou
art happy, because thou seest not an inch before thee or behind." Here
he was for a moment buried in thought; then, breaking from his reverie,
he said, "So your father is dead?"
"True," said Constantia, endeavouring to suppress her rising emotions;
"he is no more. It is so recent an event that I imagined you a stranger
to it."
"False imagination! Thinkest thou I would refrain from knowing what so
nearly concerns us both? Perhaps your opinion of my ignorance extends
beyond this. Perhaps I know not your fruitless search for a picture.
Perhaps I neither followed you nor led you to a being called Sophia
Courtland. I was not present at the meeting. I am unapprized of the
effects of your romantic passion for each other. I did not witness the
rapturous effusions and inexorable counsels of the newcomer. I know not
the contents of the letter which you are preparing to write."
As he spoke this, the accents of Ormond gradually augmented in
vehemence. His countenance bespoke a deepening inquietude and growing
passion. He stopped at the mention of the letter, because his voice was
overpowered by emotion. This pause afforded room for the astonishment of
Constantia. Her interviews and conversations with me took place at
seasons of general repose, when all doors were fast and avenues shut, in
the midst of silence, and in the bosom of retirement. The theme of our
discourse was, commonly, too sacred for any ears but our own;
disclosures were of too intimate and delicate a nature for any but a
female audience; they were too injurious to the fame and peace of Ormond
for him to be admitted to partake of them: yet his words implied a full
acquaintance with recent events, and with purposes and deliberations
shrouded, as we imagined, in impenetrable secrecy.
As soon as Constantia recovered from the confusion of these thoughts,
she eagerly questioned him:--"What do you know? How do you know what has
happened, or what is intended?"
"Poor Constantia!" he exclaimed, in a tone bitter and sarcastic. "How
hopeless is thy ignorance! To enlighten thee is past my power. What
do I know? Every thing. Not a tittle has escaped me. Thy letter is
superfluous; I know its contents before they are written. I was
to be told that a soldier and a traveller, a man who refused his
faith to dreams, and his homage to shadows, merited only scorn and
forgetfulness. That thy affections and person were due to another; that
intercourse between us was henceforth to cease; that preparation was
making for a voyage to Britain, and that Ormond was to walk to his grave
alone!"
In spite of harsh tones and inflexible features, these words were
accompanied with somewhat that betrayed a mind full of discord and
agony. Constantia's astonishment was mingled with dejection. The
discovery of a passion deeper and less curable than she suspected--the
perception of embarrassments and difficulties in the path which she had
chosen, that had not previously occurred to her--threw her mind into
anxious suspense.
The measures she had previously concerted were still approved. To part
from Ormond was enjoined by every dictate of discretion and duty. An
explanation of her motives and views could not take place more
seasonably than at present. Every consideration of justice to herself
and humanity to Ormond made it desirable that this interview should be
the last. By inexplicable means, he had gained a knowledge of her
intentions. It was expedient, therefore, to state them with clearness
and force. In what words this was to be done, was the subject of
momentary deliberation.
Her thoughts were discerned, and her speech anticipated, by her
companion:--"Why droopest thou, and why thus silent, Constantia? The
secret of thy fate will never be detected. Till thy destiny be finished,
it will not be the topic of a single fear. But not for thyself, but me,
art thou concerned. Thou dreadest, yet determinest, to confirm my
predictions of thy voyage to Europe and thy severance from me.
"Dismiss thy inquietudes on that score. What misery thy scorn and thy
rejection are able to inflict is inflicted already. Thy decision was
known to me as soon as it was formed. Thy motives were known. Not an
argument or plea of thy counsellor, not a syllable of her invective, not
a sound of her persuasive rhetoric, escaped my hearing. I know thy
decree to be immutable. As my doubts, so my wishes have taken their
flight. Perhaps, in the depth of thy ignorance, it was supposed that I
should struggle to reverse thy purpose by menaces or supplications; that
I should boast of the cruelty with which I should avenge an imaginary
wrong upon myself. No. All is very well. Go. Not a whisper of objection
or reluctance shalt thou hear from me."
"If I could think," said Constantia, with tremulous hesitation, "that
you part from me without anger; that you see the rectitude of my
proceeding--"
"Anger! Rectitude! I pr'ythee, peace. I know thou art going.--I know
that all objection to thy purpose would be vain. Thinkest thou that thy
stay, undictated by love, the mere fruit of compassion, would afford me
pleasure or crown my wishes? No. I am not so dastardly a wretch. There
was something in thy power to bestow, but thy will accords not with thy
power. I merit not the boon, and thou refusest it. I am content."
Here Ormond fixed more significant eyes upon her. "Poor Constantia!" he
continued. "Shall I warn thee of the danger that awaits thee? For what
end? To elude it is impossible. It will come, and thou, perhaps, wilt be
unhappy. Foresight that enables not to shun, only precreates, the evil.
"Come it will. Though future, it knows not the empire of contingency. An
inexorable and immutable decree enjoins it. Perhaps it is thy nature to
meet with calmness what cannot be shunned. Perhaps, when it is past, thy
reason will perceive its irrevocable nature, and restore thee to peace.
Such is the conduct of the wise; but such, I fear, the education of
Constantia Dudley will debar her from pursuing.
"Fain would I regard it as the test of thy wisdom. I look upon thy past
life. All the forms of genuine adversity have beset thy youth. Poverty,
disease, servile labour, a criminal and hapless parent, have been evils
which thou hast not ungracefully sustained. An absent friend and
murdered father were added to thy list of woes, and here thy courage was
deficient. Thy soul was proof against substantial misery, but sunk into
helpless cowardice at the sight of phantoms.
"One more disaster remains. To call it by its true name would be useless
or pernicious. Useless, because thou wouldst pronounce its occurrence
impossible; pernicious, because, if its possibility were granted, the
omen would distract thee with fear. How shall I describe it? Is it loss
of fame? No. The deed will be unwitnessed by a human creature. Thy
reputation will be spotless, for nothing will be done by thee unsuitable
to the tenor of thy past life. Calumny will not be heard to whisper. All
that know thee will be lavish of their eulogies as ever. Their eulogies
will be as justly merited. Of this merit thou wilt entertain as just and
as adequate conceptions as now.
"It is no repetition of the evils thou hast already endured; it is
neither drudgery, nor sickness, nor privation of friends. Strange
perverseness of human reason! It is an evil; it will be thought upon
with agony; it will close up all the sources of pleasurable
recollection; it will exterminate hope; it will endear oblivion, and
push thee into an untimely grave. Yet to grasp it is impossible. The
moment we inspect it nearly, it vanishes. Thy claims to human
approbation and divine applause will be undiminished and unaltered by
it. The testimony of approving conscience will have lost none of its
explicitness and energy. Yet thou wilt feed upon sighs; thy tears will
flow without remission; thou wilt grow enamoured of death, and perhaps
wilt anticipate the stroke of disease.
"Yet perhaps my prediction is groundless as my knowledge. Perhaps thy
discernment will avail to make thee wise and happy. Perhaps thou wilt
perceive thy privilege of sympathetic and intellectual activity to be
untouched. Heaven grant the non-fulfilment of my prophecy, thy
disenthralment from error, and the perpetuation of thy happiness."
Saying this, Ormond withdrew. His words were always accompanied with
gestures and looks and tones that fastened the attention of the hearer;
but the terms of his present discourse afforded, independently of
gesticulation and utterance, sufficient motives to attention and
remembrance. He was gone, but his image was contemplated by Constantia;
his words still rung in her ears.
The letter she designed to compose was rendered, by this interview,
unnecessary. Meanings of which she and her friend alone were conscious
were discovered by Ormond, through some other medium than words; yet
that was impossible. A being unendowed with preternatural attributes
could gain the information which this man possessed, only by the
exertion of his senses.
All human precautions had been used to baffle the attempts of any secret
witness. She recalled to mind the circumstances in which conversations
with her friend had taken place. All had been retirement, secrecy, and
silence. The hours usually dedicated to sleep had been devoted to this
better purpose. Much had been said, in a voice low and scarcely louder
than a whisper. To have overheard it at the distance of a few feet was
apparently impossible.
Their conversations had not been recorded by her. It could not be
believed that this had been done by Sophia Courtland. Had Ormond and her
friend met during the interval that had elapsed between her separation
from the latter and her meeting with the former? Human events are
conjoined by links imperceptible to keenest eyes. Of Ormond's means of
information she was wholly unapprized. Perhaps accident would some time
unfold them. One thing was incontestable:--that her schemes and her
reasons for adopting them were known to him.
What unforeseen effects had that knowledge produced! In what ambiguous
terms had he couched his prognostics of some mighty evil that awaited
her! He had given a terrible but contradictory description of her
destiny. An event was to happen, akin to no calamity which she had
already endured, disconnected with all which the imagination of man is
accustomed to deprecate, capable of urging her to suicide, and yet of a
kind which left it undecided whether she would regard it with
indifference.
What reliance should she place upon prophetic incoherences thus wild?
What precautions should she take against a danger thus inscrutable and
imminent?