While occupied with these reflections, the light hastily disappeared,
and darkness, rendered, by a cloudy atmosphere, uncommonly intense,
succeeded. She had the means of lighting a lamp that hung against the
wall, but had been too much immersed in thought to notice the deepening
of the gloom. Recovering from her reverie, she looked around her with
some degree of trepidation, and prepared to strike a spark that would
enable her to light her lamp.
She had hitherto indulged an habitual indifference to danger. Now the
presence of Ormond, the unknown purpose that led him hither, and the
defencelessness of her condition, inspired her with apprehensions to
which she had hitherto been a stranger. She had been accustomed to pass
many nocturnal hours in this closet. Till now, nothing had occurred that
made her enter it with circumspection or continue in it with reluctance.
Her sensations were no longer tranquil. Each minute that she spent in
this recess appeared to multiply her hazards. To linger here appeared to
her the height of culpable temerity. She hastily resolved to return to
the farmer's dwelling, and, on the morrow, to repair to New York. For
this end she was desirous to produce a light. The materials were at
hand.
She lifted her hand to strike the flint, when her ear caught a sound
which betokened the opening of the door that led into the next
apartment. Her motion was suspended, and she listened as well as a
throbbing heart would permit. That Ormond's was the hand that opened,
was the first suggestion of her fears. The motives of this unseasonable
entrance could not be reconciled with her safety. He had given no
warning of his approach, and the door was opened with tardiness and
seeming caution.
Sounds continued, of which no distinct conception could be obtained, or
the cause that produced them assigned. The floors of every apartment
being composed, like the walls and ceiling, of cement, footsteps were
rendered almost undistinguishable. It was plain, however, that some one
approached her own door.
The panic and confusion that now invaded her was owing to surprise, and
to the singularity of her situation. The mansion was desolate and
lonely. It was night. She was immersed in darkness. She had not the
means, and was unaccustomed to the office, of repelling personal
injuries. What injuries she had reason to dread, who was the agent, and
what were his motives, were subjects Of vague and incoherent meditation.
Meanwhile, low and imperfect sounds, that had in them more of inanimate
than human, assailed her ear. Presently they ceased. An inexplicable
fear deterred her from calling. Light would have exercised a friendly
influence. This it was in her power to produce, but not without motion
and noise; and these, by occasioning the discovery of her being in the
closet, might possibly enhance her danger.
Conceptions like these were unworthy of the mind of Constantia. An
interval of silence succeeded, interrupted only by the whistling of the
blast without. It was sufficient for the restoration of her courage. She
blushed at the cowardice which had trembled at a sound. She considered
that Ormond might, indeed, be near, but that he was probably unconscious
of her situation. His coming was not with the circumspection of an
enemy. He might be acquainted with the place of her retreat, and had
come to obtain an interview, with no clandestine or mysterious purposes.
The noises she had heard had, doubtless, proceeded from the next
apartment, but might be produced by some harmless or vagrant creature.
These considerations restored her tranquillity. They enabled her,
deliberately, to create a light, but they did not dissuade her from
leaving the house. Omens of evil seemed to be connected with this
solitary and darksome abode. Besides, Ormond had unquestionably entered
upon this scene It could not be doubted that she was the object of his
visit. The farm-house was a place of meeting more suitable and safe than
any other. Thither, therefore, she determined immediately to return.
The closet had but one door, and this led into the chamber where the
sounds had arisen. Through this chamber, therefore, she was obliged to
pass, in order to reach the staircase, which terminated in the hall
below.
Bearing the light in her left hand, she withdrew the bolt of the door
and opened. In spite of courageous efforts, she opened with
unwillingness, and shuddered to throw a glance forward or advance a step
into the room. This was not needed, to reveal to her the cause of her
late disturbance. Her eye instantly lighted on the body of a man,
supine, motionless, stretched on the floor, close to the door through
which she was about to pass.
A spectacle like this was qualified to startle her. She shrunk back, and
fixed a more steadfast eye upon the prostrate person. There was no mark
of blood or of wounds, but there was something in the attitude more
significant of death than of sleep. His face rested on the floor, and
his ragged locks concealed what part of his visage was not hidden by his
posture. His garb was characterized by fashionable elegance, but was
polluted with dust.
The image that first occurred to her was that of Ormond. This instantly
gave place to another, which was familiar to her apprehension. It was at
first too indistinctly seen to suggest a name. She continued to gaze and
to be lost in fearful astonishment. Was this the person whose entrance
had been overheard, and who had dragged himself hither to die at her
door? Yet, in that case, would not groans and expiring efforts have
testified his condition and invoked her succour? Was he not brought
hither in the arms of his assassin? She mused upon the possible motives
that induced some one thus to act, and upon the connection that might
subsist between her destiny and that of the dead.
Her meditations, however fruitless in other respects, could not fail to
show her the propriety of hastening from this spot. To scrutinize the
form or face of the dead was a task to which her courage was unequal.
Suitably accompanied and guarded, she would not scruple to return and
ascertain, by the most sedulous examination, the cause of this ominous
event.
She stepped over the breathless corpse, and hurried to the staircase. It
became her to maintain the command of her muscles and joints, and to
proceed without faltering or hesitation. Scarcely had she reached the
entrance of the hall, when, casting anxious looks forward, she beheld a
human figure. No scrutiny was requisite to inform her that this was
Ormond.
She stopped. He approached her with looks and gestures placid but
solemn. There was nothing in his countenance rugged or malignant. On the
contrary, there were tokens of compassion.
"So," said he, "I expected to meet you. Alight, gleaming from the
window, marked you out. This and Laffert's directions have guided me."
"What," said Constantia, with discomposure in her accent, "was your
motive for seeking me?"
"Have you forgotten," said Ormond, "what passed at our last interview?
The evil that I then predicted is at hand. Perhaps you were incredulous;
you accounted me a madman or deceiver; now I am come to witness the
fulfilment of my words and the completion of your destiny. To rescue you
I have not come: that is not within the compass of human powers.
"Poor Constantia," he continued, in tones that manifested genuine
sympathy, "look upon thyself as lost. The toils that beset thee are
inextricable. Summon up thy patience to endure the evil. Now will the
last and heaviest trial betide thy fortitude. I could weep for thee, if
my manly nature would permit. This is the scene of thy calamity, and
this the hour."
These words were adapted to excite curiosity mingled with terror.
Ormond's deportment was of an unexampled tenor, as well as that evil
which he had so ambiguously predicted. He offered no protection from
danger, and yet gave no proof of being himself an agent or auxiliary.
After a minute's pause, Constantia, recovering a firm tone, said,--
"Mr. Ormond, your recent deportment but ill accords with your
professions of sincerity and plain dealing. What your purpose is, or
whether you have any purpose, I am at a loss to conjecture. Whether you
most deserve censure or ridicule, is a point which you afford me not the
means of deciding, and to which, unless on your own account, I am
indifferent. If you are willing to be more explicit, or if there be any
topic on which you wish further to converse, I will not refuse your
company to Laffert's dwelling. Longer to remain here would be indiscreet
and absurd."
So saying, she motioned towards the door. Ormond was passive, and seemed
indisposed to prevent her departure, till she laid her hand upon the
lock. He then, without moving from his place, exclaimed,--
"Stay! Must this meeting, which fate ordains to be the last, be so
short? Must a time and place so suitable for what remains to be said and
done be neglected or misused? No. You charge me with duplicity, and deem
my conduct either ridiculous or criminal. I have stated my reasons for
concealment, but these have failed to convince you. Well, here is now an
end to doubt. All ambiguities are preparing to vanish."
When Ormond began to speak, Constantia paused to hearken to him. His
vehemence was not of that nature which threatened to obstruct her
passage. It was by entreaty that he apparently endeavoured to detain her
steps, and not by violence. Hence arose her patience to listen. He
continued:--
"Constantia! thy father is dead. Art thou not desirous of detecting the
author of his fate? Will it afford thee no consolation to know that the
deed is punished? Wilt thou suffer me to drag the murderer to thy feet?
Thy justice will be gratified by this sacrifice. Somewhat will be due to
him who avenged thy wrong in the blood of the perpetrator. What sayest
thou? Grant me thy permission, and in a moment I will drag him hither."
These words called up the image of the person whose corpse she had
lately seen. It was readily conceived that to him Ormond alluded; but
this was the assassin of her father, and his crime had been detected and
punished by Ormond! These images had no other effect than to urge her
departure: she again applied her hand to the lock, and said,--
"This scene must not be prolonged. My father's death I desire not to
hear explained or to see revenged, but whatever information you are
willing or able to communicate must be deferred."
"Nay," interrupted Ormond, with augmented vehemence, "art thou equally
devoid of curiosity and justice? Thinkest thou that the enmity which
bereft thy father of life will not seek thy own? There are evils which I
cannot prevent thee from enduring, but there are, likewise, ills which
my counsel will enable thee and thy friend to shun. Save me from
witnessing thy death. Thy father's destiny is sealed; all that remained
was to punish his assassin; but thou and thy Sophia still live. Why
should ye perish by a like stroke?"
This intimation was sufficient to arrest the steps of Constantia. She
withdrew her hand from the door, and fixed eyes of the deepest anxiety
on Ormond:--"What mean you? How am I to understand--"
"Ah!" said Ormond, "I see thou wilt consent to stay. Thy detention shall
not be long. Remain where thou art during one moment,--merely while I
drag hither thy enemy and show thee a visage which thou wilt not be slow
to recognise." Saying this, he hastily ascended the staircase, and
quickly passed beyond her sight.
Deportment thus mysterious could not fail of bewildering her thoughts.
There was somewhat in the looks and accents of Ormond, different from
former appearances; tokens of a hidden purpose and a smothered meaning
were perceptible,--a mixture of the inoffensive and the lawless, which,
added to the loneliness and silence that encompassed her, produced a
faltering emotion. Her curiosity was overpowered by her fear, and the
resolution was suddenly conceived of seizing this opportunity to escape.
A third time she put her hand to the lock and attempted to open. The
effort was ineffectual. The door that was accustomed to obey the
gentlest touch was now immovable. She had lately unlocked and passed
through it. Her eager inspection convinced her that the principal bolt
was still withdrawn, but a small one was now perceived, of whose
existence she had not been apprized, and over which her key had no
power.
Now did she first harbour a fear that was intelligible in its dictates.
Now did she first perceive herself sinking in the toils of some lurking
enemy. Hope whispered that this foe was not Ormond. His conduct had
bespoken no willingness to put constraint upon her steps. He talked not
as if he was aware of this obstruction, and yet his seeming acquiescence
might have flowed from a knowledge that she had no power to remove
beyond his reach.
He warned her of danger to her life, of which he was her self-appointed
rescuer. His counsel was to arm her with sufficient caution; the peril
that awaited her was imminent; this was the time and place of its
occurrence, and here she was compelled to remain, till the power that
fastened would condescend to loose the door. There were other avenues to
the hall. These were accustomed to be locked; but Ormond had found
access, and, if all continued fast, it was incontestable that he was the
author of this new impediment.
The other avenues were hastily examined. All were bolted and locked. The
first impulse led her to call for help from without; but the mansion was
distant from Laffert's habitation. This spot was wholly unfrequented. No
passenger was likely to be stationed where her call could be heard.
Besides, this forcible detention might operate for a short time, and be
attended with no mischievous consequences. Whatever was to come, it was
her duty to collect her courage and encounter it.
Tho steps of Ormond above now gave tokens of his approach. Vigilant
observance of this man was all that her situation permitted. A vehement
effort restored her to some degree of composure. Her stifled
palpitations allowed her steadfastly to notice him as he now descended
the stairs, bearing a lifeless body in his arms. "There!" said he, as he
cast it at her feet; "whose countenance is that? Who would imagine that
features like those belonged to an assassin and impostor?"
Closed eyelids and fallen muscles could not hide from her lineaments so
often seen. She shrunk back and exclaimed, "Thomas Craig!"
A pause succeeded, in which she alternately gazed at the countenance of
this unfortunate wretch and at Ormond. At length, the latter
exclaimed,--
"Well, my girl, hast thou examined him? Dost thou recognise a friend or
an enemy?"
"I know him well: but how came this? What purpose brought him hither?
Who was the author of his fate?"
"Have I not already told thee that Ormond was his own avenger and thine?
To thee and to me he has been a robber. To him thy father is indebted
for the loss not only of property but life. Did crimes like these merit
a less punishment? And what recompense is due to him whose vigilance
pursued him hither and made him pay for his offences with his blood?
What benefit have I received at thy hand to authorize me, for thy sake,
to take away his life?"
"No benefit received from me," said Constantia, "would justify such an
act. I should have abhorred myself for annexing to my benefits so bloody
a condition. It calls for no gratitude or recompense. Its suitable
attendant is remorse. That he is a thief, I know but too well; that my
father died by his hand is incredible. No motives or means--"
"Why so?" interrupted Ormond. "Does not sleep seal up the senses? Cannot
closets be unlocked at midnight? Cannot adjoining houses communicate by
doors? Cannot these doors be hidden from suspicion by a sheet of
canvas?"
These words were of startling and abundant import. They reminded her of
circumstances in her father's chamber, which sufficiently explained the
means by which his life was assailed. The closet, and its canvas-covered
wall; the adjoining house untenanted and shut up--but this house, though
unoccupied, belonged to Ormond. From the inferences which flowed hence,
her attention was withdrawn by her companion, who continued:--
"Do these means imply the interposal of a miracle? His motives? What
scruples can be expected from a man inured from infancy to cunning and
pillage? Will he abstain from murder when urged by excruciating poverty,
by menaces of persecution, by terror of expiring on the gallows?"
Tumultuous suspicions were now awakened in the mind of Constantia. Her
faltering voice scarcely allowed her to ask, "How know _you_ that Craig
was thus guilty?--that these were his incitements and means?"
Ormond's solemnity now gave place to a tone of sarcasm and looks of
exultation:--"Poor Constantia! Thou art still pestered with incredulity
and doubts! My veracity is still in question! My knowledge, girl, is
infallible. That these were his means of access I cannot be ignorant,
for I pointed them out. He was urged by these motives, for they were
stated and enforced by me. His was the deed, for I stood beside him when
it was done."
These, indeed, were terms that stood in no need of further explanation.
The veil that shrouded this formidable being was lifted high enough to
make him be regarded with inexplicable horror. What his future acts
should be, how his omens of ill were to be solved, were still involved
in uncertainty.
In the midst of fears for her own safety, by which Constantia was now
assailed, the image of her father was revived; keen regret and vehement
upbraiding were conjured up.
"Craig, then, was the instrument, and yours the instigation, that
destroyed my father! In what had he offended you? What cause had he
given for resentment?"
"Cause!" replied he, with impetuous accents. "Resentment! None. My
motive was benevolent; my deed conferred a benefit. I gave him sight and
took away his life, from motives equally wise. Know you not that Ormond
was fool enough to set value on the affections of a woman? These were
sought with preposterous anxiety and endless labour. Among other
facilitators of his purpose, he summoned gratitude to his aid. To
snatch you from poverty, to restore his sight to your father, were
expected to operate as incentives to love.
"But here I was the dupe of error. A thousand prejudices stood in my
way. These, provided our intercourse were not obstructed, I hoped to
subdue. The rage of innovation seized your father: this, blended with a
mortal antipathy to me, made him labour to seduce you from the bosom of
your peaceful country; to make you enter on a boisterous sea; to visit
lands where all is havoc and hostility; to snatch you from the influence
of my arguments.
"This new obstacle I was bound to remove. While revolving the means,
chance and his evil destiny threw Craig in my way. I soon convinced him
that his reputation and his life were in my hands. His retention of
these depended upon my will, on the performance of conditions which I
prescribed.
"My happiness and yours depended on your concurrence with my wishes.
Your father's life was an obstacle to your concurrence. For killing him,
therefore, I may claim your gratitude. His death was a due and
disinterested offering at the altar of your felicity and mine.
"My deed was not injurious to him. At his age, death, whose coming at
some period is inevitable, could not be distant. To make it unforeseen
and brief, and void of pain,--to preclude the torments of a lingering
malady, a slow and visible descent to the grave,--was the dictate of
beneficence. But of what value was a continuance of his life? Either you
would have gone with him to Europe or have stayed at home with me. In
the first case, his life would have been rapidly consumed by perils and
cares. In the second, separation from you, and union with me,--a being
so detestable,--would equally have poisoned his existence.
"Craig's cowardice and crimes made him a pliant and commodious tool. I
pointed out the way. The unsuspected door which led into the closet of
your father's chamber was made, by my direction, during the life of
Helena. By this avenue I was wont to post myself where all your
conversations could be overheard. By this avenue an entrance and
retreat were afforded to the agent of my newest purpose.
"Fool that I was! I solaced myself with the belief that all impediments
were now smoothed, when a new enemy appeared. My folly lasted as long as
my hope. I saw that to gain your affections, fortified by antiquated
scruples and obsequious to the guidance of this new monitor, was
impossible. It is not my way to toil after that which is beyond my
reach. If the greater good be inaccessible, I learn to be contented with
the less.
"I have served you with successless sedulity. I have set an engine in
act to obliterate an obstacle to your felicity, and lay your father at
rest. Under my guidance, this engine was productive only of good.
Governed by itself or by another, it will only work you harm. I have,
therefore, hastened to destroy it. Lo! it is now before you motionless
and impotent.
"For this complexity of benefit I look for no reward. I am not tired of
well-doing. Having ceased to labour for an unattainable good, I have
come hither to possess myself of all that I now crave, and by the same
deed to afford you an illustrious opportunity to signalize your wisdom
and your fortitude."
During this speech, the mind of Constantia became more deeply pervaded
with dread of some overhanging but incomprehensible evil. The strongest
impulse was to gain a safe asylum, at a distance from this spot and from
the presence of this extraordinary being. This impulse was followed by
the recollection that her liberty was taken away, that egress from the
hall was denied her, and that this restriction might be part of some
conspiracy of Ormond against her life.
Security from danger like this would be, in the first place, sought, by
one of Constantia's sex and opinions, in flight. This had been rendered,
by some fatal chance or by the precautions of her foe, impracticable.
Stratagem or force was all that remained to elude or disarm her
adversary. For the contrivance and execution of fraud, all the habits of
her life and all the maxims of her education had conspired to unfit her.
Her force of muscles would avail her nothing against the superior
energy of Ormond.
She remembered that to inflict death was no iniquitous exertion of
self-defence, and that the penknife which she held in her hand was
capable of this service. She had used it to remove any lurking
obstruction in the wards of her key, supposing, for a time, this to be
the cause of her failing to withdraw the bolt of the door. This resource
was, indeed, scarcely less disastrous and deplorable than any fate from
which it could rescue her. Some uncertainty still involved the
intentions of Ormond. As soon as he paused, she spoke:--
"How am I to understand this prelude? Let me know the full extent of my
danger,--why it is that I am hindered from leaving this house, and why
this interview was sought."
"Ah, Constantia, this, indeed, is merely a prelude to a scene that is to
terminate my influence over thy fate. When this is past I have sworn to
part with thee forever. Art thou still dubious of my purpose? Art thou
not a woman? And have I not entreated for thy love and been rejected?
"Canst thou imagine that I aim at thy life? My avowals of love were
sincere; my passion was vehement and undisguised. It gave dignity and
value to a gift in thy power, as a woman, to bestow. This has been
denied. That gift has lost none of its value in my eyes. What thou
refusest to bestow it is in my power to extort. I came for that end.
When this end is accomplished, I will restore thee to liberty."
These words were accompanied by looks that rendered all explanation of
their meaning useless. The evil reserved for her, hitherto obscured by
half-disclosed and contradictory attributes, was now sufficiently
apparent. The truth in this respect unveiled itself with the rapidity
and brightness of an electrical flash.
She was silent. She cast her eyes at the windows and doors. Escape
through them was hopeless. She looked at those lineaments of Ormond
which evinced his disdain of supplication and inexorable passions. She
felt that entreaty and argument would be vain; that all appeals to his
compassion and benevolence would counteract her purpose, since, in the
unexampled conformation of this man's mind, these principles were made
subservient to his most flagitious designs. Considerations of justice
and pity were made, by a fatal perverseness of reasoning, champions and
bulwarks of his most atrocious mistakes.
The last extremes of opposition, the most violent expedients for
defence, would be justified by being indispensable. To find safety for
her honour, even in the blood of an assailant, was the prescription of
duty. Tho equity of this species of defence was not, in the present
confusion of her mind, a subject of momentary doubt.
To forewarn him of her desperate purpose would be to furnish him with
means of counteraction. Her weapon would easily be wrested from her
feeble hand. Ineffectual opposition would only precipitate her evil
destiny. A rage, contented with nothing less than her life, might be
awakened in his bosom. But was not this to be desired? Death, untimely
and violent, was better than the loss of honour.
This thought led to a new series of reflections. She involuntarily
shrunk from the act of killing: but would her efforts to destroy her
adversary be effectual? Would not his strength and dexterity easily
repel or elude them? Her power in this respect was questionable, but her
power was undeniably sufficient to a different end. The instrument which
could not rescue her from this injury by the destruction of another
might save her from it by her own destruction.
These thoughts rapidly occurred; but the resolution to which they led
was scarcely formed, when Ormond advanced towards her. She recoiled a
few steps, and, showing the knife which she held, said,--
"Ormond! Beware! Know that my unalterable resolution is to die
uninjured. I have the means in my power. Stop where you are; one step
more, and I plunge this knife into my heart. I know that to contend with
your strength or your reason would be vain. To turn this weapon against
you I should not fear, if I were sure of success; but to that I will
not trust. To save a greater good by the sacrifice of life is in my
power, and that sacrifice shall be made."
"Poor Constantia!" replied Ormond, in a tone of contempt; "so thou
preferrest thy imaginary honour to life! To escape this injury without a
name or substance, without connection with the past or future, without
contamination of thy purity or thraldom of thy will, thou wilt kill
thyself; put an end to thy activity in virtue's cause; rob thy friend of
her solace, the world of thy beneficence, thyself of being and pleasure?
"I shall be grieved for the fatal issue of my experiment; I shall mourn
over thy martyrdom to the most opprobrious and contemptible of all
errors: but that thou shouldst undergo the trial is decreed. There is
still an interval of hope that thy cowardice is counterfeited, or that
it will give place to wisdom and courage.
"Whatever thou intendest by way of prevention or cure, it behooves thee
to employ with steadfastness. Die with the guilt of suicide and the
brand of cowardice upon thy memory, or live with thy claims to felicity
and approbation undiminished. Choose which thou wilt. Thy decision is of
moment to thyself, but of none to me. Living or dead, the prize that I
have in view shall be mine."