The narrative of Melbourne made a deeper impression
on the mind of his guest than was at first apparent. This
man's conduct was directed by the present impulse, and
however elaborate his abstract notions, he seldom stopped to
settle the agreement between his principles and actions. The
use of money was a science like every other branch of benevolence,
not reducible to any fixed principles. No man,
in the disbursement of money, could say whether he was
conferring a benefit or injury. The visible and immediate
effects might be good, but evil was its ultimate and general
tendency. To be governed by a view to the present rather
than the future, was a human infirmity from which he did
not pretend to be exempt. This, though an insufficient
apology for the conduct of a rational being, was suitable to
his indolence, and he was content in all cases to employ it.
It was thus that he reconciled himself to beneficent acts,
and humorously held himself up as an object of censure, on
occasions when most entitled to applause.

He easily procured information as to the character and

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situation of the Dudleys. Neighbors are always inquisitive,
and happily, in this case, were enabled to make no unfavorable
report. He resolved, without hesitation, to supply their
wants. This he performed in a manner truly characteristic.
There was a method of gaining access to families, and marking
them in their unguarded attitudes more easy and effectual
than any other; it required least preparation and cost
least pains; the disguise, also, was of the most impenetrable
kind. He had served a sort of occasional apprenticeship to
the art, and executed its functions with perfect ease. It was
the most entire and grotesque metamorphosis imaginable. It
was stepping from the highest to the lowest rank in society,
and shifting himself into a form, as remote from his own, as
those recorded by Ovid. In a word, it was sometimes his
practice to exchange his complexion and habiliments for
those of a negro and a chimney-sweep, and to call at certain
doors for employment. This he generally secured by importunities,
and the cheapness of his services.

When the loftiness of his port, and the punctiliousness
of his nicety were considered, we should never have believed,
what yet could be truly asserted, that he had frequently
swept his own chimneys, without the knowledge of his own
servants.* It was likewise true, though equally incredible,
that he had played at romps with his scullion, and listened
with patience to a thousand slanders on his own character.

In this disguise he visited the house of Mr. Dudley. It
was nine o'clock in the morning. He remarked, with critical
eyes, the minutest circumstance in the appearance and
demeanor of his customers, and glanced curiously at the
house and furniture. Every thing was new and every thing
pleased. The walls, though broken into roughness, by carelessness
or time, were adorned with glistening white. The
floor, though loose and uneven, and with gaping seams, had
received all the improvements which cloth and brush could
give. The pine tables, rush chairs, and uncurtained bed,
had been purchased at half price, at vendue, and exhibited
various tokens of decay, but care, and neatness, and order
were displayed in their condition and arrangement.

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

The lower appartment was the eating and sitting room.
It was likewise Mr. Dudley's bed-chamber. The upper
room was occupied by Constantia and her Lucy. Ormond
viewed every thing with the accuracy of an artist, and carried
away with him a catalogue of every thing visible. The
faded form of Mr. Dudley that still retained its dignity, the
sedateness, graceful condescension and personal elegance
of Constantia, were new to the apprehension of Ormond.
The contrast between the house and its inhabitants, rendered
the appearance more striking. When he had finished
his task, he retired, but returning in a quarter of an hour,
he presented a letter to the young lady. He behaved as if
by no means desirous of eluding her interrogatories, and
when she desired him to stay, readily complied. The letter,
unsigned and unsuperscribed, was to this effect.

“The writer of this is acquainted with the transaction between
Thomas Craig and Mr. Dudley. The former is debtor
to Mr. Dudley in a large sum. I have undertaken to pay
as much of this debt, and at such times as suits my convenience.
I have had pecuniary engagements with Craig. I
hold myself, in the sum inclosed, discharging so much of his
debt. The future payments are uncertain, but I hope they
will contribute to relieve the necessities of Mr. Dudley.”

Ormond had calculated the amount of what would be
necessary for the annual subsistence of this family, on the
present frugal plan. He had regulated his disbursements
accordingly.

It was natural to feel curiosity as to the writer of this epistle.
The bearer displayed a prompt and talkative disposition.
He had a staring eye and a grin of vivacity forever
at command. When questioned by Constantia, he answered
that the gentleman had forbidden him to mention his name
or the place where he lived. Had he ever met with the
same person before? O yes. He had lived with him
from a child. His mother lived with him still and his brothers.
His master had nothing for him to do at home, so he sent
him out sweeping chimneys, taking from him only half the
money that he earned, that way. He was a very good
master.

Then the gentleman had been a long time in the city?

O yes. All his life he reckoned. He used to live in

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Walnut Street, but now he 's moved down town. Here he
checked himself, and added, but I forgets. I must not tell
where he lives. He told me I must'nt.

He has a family and children, I suppose?

O yes. Why don't you know Miss Hetty and Miss Betsey—
there again. I was going to tell the name, that he
said I must not tell.

Constantia saw that the secret might be easily discovered,
but she forbore. She disdained to take advantage of
this messenger's imagined simplicity. She dismissed him
with some small addition to his demand, and with a promise
always to employ him in this way.

By this mode, Ormond had effectually concealed himself.
The lady's conjectures, founded on this delusive information,
necessarily wandered widely from the truth. The observations
that he had made during this visit afforded his
mind considerable employment. The manner in which this
lady had sustained so cruel a reverse of fortune, the cheerfulness
with which she appeared to forego all the gratifications
of affluence; the skill with which she selected her path
of humble industry, and the steadiness with which she pursued
it, were proofs of a moral constitution, from which he
supposed the female sex to be debarred. The comparison
was obvious between Constantia and Helena, and the result
was by no means advantageous to the latter. Was it possible
that such a one descended to the level of her father's
apprentice? That she sacrificed her honor to a wretch
like that? This reflection tended to repress the inclination
he would otherwise have felt for cultivating her society, but
it did not indispose him to benefit her in a certain way.

On his next visit to his “bella Siciliana,” as he called her,
he questioned her as to the need in which she might stand
of the services of a seamstress, and being informed that
they were sometimes wanted, he recommended Miss Acworth
to her patronage. He said that he had heard her spoken
of in favorable terms, by the gossips at Melbourne's. They
represented her as a good girl, slenderly provided for, and
he wished that Helena would prefer her to all others.

His recommendation was sufficient. The wishes of Ormond,
as soon as they became known, became hers. Her
temper made her always diligent in search of novelty. It

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was easy to make work for the needle. In short she resolved
to send for her the next day. The interview accordingly
took place on the ensuing morning, not without mutual
surprise, and, on the part of the fair Sicilian, not without
considerable embarrassment.

This circumstance arose from their having changed their
respective names, though from motives of a very different
kind. They were not strangers to each other, though no
intimacy had ever subsisted between them. Each was
merely acquainted with the name, person, and general
character of the other. No circumstance in Constantia's
situation tended to embarrass her. Her mind had attained
a state of serene composure, incapable of being ruffled by
an incident of this kind. She merely derived pleasure
from the sight of her old acquaintance. The aspect of
things around her was splendid and gay. She seemed the
mistress of the mansion, and her name was changed. Hence
it was unavoidable to conclude that she was married.

Helena was conscious that appearances were calculated
to suggest this conclusion. The idea was a painful one.
She sorrowed to think that this conclusion was fallacious.
The consciousness that her true condition was unknown to
her visitant, and the ignominiousness of that truth, gave an
air of constraint to her behavior, which Constantia ascribed
to a principle of delicacy.

In the midst of reflections relative to herself, she admitted
some share of surprise at the discovery of Constantia,
in a situation so inferior to that in which she had formerly
known her. She had heard, in general terms, of the misfortunes
of Mr. Dudley, but was unacquainted with particulars;
but this surprise, and the difficulty of adapting her
behavior to circumstances, was only in part the source of
her embarrassment, though by her companion it was wholly
attributed to this cause. Constantia thought it her duty to
remove it by open and unaffected manners. She therefore
said, in a sedate and cheerful tone, you see me, madam, in
a situation somewhat unlike that in which I formerly was
placed. You will probably regard the change as an unhappy
one, but I assure you, I have found it far less so
than I expected. I am thus reduced not by my own fault.

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

It is this reflection that enables me to conform to it without
a murmur. I shall rejoice to know that Mrs. Eden is as
happy as I am.

Helena was pleased with this address, and returned an
answer full of sweetness. She had not, in her compassion
for the fallen, a particle of pride. She thought of nothing
but the contrast between the former situation of her visitant
and the present. The fame of her great qualities had
formerly excited veneration, and that reverence was by no
means diminished by a nearer scrutiny. The consciousness
of her own frailty, meanwhile, diffused over the behavior of
Helena, a timidity and dubiousness uncommonly fascinating.
She solicited Constantia's friendship in a manner that shewed
she was afraid of nothing but denial. An assent was eagerly
given, and thenceforth a cordial intercourse was established
between them.

The real situation of Helena was easily discovered. The
officious person who communicated this information, at the
same time cautioned Constantia against associating with one
of tainted reputation. This information threw some light
upon appearances. It accounted for that melancholy which
Helena was unable to conceal. It explained that solitude
in which she lived, and which Constantia had ascribed to the
death or absence of her husband. It justified the solicitous
silence she had hitherto maintained respecting her own
affairs, and which her friend's good sense forbade her to employ
any sinister means of eluding.

No long time was necessary to make her mistress of
Helena's character. She loved her with uncommon warmth,
though by no means blind to her defects. She formed no
expectations, from the knowledge of her character, to which
this intelligence operated as a disappointment. It merely
excited her pity, and made her thoughtful how she might
assist her in repairing this deplorable error.

This design was of no ordinary magnitude. She saw
that it was previously necessary to obtain the confidence of
Helena. This was a task of easy performance. She knew
the purity of her own motives and the extent of her powers,
and embarked in this undertaking with full confidence of
success. She had only to profit by a private interview, to
acquaint her friend with what she knew, to solicit a

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complete and satisfactory disclosure, to explain the impressions
which her intelligence produced, and to offer her disinterested
advice. No one knew better how to couch her ideas in
words, suitable to the end proposed by her in imparting
them.

Helena was at first terrified, but the benevolence of her
friend quickly entitled her to confidence and gratitude that
knew no limits. She had been deterred from unveiling her
heart by the fear of exciting contempt or abhorrence; but
when she found that all due allowances were made, that her
conduct was treated as erroneous in no atrocious or inexpiable
degree, and as far from being insusceptible of remedy;
that the obloquy with which she had been treated, found no
vindicator or participator in her friend, her heart was considerably
relieved. She had been long a stranger to the
sympathy and intercourse of her own sex. Now, this good,
in its most precious form, was conferred upon her, and she
experienced an increase, rather than diminution of tenderness,
in consequence of her true situation being known.

She made no secret of any part of her history. She
did full justice to the integrity of her lover, and explained
the unforced conditions on which she had consented to live
with him. This relation exhibited the character of Ormond
in a very uncommon light. His asperities wounded, and
his sternness chilled. What unauthorized conceptions of
matrimonial and political equality did he entertain! He
had fashioned his treatment of Helena on sullen and ferocious
principles. Yet he was able, it seemed, to mould her,
by means of them, nearly into the creature that he wished.
She knew too little of the man justly to estimate his character.
It remained to be ascertained whether his purposes
were consistent and upright, or were those of a villain
and betrayer.

Meanwhile what was to be done by Helena? Marriage
had been refused on plausible pretences. Her unenlightened
understanding made her no match for her lover. She
would never maintain her claim to nuptial privileges in his
presence, or if she did, she would never convince him of
their validity.

Were they indeed valid? Was not the disparity between
them incurable? A marriage of minds so dissimilar could

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only be productive of misery immediately to him, and by a
reflex operation, to herself. She could not be happy in a
union that was the source of regret to her husband. Marriage
therefore was not possible, or if possible, was not,
perhaps, to be wished. But what was the choice that remained?

To continue in her present situation was not to be endured.
Disgrace was a dæmon that would blast every hope of happiness.
She was excluded from all society but that of the
depraved. Her situation was eminently critical. It depended,
perhaps, on the resolution she should now form
whether she should be enrolled among the worst of mankind.
Infamy is the worst of evils. It creates innumerable obstructions
in the path of virtue. It manacles the hand, and entangles
the feet that are active only to good. To the weak
it is an evil of much greater magnitude. It determines
their destiny, and they hasten to merit that reproach, which,
at first it may be, they did not deserve.

This connexion is intrinsically flagitious. Helena is subjected
by it to the worst ills that are incident to humanity,
the general contempt of mankind, and the reproaches of her
own conscience. From these, there is but one method from
which she can hope to be relieved. The intercourse must
cease.

It was easier to see the propriety of separation, than to
project means for accomplishing it. It was true that Helena
loved; but what quarter was due to this passion when
divorced from integrity? Is it not in every bosom a perishable
sentiment? Whatever be her warmth, absence will
congeal it. Place her in new scenes, and supply her with
new associates. Her accomplishments will not fail to attract
votaries. From these she may select a conjugal companion
suitable to her mediocrity of talents.

But alas! What power on earth can prevail on her to
renounce Ormond? Others may justly entertain this prospect,
but it must be invisible to her. Besides, is it absolutely
certain that either her peace of mind or her reputation
will be restored by this means? In the opinion of the
world her offences cannot, by any perseverance in penitence,
be expiated. She will never believe that separation will
exterminate her passion. Certain it is, that it will avail

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nothing to the re-establishment of her fame. But if it were
conducive to these ends, how chimerical to suppose that she
will ever voluntarily adopt it? If Ormond refuse his concurrence,
there is absolutely an end to hope. And what
power on earth is able to sway his determinations? At
least what influence was it possible for her to obtain over
them?

Should they separate, whither should she retire? What
mode of subsistence should she adopt? She has never
been accustomed to think beyond the day. She has eaten
and drank, but another has provided the means. She
scarcely comprehends the principle that governs the world,
and in consequence of which, nothing can be gained but by
giving something in exchange for it. She is ignorant and
helpless as a child, on every topic that relates to the procuring
of subsistence. Her education has disabled her
from standing alone.

But this was not all. She must not only be supplied by
others, but sustained in the enjoyment of a luxurious existence.
Would you bereave her of the gratifications of
opulence? You had better take away her life. Nay, it
would ultimately amount to this. She can live but in one
way.

At present she is lovely, and, to a certain degree, innocent,
but expose her to the urgencies and temptations of want,
let personal pollution be the price set upon the voluptuous
affluences of her present condition, and it is to be feared
there is nothing in the contexture of her mind to hinder her
from making the purchase. In every respect therefore the
prospect was a hopeless one. So hopeless that her mind
insensibly returned to the question which she had at first
dismissed with very slight examination, the question relative
to the advantages and probabilities of marriage. A more
accurate review convinced her that this was the most eligible
alternative. It was, likewise, most easily effected. The
lady, of course, would be its fervent advocate. There did
not want reasons why Ormond should finally embrace it. In
what manner appeals to his reason or his passion might most
effectually be made, she knew not.

Helena was illy qualified to be her own advocate. Her

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unhappiness could not but be visible to Ormond. He had
shewn himself attentive and affectionate. Was it impossible
that, in time, he should reason himself into a spontaneous
adoption of this scheme? This, indeed, was a slender foundation
for hope, but there was no other on which she could
build.

Such were the meditations of Constantia on this topic.
She was deeply solicitous for the happiness of her friend.
They spent much of their time together. The consolations
of her society were earnestly sought by Helena, but to enjoy
them, she was for the most part obliged to visit the
former at her own dwelling. For this arrangement, Constantia
apologized by saying, you will pardon my requesting
you to favor me with your visits, rather than allowing you
mine. Every thing is airy and brilliant within these walls.
There is, besides, an air of seclusion and security about you
that is delightful. In comparison, my dwelling is bleak,
comfortless, and unretired, but my father is entitled to all
my care. His infirmity prevents him from amusing himself,
and his heart is cheered by the mere sound of my voice,
though not addressed to him. The mere belief of my
presence seems to operate as an antidote to the dreariness
of solitude; and now you know my motives, I am sure you
will not only forgive but approve of my request.

* Similar exploits are related of Count de La Lippe and Wortley
Montague.