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 allcompensating
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 harbor 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;

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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 labor. He
talked of alliance with the family whose name he bore, and
who had lost their honors 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
give 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,

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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.

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A second glance at his countenance informed her that his
mind was somewhat discomposed.

Folding his hands on his breast, he stalked to the window,
and looked up at the moon. Presently he withdrew
his gaze from this object, and fixed them 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 her's, and his solemnity
of aspect were immoveable. When she paused, he
seated himself close to her, and grasped 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 your's. I care not if the truth

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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.

Tomorrow, I mean to ascertain the height of the lunar
mountains, by travelling to the top of them. Then I will
station myself in the tract 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, endeavoring 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 new comer. 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

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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

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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 prithee 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

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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 passed, 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.

Feign 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 labor, 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;

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thy tears will flow without remission; thou wilt grow enamored
of death, and perhaps will 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, sometime, unfold them. One
thing was incontestable. That her schemes and her reasons
for adopting them, were known to him.

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