CHAPTER XXVII.
These incidents and reflections were speedily transmitted
to me. I had always believed the character and machinations
of Ormond, to be worthy of caution and fear. His
means of information I did not pretend, and thought it useless
to investigate. We cannot hide our actions and thoughts,
from one of powerful sagacity, whom the detection sufficiently
interests, to make him use all the methods of detection
in his power. The study of concealment is, in all
cases, fruitless or hurtful. All that duty enjoins, is to design
and to execute nothing, which may not be approved by a
divine and omniscient observer. Human scrutiny is neither
to be solicited, nor shunned. Human approbation or
censure, can never be exempt from injustice, because our
limited perceptions debar us from a thorough knowledge of
any actions and motives but our own.
On reviewing what had passed, between Constantia and
me, I recollected nothing incompatible with purity and rectitude.
That Ormond was apprized of all that had passed,
I by no means inferred from the tenor of his conversation
with Constantia, nor, if this had been incontestably proved,
should I have experienced any trepidation or anxiety on
that account.
His obscure and indirect menaces of evil, were of more
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importance. His discourse on this topic, seemed susceptible
only of two constructions. Either he intended some
fatal mischief, and was willing to torment her by fears, while
he concealed from her the nature of her danger, that he
might hinder her from guarding her safety, by suitable precautions;
or, being hopeless of rendering her propitious to
his wishes, his malice was satisfied with leaving her a legacy
of apprehension and doubt.
Constantia's unacquaintance with the doctrines of that
school, in which Ormond was probably instructed, led her
to regard the conduct of this man, with more curiosity and
wonder, than fear. She saw nothing but a disposition to
sport with her ignorance and bewilder her with doubts.
I do not believe myself destitute of courage. Rightly
to estimate the danger and encounter it with firmness, are
worthy of a rational being; but to place our security in
thoughtlessness and blindness, is only less ignoble than cowardice.
I could not forget the proofs of violence, which
accompanied the death of Mr. Dudley. I could not overlook,
in the recent conversation with Constantia, Ormond's
allusion to her murdered father. It was possible that the
nature of this death had been accidentally imparted to him;
but it was likewise possible, that his was the knowledge of
one who performed the act.
The enormity of this deed, appeared by no means incongruous
with the sentiments of Ormond. Human life is momentous
or trivial in our eyes, according to the course which
our habits and opinions have taken. Passion greedily accepts,
and habit readily offers, the sacrifice of another's life,
and reason obeys the impulse of education and desire.
A youth of eighteen, a volunteer in a Russian army, encamped
in Bessarabia, made prey of a Tartar girl, found in
the field of a recent battle. Conducting her to his quarters,
he met a friend, who, on some pretence, claimed the victim.
From angry words they betook themselves to swords. A
combat ensued, in which the first claimant ran his antagonist
through the body. He then bore his prize unmolested away,
and having exercised brutality of one kind, upon the helpless
victim, stabbed her to the heart, as an offering to the manes
of Sarsefield, the friend whom he had slain. Next morning,
willing more signally to expiate his guilt, he rushed alone
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upon a troop of Turkish foragers, and brought away five
heads, suspended, by their gory locks, to his horse's mane.
These he cast upon the grave of Sarsefield, and conceived
himself fully to have expiated yesterday's offence. In reward
for his prowess, the General gave him a commission in the
Cossack troops. This youth was Ormond; and such is a
specimen of his exploits, during a military career of eight
years, in a warfare the most savage and implacable, and, at
the same time, the most iniquitous and wanton which history
records.
With passions and habits like these, the life of another was
a trifling sacrifice to vengeance or impatience. How Mr.
Dudley had excited the resentment of Ormond, by what
means the assassin had accomplished his intention, without
awekening alarm or incurring suspicion, it was not for me to
discover. The inextricability of human events, the imperviousness
of cunning, and the obduracy of malice, I had
frequent occasions to remark.
I did not labor to vanquish the security of my friend. As
to precautions they were useless. There was no fortress,
guarded by barriers of stone and iron, and watched by sentinels
that never slept, to which she might retire from his stratagems.
If there were such a retreat, it would scarcely avail
her against a foe, circumspect and subtle as Ormond.
I pondered on the condition of my friend. I reviewed
the incidents of her life. I compared her lot with that of
others. I could not but discover a sort of incurable malignity
in her fate. I felt as if it were denied to her to enjoy a long
life or permanent tranquillity. I asked myself, what she had
done, entitling her to this incessant persecution? Impatience
and murmuring took place of sorrow and fear in my heart.
When I reflected, that all human agency was merely subservient
to a divine purpose, I fell into fits of accusation and
impiety.
This injustice was transient, and soberer views convinced
me that every scheme, comprising the whole, must be
productive of partial and temporary evil. The sufferings of
Constantia were limited to a moment; they were the unavoidable
appendages of terrestrial existence; they formed
the only avenue to wisdom, and the only claim to uninterrupted
fruition, and eternal repose in an after scene.
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The course of my reflections, and the issue to which they
led, were unforeseen by myself. Fondly as I doated upon
this woman, methought I could resign her to the grave
without a murmur or a tear. While my thoughts were
calmed by resignation, and my fancy occupied with nothing
but the briefness of that space, and evanescence of that
time which severs the living from the dead, I contemplated,
almost with complacency, a violent or untimely close to her
existence.
This loftiness of mind could not always be accomplished
or constantly maintained. One effect of my fears, was to
hasten my departure to Europe. There existed no impediment
but the want of a suitable conveyance. In the first
packet that should leave America, it was determined to
secure a passage. Mr. Melbourne consented to take charge
of Constantia's property, and, after the sale of it, to transmit
to her the money that should thence arise.
Meanwhile, I was anxious that Constantia should leave
her present abode and join me in New York. She willingly
adopted this arrangement, but conceived it necessary to
spend a few days at her house in Jersey. She could reach
the latter place without much deviation from the straight
road, and she was desirous of resurveying a spot where
many of her infantile days had been spent.
This house and domain I have already mentioned to have
once belonged to Mr. Dudley. It was selected with the
judgment and adorned with the taste of a disciple of the
schools of Florence and Vincenza. In his view, cultivation
was subservient to the picturesque, and a mansion was erected,
eminent for nothing but chastity of ornaments, and
simplicity of structure. The massive parts were of stone;
the outer surfaces were smooth, snow white, and diversified
by apertures and cornices, in which a cement uncommonly
tenacious was wrought into proportions the most correct, and
forms the most graceful. The floors, walls and ceilings,
consisted of a still more exquisitely tempered substance,
and were painted by Mr. Dudley's own hand. All appendages
of this building, as seats, tables and cabinets, were
modelled by the owner's particular direction, and in a manner
scrupulously classical.
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He had scarcely entered on the enjoyment of this splendid
possession, when it was ravished away. No privation
was endured with more impatience than this; but, happily,
it was purchased by one who left Mr. Dudley's arrangements
unmolested, and who shortly after conveyed it entire
to Ormond. By him it was finally appropriated to the use
of Helena Cleves, and now, by a singular contexture of
events, it had reverted to those hands, in which the death of
the original proprietor, if no other change had been made in
his condition, would have left it. The farm still remained
in the tenure of a German emigrant, who held it partly on
condition of preserving the garden and mansion in safety and
in perfect order.
This retreat was now revisited by Constantia, after an
interval of four years. Autumn had made some progress,
but the aspect of nature was, so to speak, more significant
than at any other season. She was agreeably accommodated
under the tenant's roof, and found a nameless pleasure
in traversing spaces, in which every object prompted an
endless train of recollections.
Her sensations were not foreseen. They led to a state
of mind, inconsistent, in some degree, with the projects
adopted in obedience to the suggestions of a friend. Every
thing in this scene had been created and modelled by the
genius of her father. It was a kind of fane, sanctified by his
imaginary presence.
To consign the fruits of his industry and invention to
foreign and unsparing hands, seemed a kind of sacrilege, for
which she almost feared that the dead would rise to upbraid
her. Those images which bind us to our natal soil, to the
abode of our innocent and careless youth, were recalled to
her fancy by the scenes which she now beheld. These
were enforced by considerations of the dangers which attended
her voyage, from storms and from enemies, and
from the tendency to revolution and war, which seemed to
actuate all the nations of Europe. Her native country was
by no means exempt from similar tendencies, but these
evils were less imminent, and its manners and government,
in their present modifications, were unspeakably more favorable
to the dignity and improvement of the human race, than
those which prevailed in any part of the ancient world.
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My solicitations and my obligation to repair to England,
overweighed her objections, but her new reflections led her
to form new determinations with regard to this part of her
property. She concluded to retain possession, and hoped
that some future event would allow her to return to this
favorite spot, without forfeiture of my society. An abode
of some years in Europe would more eminently qualify her
for the enjoyment of retirement and safety in her native
country. The time that should elapse before her embarkation,
she was desirous of passing among the shades of this
romantic retreat.
I was, by no means, reconciled to this proceeding. I
loved my friend too well to endure any needless separation
without repining. In addition to this, the image of Ormond
haunted my thoughts, and gave birth to incessant but indefinable
fears. I believed that her safety would very little
depend upon the nature of her abode, or the number or
watchfulness of her companions. My nearness to her person
would frustrate no stratagem, nor promote any other end
than my own entanglement in the same fold. Still, that I
was not apprized, each hour, of her condition, that her state
was lonely and sequestered, were sources of disquiet, the
obvious remedy to which was her coming to New York.
Preparations for departure were assigned to me, and these
required my continuance in the city.
Once a week, Laffert, her tenant, visited, for purposes of
traffic, the city. He was the medium of our correspondence.
To him I entrusted a letter, in which my dissatisfaction at
her absence, and the causes which gave it birth, were freely
confessed.
The confidence of safety seldom deserted my friend.
Since her mysterious conversation with Ormond, he had
utterly vanished. Previously to that interview, his visits or
his letters were incessant and punctual; but since, no token
was given that he existed. Two months had elapsed. He
gave her no reason to expect a cessation of intercourse. He
had parted from her with his usual abruptness and informality.
She did not conceive it incumbent on her to search him out,
but she would not have been displeased with an opportunity
to discuss with him more fully the motives of her conduct.
This opportunity had been hitherto denied.
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Her occupations, in her present retreat, were, for the
most part, dictated by caprice or by chance. The mildness
of autumn permitted her to ramble, during the day, from
one rock and one grove to another. There was a luxury
in musing, and in the sensations which the scenery and
silence produced, which, in consequence of her long estrangement
from them, were accompanied with all the attractions
of novelty, and from which she would not consent
to withdraw.
In the evening she usually retired to the mansion, and
shut herself up in that apartment, which, in the original
structure of the house, had been designed for study, and no
part of whose furniture had been removed or displaced. It
was a kind of closet on the second floor, illuminated by a
spacious window, through which a landscape of uncommon
amplitude and beauty was presented to the view. Here
the pleasures of the day were revived, by recalling and
enumerating them in letters to her friend. She always
quitted this recess with reluctance, and, seldom, till the night
was half spent.
One evening she retired hither when the sun had just
dipped beneath the horizon. Her implements of writing
were prepared, but before the pen was assumed, her eyes
rested for a moment on the variegated hues, which were
poured out upon the western sky, and upon the scene of
intermingled waters, copses and fields. The view comprised
a part of the road which led to this dwelling. It was
partially and distantly seen, and the passage of horses or
men, was betokened chiefly by the dust which was raised
by their footsteps.
A token of this kind now caught her attention. It fixed
her eye, chiefly by the picturesque effect produced by interposing
its obscurity between her and the splendors which
the sun had left. Presently she gained a faint view of a
man and horse. This circumstance laid no claim to attention,
and she was withdrawing her eye, when the traveller's
stopping and dismounting at the gate, made her renew her
scrutiny. This was reinforced by something in the figure
and movements of the horseman, which reminded her of
Ormond.
She started from her seat with some degree of
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palpitation. Whence this arose, whether from fear or from joy, or
from intermixed emotions, it would not be easy to ascertain.
Having entered the gate, the visitant, remounting his horse,
set the animal on full speed. Every moment brought him
nearer, and added to her first belief. He stopped not till
he reached the mansion. The person of Ormond was distinctly
recognised.
An interview, at this dusky and lonely hour, in circumstances
so abrupt and unexpected, could not fail to surprise,
and, in some degree, to alarm. The substance of his last
conversation was recalled. The evils which were darkly
and ambiguously predicted, thronged to her memory. It
seemed as if the present moment was to be, in some way,
decisive of her fate. This visit, she did not hesitate to suppose,
designed for her, but somewhat uncommonly momentous,
must have prompted him to take so long a journey.
The rooms on the lower floor were dark, the windows
and doors being fastened. She had entered the house by
the principal door, and this was the only one, at present,
unlocked. The room in which she sat, was over the hall,
and the massive door beneath could not be opened, without
noisy signals. The question that occurred to her, by what
means Ormond would gain admittance to her presence, she
supposed would be instantly decided. She listened to hear
his footsteps on the pavement, or the creaking of hinges.
The silence, however, continued profound as before.
After a minute's pause, she approached the window more
nearly, and endeavored to gain a view of the space before
the house. She saw nothing but the horse, whose bridle
was thrown over his neck, and who was left at liberty to
pick up what scanty herbage the lawn afforded to his hunger.
The rider had disappeared.
It now occurred to her, that this visit had a purpose different
from that which she at first conjectured. It was
easily conceived, that Ormond was unacquainted with her
residence at this spot. The knowledge could only be imparted
to him, by indirect or illicit means. That these
means had been employed by him, she was by no means
authorized to infer from the silence and distance he had
lately maintained. But if an interview with her, were not
the purpose of his coming, how should she interpret it?
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Brown, Charles Brockden, 1771-1810 [1827], The Novels... (S. G. Goodrich, Boston) [word count] [eaf033a].
