CHAPTER X.
Craig was indebted to her father. He had defrauded
him by the most atrocious and illicit arts. On either
account he was liable to prosecution, but her heart rejected
the thought of being the author of injury to any man. The
dread of punishment, however, might induce him to refund,
uncoercively, the whole or some part of the stolen property.
Money was at this moment necessary to existence, and she
conceived herself justly entitled to that, of which her father
had been perfidiously despoiled.
But the law was formal and circuitous. Money itself
was necessary to purchase its assistance. Besides, it could
not act with unseen virtue and instantaneous celerity. The
co-operation of advocates and officers was required. They
must be visited, and harangued, and importuned. Was she
adequate to the task? Would the energy of her mind
supply the place of experience, and, with a sort of miraculous
efficacy, afford her the knowledge of official processes
and dues? As little, on this occasion, could be expected
from her father, as from her. He was infirm and blind.
The spirit that animated his former days was flown. His
heart's blood was chilled by the rigors of his fortune. He
had discarded his indignation and his enmities, and, together
with them, hope itself had perished in his bosom. He
waited in tranquil despair, for that stroke which would delive
him from life, and all the woes that it inherits.
But these considerations were superfluous. It was enough
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that justice must be bought, and that she had not the equivalent.
Legal proceedings are encumbered with delay, and
her necessities were urgent. Succor, if withheld till the
morrow, would be useless. Hunger and cold would not be
trifled with. What resource was there left in this her uttermost
distress? Must she yield, in imitation of her father,
to the cowardly suggestions of despair?
Craig might be rich. His coffers might be stuffed with
thousands. All that he had, according to the principles of
social equity, was hers; yet he, to whom nothing belonged,
rioted in superfluity, while she, the rightful claimant, was
driven to the point of utmost need. The proper instrument
of her restoration was law, but its arm was powerless, for
she had not the means of bribing it into activity. But was
law the only instrument?
Craig, perhaps, was accessible. Might she not, with
propriety, demand an interview, and lay before him the consequences
of his baseness? He was not divested of the
last remains of humanity. It was impossible that he should
not relent at the picture of those distresses of which he was
the author. Menaces of legal prosecution she meant not
to use, because she was unalterably resolved against that
remedy. She confided in the efficacy of her pleadings to
awaken his justice. This interview she was determined immediately
to seek. She was aware that by some accident
her purpose might be frustrated. Access to his person,
might, for the present, be impossible, or might be denied.
It was proper therefore to write him a letter, which might be
substituted in place of an interview. It behoved her to be
expeditious, for the light was failing, and her strength was
nearly exhausted by the hurry of her spirits. Her fingers,
likewise, were benumbed with the cold. She performed
her task, under these disadvantages, with much difficulty.
This was the purport of her letter.
Thomas Craig,
An hour ago I was in Second street, and
saw you. I followed you till you entered the Indian Queen
Tavern. Knowing where you are, I am now preparing to
demand an interview. I may be disappointed in this hope,
and therefore write you this.
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I do not come to upbraid you, to call you to a legal, or
any other account for your actions. I presume not to weigh
your merits. The God of equity be your judge. May he
be as merciful, in the hour of retribution, as I am disposed
to be.
It is only to inform you that my father is on the point of
perishing with want. You know who it was that reduced
him to this condition. I persuade myself I shall not appeal
to your justice in vain. Learn of this justice to afford him
instant succor.
You know who it was that took you in, a houseless
wanderer; protected and fostered your youth, and shared
with you his confidence and his fortune. It is he who now,
blind and indigent, is threatened, by an inexorable landlord,
to be thrust into the street; and who is, at this moment,
without fire and without bread.
He once did you some little service; now he looks to be
compensated. All the retribution he asks, is to be saved
from perishing. Surely you will not spurn at his claims.
Thomas Craig has done nothing that shews him deaf to
the cries of distress. He would relieve a dog from such
suffering.
Forget that you have known my father in any character
but that of a supplicant for bread. I promise you that, on
this condition, I, also, will forget it. If you are so far just,
you have nothing to fear. Your property and reputation
shall both be safe. My father knows not of your being in
this city. His enmities are extinct, and if you comply with
this request, he shall know you only as a benefactor.
C. Dudley.
Having finished and folded this epistle, she once more
returned to the tavern. A waiter informed her that Craig
had lately been in, and was now gone out to spend the
evening. Whither had he gone? she asked.
How was he to know where gentlemen eat their suppers?
Did she take him for a witch? What, in God's name, did
she want with him at that hour? Could she not wait, at
least, till he had done his supper? He warranted her pretty
face would bring him home time enough.
Constantia was not disconcerted at this address. She
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knew that females are subjected, through their own ignorance
and cowardice, to a thousand mortifications. She set its
true value on base and low minded treatment. She disdained
to notice this ribaldry, but turned away from the
servant to meditate on this disappointment.
A few moments after, a young fellow smartly dressed,
entered the apartment. He was immediately addressed by
the other, who said to him, Well, Tom, where's your master.
There's a lady wants him, pointing to Constantia, and laying
a grinning emphasis on the word lady. She turned to
the new comer: Friend, are you Mr. Craig's servant?
The fellow seemed somewhat irritated at the bluntness of
her interrogatory. The appellation of servant sat uneasily,
perhaps, on his pride, especially as coming from a person of
her appearance. He put on an air of familiar ridicule, and
surveyed her in silence. She resumed, in an authoritative
tone, where does Mr. Craig spend this evening? I have business
with him of the highest importance, and that will not
bear delay. I must see him this night.—He seemed preparing
to make some impertinent answer, but she anticipated
it. You had better answer me with decency. If you do
not, your master shall hear of it.
This menace was not ineffectual. He began to perceive
himself in the wrong, and surlily muttered, Why, if you must
know, he is gone to Mr. Ormond's. And where lived Mr.
Ormond? In Arch Street; he mentioned the number on
her questioning him to that effect.
Being furnished with this information, she left them. Her
project was not to be thwarted by slight impediments, and
she forthwith proceeded to Ormond's dwelling. Who was
this Ormond? she inquired of herself as she went along;
whence originated, and of what nature is the connexion between
him and Craig? Are they united by union of designs
and sympathy of character, or is this stranger a new
subject on whom Craig is practising his arts? The last supposition
is not impossible. Is it not my duty to disconcert
his machinations, and save a new victim from his treachery?
But I ought to be sure before I act. He may now be honest,
or tending to honesty, and my inteference may cast him
backward, or impede his progress.
The house to which she had been directed was spacious
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and magnificent. She was answered by a servant, whose
uniform was extremely singular and fanciful, and whose features
and accents bespoke him to be English, with a politeness
to which she knew that the simplicity of her garb gave
her no title. Craig, he told her, was in the drawing room
above stairs. He offered to carry him any message, and
ushured her, meanwhile, into a parlor. She was surprised
at the splendor of the room. The ceiling was painted with
a gay design, the walls stuccoed in relief, and the floor covered
with a Persian carpet, with suitable accompaniments of
mirrors, tables and sofas.
Craig had been seated at the window above. His suspicions
were ever on the watch. He suddenly espied a figure
and face on the opposite side of the street, which an alteration
of garb and the improvements of time, could not conceal
from his knowledge. He was startled at this incident, without
knowing the extent of its consequences. He saw her
cross the way opposite this house, and immediately after
heard the bell ring. Still he was not aware that he himself
was the object of this visit, and waited, with some degree of
impatience, for the issue of this adventure.
Presently he was summoned to a person below, who wished
to see him. The servant shut the door, as soon as he
had delivered the message, and retired.
Craig was thrown into considerable perplexity. It was
seldom that he was wanting in presence of mind and dexterity,
but the unexpectedness of this incident, made him pause.
He had not forgotten the awful charms of his summoner. He
shrunk at the imagination of her rebukes. What purpose
could be answered by admitting her? It was, undoubtedly,
safest to keep at a distance, but what excuse should be given
for refusing this interview? He was roused from his reverie
by a second and more urgent summons. The person could
not conveniently wait; her business was of the utmost moment,
and would detain him but a few minutes.
The anxiety which was thus expressed to see him, only
augmented his solicitude to remain invisible. He had papers
before him which he had been employed in examining.
This suggested an excuse. Tell her that I am engaged just
now, and cannot possibly attend to her. Let her leave her
business. If she has any message you may bring it to me.
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It was plain to Constantia that Craig suspected the purpose
of her visit. This might have come to his knowledge
by means impossible for her to divine. She now perceived
the wisdom of the precaution she had taken. She gave her
letter to the servant with this message; Tell him I shall wait
here for an answer, and continue to wait till I receive one.
Her mind was powerfully affected by the criticalness of
her situation. She had gone thus far, and saw the necessity
of persisting to the end. The goal was within view, and she
formed a sort of desperate determination not to relinquish
the pursuit. She could not overlook the possibility that he
might return no answer, or return an unsatisfactory one. In
either case, she was resolved to remain in the house till driven
from it by violence. What other resolution could she form?
To return to her desolate home, penniless, was an idea not
to be endured.
The letter was received, and perused. His conscience
was touched, but compunction was a guest, whose importunities
he had acquired a peculiar facility of eluding. Here
was a liberal offer. A price was set upon his impunity. A
small sum, perhaps, would secure him from all future molestation.—
She spoke, to be sure, in a damned high tone.
' Twas a pity that the old man should be hungry before supper
time. Blind too! Harder still, when he cannot find his
way to his mouth. Rent unpaid, and a flinty-hearted landlord.
A pretty pickle to be sure. Instant payment she says.
Won't part without it. Must come down with the stuff. I
know this girl. When her heart is once set upon a thing, all
the devils will not turn her out of her way. She promises
silence. I can't pretend to bargain with her. I 'd as lief be
ducked, as meet her face to face. I know she 'll do what
she promises. That was always her grand failing. How
the little witch talks! Just the dreamer she ever was! Justice!
Compassion! Stupid fool! One would think she 'd
learned something of the world by this time.
He took out his pocket book. Among the notes it contained
the lowest was fifty dollars. This was too much, yet
there was no alternative, something must be given. She
had detected his abode, and he knew it was in the power of
the Dudleys to ruin his reputation, and obstruct his present
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schemes. It was probable, that if they should exert themselves,
their cause would find advocates and patrons. Still
the gratuitous gift of fifty dollars, sat uneasily upon his avarice.
One idea occurred to reconcile him to the gift. There
was a method he conceived of procuring the repayment of it
with interest. He inclosed the note in a blank piece of paper
and sent it to her.
She received the paper, and opened it with trembling fingers.
When she saw what were its contents, her feelings
amounted to rapture. A sum like this was affluence to her in
her present condition. At least it would purchase present
comfort and security. Her heart glowed with exultation, and
she seemed to tread with the lightness of air, as she hied
homeward. The langour of a long fast, the numbness of the
cold, were forgotten. It is worthy of remark how much of
human accommodation was comprised within this small compass;
and how sudden was this transition from the verge of
destruction to the summit of security.
Her first business was to call upon her landlord and pay
him his demand. On her return she discharged the little
debts she had been obliged to contract, and purchased what
was immediately necessary. Wood she could borrow from
her next neighbor, and this she was willing to do, now that
she had the prospect of repaying it.
Brown, Charles Brockden, 1771-1810 [1827], The Novels... (S. G. Goodrich, Boston) [word count] [eaf033a].
