Читать книгу Ormond - Charles Brockden Brown - Страница 7

Table of Contents

It was now dusk and she hastened to perform this duty. Whiston's dwelling was wooden and of small dimensions. She lifted the latch softly and entered. The lower room was unoccupied. She advanced to the foot of a narrow staircase, and knocked and listened, but no answer was returned to the summons. Hence there was reason to infer that no one was within, but this, from other considerations, was extremely improbable. The truth could be ascertained only by ascending the stair. Some feminine scruples were to be subdued before this proceeding could be adopted.

After some hesitation, she determined to ascend. The staircase was terminated by a door at which she again knocked, for admission, but in vain. She listened and presently heard the motion as of some one in bed. This was succeeded by tokens of vehement exertions to vomit. These signs convincing her that the house was not without a tenant, she could not besitate to enter the room.

Lying in a tattered bed, she now discovered Mary Whiston. Her face was flushed and swelled, her eyes closed and some power appeared to have laid a leaden hand upon her faculties. The floor was moistened and stained by the effusion from her stomach. Constance touched her hand, and endeavoured to rouse her. It was with difficulty that her attention was excited. Her languid eyes were scarcely opened before they again closed and she sunk into forgetfulness.

Repeated efforts, however, at length recalled her to herself, and extorted from her some account of her condition. On the day before, at noon, her stomach became diseased, her head dizzy, and her limbs unable to support her. Her brother was absent, and her drowsiness, interrupted only by paroxysms of vomiting, continued till his return late in the evening. He had then shewn himself, for a few minutes, at her bedside, had made some enquiries and precipitately retired, since when he had not reappeared.

It was natural to imagine that Whiston had gone to procure medical assistance. That he had not returned, during a day and a half was matter of surprize. His own indisposition was recollected and his absence could only be accounted for by supposing that sickness had disabled him from regaining his own house. What was his real destiny, it was impossible to conjecture. It was not till some months after this period that satisfactory intelligence was gained upon this head.

It appeared that Whiston had allowed his terrors to overpower the sense of what was due to his sister and to humanity. On discovering the condition of the unhappy girl, he left the house, and, instead of seeking a physician, he turned his steps towards the country. After travelling some hours, being exhausted by want of food, by fatigue, and by mental as well as bodily anguish, he laid himself down under the shelter of an hayrick, in a vacant field. Here he was discovered in the morning by the inhabitants of a neighbouring farm house. These people had too much regard for their own safety to accommodate him under their roof, or even to approach within fifty paces of his person.

A passenger whose attention and compassion had been excited by this incident, was endowed with more courage. He lifted the stranger in his arms, and carried him from this unwholesome spot to a barn. This was the only service which the passenger was able to perform. Whiston, deserted by every human creature, burning with fever, tormented into madness by thirst, spent three miserable days in agony. When dead, no one would cover his body with earth, but he was suffered to decay by piecemeal.

The dwelling, being at no great distance from the barn, could not be wholly screened from the malignant vapour which a corpse, thus neglected, could not fail to produce. The inhabitants were preparing on this account, to change their abode, but, on the eve of their departure, the master of the family became sick. He was, in a short time, followed to the grave by his mother, his wife and four children.

They probably imbibed their disease from the tainted atmosphere around them. The life of Whiston and their own lives, might have been saved by affording the wanderer an asylum and suitable treatment, or at least, their own deaths might have been avoided by interring his remains.

Meanwhile Constantia was occupied with reflecting on the scene before her. Not only a physician but a nurse was wanting. The last province it was more easy for her to supply than the former. She was acquainted with the abode but of one physician. He lived at no small distance from this spot. To him she immediately hastened, but he was absent, and his numerous engagements left it wholly uncertain when he would return and whether he would consent to increase the number of his patients. Direction was obtained to the residence of another, who was happily disengaged, and who promised to attend immediately. Satisfied with this assurance, she neglected to request directions, by which she might regulate herself on his failing to come.

During her return her thoughts were painfully employed in considering the mode proper for her to pursue, in her present perplexing situation. She was for the most part unacquainted with the character of those who composed her neighbourhood. That any would be willing to undertake the tendance of this girl was by no means probable. As wives and mothers, it would perhaps be unjust to require or permit it. As to herself there were labours and duties of her own sufficient to engross her faculties, yet, by whatever foreign cares or tasks she was oppressed, she felt that, to desert this being, was impossible.

In the absence of her friend, Mary's state exhibited no change. Constance, on regaining the house, lighted the remnant of a candle, and resumed her place by the bed side of the sick girl. She impatiently waited for the arrival of the physician, but hour succeeded hour and he came not. All hope of his coming being extinguished, she bethought herself that her father might be able to inform her of the best manner of proceeding. It was likewise her duty to relieve him from the suspence in which her absence would unavoidably plunge him.

On entering her own apartment she found a stranger in company with Mr. Dudley. The latter perceiving that she had returned, speedily acquainted her with the views of their guest. His name was M`Crea; he was the nephew of their landlord and was now become, by reversion, the proprietor of the house which they occupied. Mathews had been buried the preceding day, and M`Crea, being well acquainted with the engagements which subsisted between the deceased and Mr. Dudley, had come, thus unseasonably, to demand the rent. He was not unconscious of the inhumanity and sordidness of this proceeding, and therefore, endeavoured to disguise it by the usual pretences. All his funds were exhausted. He came not only in his own name, but in that of Mrs. Mathews his aunt, who was destitute of money to procure daily and indispensible provision, and who was striving to collect a sufficient sum to enable her and the remains of her family, to fly from a spot where their lives were in perpetual danger.

These excuses were abundantly fallacious, but Mr. Dudley was too proud to solicit the forbearance of a man like this. He recollected that the engagement on his part was voluntary and explicit, and he disdained to urge his present exigences as reasons for retracting it. He expressed the utmost readiness to comply with the demand, and merely desired him to wait till Miss Dudley returned. From the inquietudes with which the unusual duration of her absence had filled him, he was now relieved by her entrance.

With an indignant and desponding heart, she complied with her father's directions, and the money being reluctantly delivered, M`Crea took an hasty leave. She was too deeply interested in the fate of Mary Whiston, to allow her thoughts to be diverted for the present into a new channel. She described the desolate condition of the girl to her father, and besought him to think of something suitable to her relief.

Mr. Dudley's humanity would not suffer him to disapprove of his daughter's proceeding. He imagined that the symptoms of the patient portended a fatal issue. There were certain complicated remedies which might possibly be beneficial, but these were too costly, and the application would demand more strength than his daughter could bestow. He was unwilling, however, to leave any thing within his power, untried. Pharmacy had been his trade, and he had reserved, for domestic use, some of the most powerful evacuants. Constantia was supplied with some of these, and he consented that she should spend the night with her patient, and watch their operation.

The unhappy Mary received whatever was offered, but her stomach refused to retain it. The night was passed by Constantia without closing her eyes. As soon as the day dawned, she prepared once more to summon the physician, who had failed to comply with his promise. She had scarcely left the house, however, before she met him. He pleaded his numerous engagements in excuse for his last night's negligence, and desired her to make haste to conduct him to the patient.

Having scrutinized her symptoms, he expressed his hopelessness of her recovery. Being informed of the mode in which she had been treated, he declared his approbation of it, but intimated, that these being unsuccessful, all that remained was to furnish her with any liquid she might chuse to demand, and wait patiently for the event. During this interview, the physician surveyed the person and dress of Constance with an inquisitive eye. His countenance betrayed marks of curiosity and compassion, and had he made any approaches to confidence and friendliness, Constance would not have repelled them. His air was benevolent and candid, and she estimated highly the usefulness of a counsellor and friend in her present circumstances. Some motive, however, hindered him from tendering his service, and, in a few moments, he withdrew.

Mary's condition hourly grew worse. A corroded and gangrenous stomach was quickly testified by the dark hue and poisonous malignity of the matter which was frequently ejected from it. Her stupor gave place to some degree of peevishness and restlessness. She drank the water that was held to her lips with unspeakable avidity, and derived from this source a momentary alleviation of her pangs. Fortunately for her attendant, her agonies were not of long duration. Constantia was absent from her bedside as rarely, and for periods as short as possible. On the succeeding night, the sufferings of the patient terminated in death.

This event took place at two o'clock in the morning. An hour whose customary stillness was, if possible, encreased tenfold by the desolation of the city. The poverty of Mary and of her nurse, had deprived the former of the benefits resulting from the change of bed and cloaths. Every thing about her was in a condition noisome and detestable. Her yellowish and haggard visage, conspicuous by a feeble light, an atmosphere freighted with malignant vapours, and reminding Constance at every instant, of the perils which encompassed her, the consciousness of solitude and sensations of deadly sickness in her own frame, were sufficient to intimidate a soul of firmer texture than her's.

She was sinking fast into helplessness, when a new train of reflections shewed her the necessity of perseverance. All that remained was to consign the corpse to the grave. She knew that vehicles for this end were provided at the public expense, that notice being given of the occasion there was for their attendance, a receptacle and carriage for the dead would be instantly provided. Application, at this hour, she imagined would be unseasonable. It must be deferred till the morning which was yet at some distance.

Meanwhile to remain at her present post, was equally useless and dangerous. She endeavoured to stifle the conviction, that some mortal sickness had seized upon her own frame. Her anxieties of head and stomach, she was willing to impute to extraordinary fatigue and watchfulness; and hoped that they would be dissipated by an hour's unmolested repose. She formed the resolution of seeking her own chamber.

At this moment, however, the universal silence underwent a slight interruption. The sound was familiar to her ears. It was a signal frequently repeated at the midnight hour during this season of calamity. It was the slow movement of an hearse, apparently passing along the street, in which the alley, where Mr. Dudley resided, terminated. At first, this sound had no other effect than to aggravate the dreariness of all around her. Presently it occured to her that this vehicle might be disengaged She conceived herself bound to see the last offices performed for the deceased Mary. The sooner so irksome a duty was discharged the better. Every hour might augment her incapacity for exertion. Should she be unable when the morning arrived, to go as far as the city-hall, and give the necessary information, the most shocking consequences would ensue. Whiston's house and her own were opposite each other, and not connected with any on the same side. A narrow space divided them, and her own chamber was within the sphere of the contagion which would flow, in consequence of such neglect, from that of her neighbour.

Influenced by these considerations she passed into the street, and gained the corner of the alley, just as the carriage, whose movements she had heard, arrived at the same spot. It was accompanied by two men, negroes, who listened to her tale with respect. Having already a burthen of this kind, they could not immediately comply with this request. They promised that, having disposed of their present charge, they would return forthwith and be ready to execute her orders.

Happily one of these persons was known to her. At other seasons his occupation was that of woodcarter, and as such he had performed some services for Mr. Dudley. His temper was gentle and obliging. The characser of Constance had been viewed by him with reverence, and his kindness had relieved her from many painful offices. His old occupation being laid aside for a time, he had betaken himself, like many others of his colour and rank, to the conveyance and burial of the dead.

At Constantia's request, he accompanied her to Whiston's house, and promised to bring with him such assistance, as would render her further exertions and attendance unnecessary. Glad to be absolved from any new task, she now retired to her own chamber. In spite of her distempered frame, she presently sunk into sweet sleep. She awoke not till the day had made considerable progress, and found herself invigorated and refreshed. On re-entering Whiston's house, she discovered that her humble friend had faithfully performed his promise, the dead body having disappeared. She deemed it unsafe, as well as unnecessary, to examine the cloaths and other property remaining, but leaving every thing in the condition in which it had been found, she fastened the windows and doors, and thenceforth kept as distant from the house as possible.