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Self-control: A Novel

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Title: Self-control: A Novel

Author: Mary Brunton


        
Release date: October 27, 2012 [eBook #41196]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELF-CONTROL: A NOVEL ***

    SELF-CONTROL

    _A Novel by_
    MARY BRUNTON


    His warfare is within.--There unfatigued
    His fervent spirit labours.--There he fights,
    And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself,
    And never-withering wreaths, compared with which
    The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds

                                                   Cowper




                           TO
                   MISS JOANNA BAILLIE

MADAM,

You would smile to hear the insect of a day pay the tribute of its
praise to the lasting oak which aided its first feeble soaring--Smile
then;--for a person whom nature, fortune, and inclination, alike, have
marked for obscurity, one whose very name may never reach your ear,
offers this tribute of respect to the author of PLAYS on the PASSIONS.

The pleasure of expressing heart-felt admiration is not, however, my
only motive for inscribing this tale to you. Unknown to the world both
as an individual and as an author, I own myself desirous of giving a
pledge of spotless intention in my work, by adorning it with the name of
one whose writings force every unvitiated heart to glow with a warmer
love of virtue. On one solitary point I claim equality with you:--In
purity of intention I yield not even to JOANNA BAILLIE.

May I venture to avow another feeling which has prompted this intrusion?
What point so small that vanity cannot build on it a resting-place! Will
you believe that this trifle claims affinity with the Plays on the
Passions?--Your portraitures of the progress and of the consequences of
passion,--portraitures whose exquisite truth gives them the force of
living examples,--are powerful warnings to watch the first risings of
the insidious rebel. No guard but one is equal to the task. The
regulation of the passions is the province, it is the triumph of
RELIGION. In the character of Laura Montreville the religious principle
is exhibited as rejecting the bribes of ambition; bestowing fortitude in
want and sorrow; as restraining just displeasure; overcoming
constitutional timidity; conquering misplaced affection; and triumphing
over the fear of death and of disgrace.

This little tale was begun at first merely for my own amusement. It is
published that I may reconcile my conscience to the time which it has
employed, by making it in some degree useful. Let not the term so
implied provoke a smile! If my book is read, its uses to the author are
obvious. Nor is a work of fiction necessarily unprofitable to the
readers. When the vitiated appetite refuses its proper food, the
alternative may be administered in a sweetmeat. It may be imprudent to
confess the presence of the medicine, lest the sickly palate, thus
warned, turn from it in loathing. But I rely in this instance on the
world of the philosopher, who avers that 'young ladies never read
prefaces'; and I am not without hope, that with you, and with all who
form exceptions to this rule, the avowal of a useful purpose may be an
inducement to tolerate what otherwise might be thought unworthy of
regard.

Perhaps in an age whose lax morality, declining the glorious toils of
virtue, is poorly 'content to dwell in decencies for ever', emulation
may be repressed by the eminence which the character of Laura claims
over the ordinary standard of the times. A virtue which, though
essentially Christian, is certainly not very popular in this Christian
country, may be stigmatized as romantic; a chilling term of reproach,
which has blighted many a fair blossom of goodness ere it ripened into
fruit. Perhaps some of my fair countrywomen, finding it difficult to
trace in the delineation of Self-Control any striking feature of their
own minds, may pronounce my picture unnatural. It might be enough to
reply, that I do not ascribe any of the virtues of Laura to nature, and,
least of all, the one whose office is to regulate and control nature.
But if my principal figure want the air, and vivacity of life, the blame
lies in the painter, not in the subject. Laura is indebted to fancy for
her drapery and attitudes alone. I have had the happiness of witnessing,
in real life, a self-command operating with as much force, permanence,
and uniformity, as that which is depicted in the following volumes. To
you, Madam, I should perhaps further apologize for having left in my
model some traces of human imperfection; while, for the generality of my
readers, I breathe a fervent wish, that these pages may assist in
enabling their own hearts to furnish proof that the character of Laura,
however unnatural, is yet not unattainable.

  I have the honour to be,
    with great respect,
      Madam,
        Your obedient Servant,
          The AUTHOR

                                          January 1811.




CONTENTS


  Chapter I               1

  Chapter II             10

  Chapter III            18

  Chapter IV             23

  Chapter V              33

  Chapter VI             39

  Chapter VII            45

  Chapter VIII           56

  Chapter IX             62

  Chapter X              73

  Chapter XI             82

  Chapter XII            90

  Chapter XIII          102

  Chapter XIV           116

  Chapter XV            132

  Chapter XVI           147

  Chapter XVII          161

  Chapter XVIII         185

  Chapter XIX           201

  Chapter XX            215

  Chapter XXI           229

  Chapter XXII          242

  Chapter XXIII         260

  Chapter XXIV          270

  Chapter XXV           283

  Chapter XXVI          298

  Chapter XXVII         312

  Chapter XXVIII        329

  Chapter XXIX          346

  Chapter XXX           367

  Chapter XXXI          387

  Chapter XXXII         402

  Chapter XXXIII        413

  Chapter XXXIV         426




CHAPTER I


It was on a still evening in June, that Laura Montreville left her
father's cottage, in the little village of Glenalbert, to begin a
solitary ramble. Her countenance was mournful, and her step languid; for
her health had suffered from long confinement, and her spirits were
exhausted by long attendance on the deathbed of her mother. That labour
of duty had been lessened by no extrinsic circumstance; for Lady Harriet
Montreville was a peevish and refractory patient; her disorder had been
tedious as well as hopeless; and the humble establishment of a half-pay
officer furnished no one who could lighten to Laura the burden of
constant attendance. But Laura had in herself that which softens all
difficulty, and beguiles all fatigue--an active mind, a strong sense of
duty, and the habit of meeting and of overcoming adverse circumstances.

Captain Montreville was of a family ancient and respectable, but so far
from affluent, that, at the death of his father, he found his wealth, as
a younger son, to consist only of £500, besides the emoluments arising
from a lieutenancy in a regiment of foot. Nature had given him a fine
person and a pleasing address; and to the national opinions of a Scotish
mother, he was indebted for an education, of which the liberality suited
better with his birth than with his fortunes. He was in London
negotiating for the purchase of a company, when he accidentally met with
Lady Harriet Bircham. Her person was shewy, and her manners had the
glare, even more than the polish of high life. She had a lively
imagination, and some wit; had read a little, and knew how to shew that
little to advantage. The fine person of Montreville soon awakened the
only sort of sensibility of which Lady Harriet was possessed; and her
preference was sufficiently visible in every step of its progress. To be
distinguished by a lady of such rank and attractions, raised in
Montreville all the vanity of three-and-twenty; and, seen through that
medium, Lady Harriet's charms were magnified to perfections. Montreville
soon was, or fancied himself, desperately in love. He sued, and was
accepted with a frankness, to which some stiff advocates for female
decorum might give the harsh name of forwardness. Montreville was in
love, and he was pleased to call it the candour of a noble mind.

As his regiment was at this time under orders for the West Indies, Lady
Harriet prevailed on him to exchange to half-pay; and her fortune being
no more than £5000, economy, no less than the fondness for solitude
natural in young men in love, induced him to retire to the country with
his bride, who had reasons of her own for wishing to quit London. He had
been educated in Scotland, and he remembered its wild scenery with the
enthusiasm of a man of taste, and a painter. He settled therefore in the
village of Glenalbert, near Perth; and to relieve his conscience from
the load of utter idleness at twenty-three, began the superintendence of
a little farm. Here the ease and vivacity of Lady Harriet made her for a
while the delight of her new acquaintance. She understood all the arts
of courtesy; and, happy herself, was for a while content to practise
them. The store of anecdote, which she had accumulated in her
intercourse with the great, passed with her country neighbours for
knowledge of the world. To Scotish ears, the accent of the higher ranks
of English conveys an idea of smartness, as well as of gentility; and
Lady Harriet became an universal favourite.

Those who succeed best in amusing strangers, are not, it has been
remarked, the most pleasing in domestic life: they are not even always
the most entertaining. Lady Harriet's spirits had ebbs, which commonly
took place during her tête-à-têtes with Captain Montreville. Outward
attractions, real or imaginary, are the natural food of passion: but
sound principles must win confidence, and kindness of heart engage
affection. Poor Montreville soon gave a mournful assent to these truths;
for Lady Harriet had no principles, and her heart was a mere 'pulsation
on the left side.' Her passion for her husband soon declined; and her
more permanent appetite for admiration finding but scanty food in a
solitary village, her days passed in secret discontent or open
murmurings. The narrowness of their finances made her feel the necessity
of economy, though it could not immediately instruct her in the art of
it; and Montreville, driven from domestic habits by the turmoil of a
household, bustling without usefulness, and parsimonious without
frugality, was on the point of returning to his profession, or of
seeking relief in such dissipation as he had the means of obtaining,
when the birth of a daughter gave a new turn to all his hopes and
wishes.

'I should not wish the girl to be a beauty,' said he to his friend, the
village pastor. 'A pretty face is of no use, but to blind a lover';--and
he sighed, as he recollected his own blindness. Yet he was delighted to
see that Laura grew every day more lovely. 'Wit only makes women
troublesome,' said he;--but before Laura was old enough to shew the
uncommon acuteness of her understanding, he had quite forgotten that he
ever applied the remark to her. To amuse her infancy became his chosen
recreation; to instruct her youth was afterwards his favourite
employment. Lady Harriet, too, early began to seek food for her vanity
in the superior endowments of her child, and she forthwith determined
that Laura should be a paragon. To perfect her on Nature's plan, never
entered the head of this judicious matron; she preferred a plan of her
own, and scorned to be indebted to the assistance of nature, even for
any part of the perfect structure which she resolved to rear. The temper
of Laura, uniformly calm and placid, was by nature slightly inclined to
obstinacy. Lady Harriet had predetermined that her daughter should be a
model of yielding softness. Laura's spirits were inexhaustible; Lady
Harriet thought nothing so interesting as a pensive beauty. Laura was
both a reasonable and a reasoning creature: her mother chose that she
should use the latter faculty in every instance, except where maternal
authority or opinion was concerned. Innumerable difficulties, therefore,
opposed Lady Harriet's system; and as violent measures ever occur first
to those who are destitute of other resources, she had recourse to so
many blows, disgraces, and deprivations, as must have effectually ruined
the temper and dispositions of her pupil, if Laura had not soon learnt
to look upon the ungoverned anger of her mother as a disease, to which
she owed pity and concealment. This lesson was taught her partly by the
example of her father, partly by the admonitions of Mrs Douglas, wife to
the clergyman of the parish.

This lady was in every respect Lady Harriet's opposite. Of sound sense,
rather than of brilliant abilities; reserved in her manners, gentle in
her temper, pious, humble, and upright; she spent her life in the
diligent and unostentatious discharge of Christian and feminine duty;
beloved without effort to engage the love, respected without care to
secure the praise of man. She had always treated the little Laura with
more than common tenderness; and the child, unused to the fascinations
of feminine kindness, repaid her attention with the utmost enthusiasm of
love and veneration. With her she passed every moment allowed her for
recreation; to her she applied in every little difficulty; from her she
solicited every childish indulgence. The influence of this excellent
woman increased with Laura's age, till her approbation became essential
to the peace of her young friend, who instinctively sought to read, in
the expressive countenance of Mrs Douglas, an opinion of all her words
and actions. Mrs Douglas, ever watchful for the good of all who
approached her, used every effort to render this attachment as useful as
it was delightful, and gradually laid the foundation of the most
valuable qualities in the mind of Laura. By degrees she taught her to
know and to love the Author of her being, to adore him as the bestower
of all her innocent pleasures, to seek his favour, or to tremble at his
disapprobation in every hour of her life. Lady Harriet had been educated
among those who despised or neglected the peculiar tenets of the
Christian faith; she never thought of them, therefore, but as an affair
that gave scope to lively argument. On Mrs Douglas's own mind they had
their proper effect; and she convinced Laura that they were not subjects
for cavil, but for humble and thankful acceptation.

In as far as the religious character can be traced to causes merely
natural, it may be formed by those who obtain over a mind of sensibility
and reflection the influence which affection bestows, provided that they
are themselves duly impressed with the importance, the harmony, the
excellence of what they teach. Laura early saw the Christian doctrines,
precepts and promises, warm the heart, and guide the conduct, and
animate the hopes of her whom she loved best. Sympathy and imitation,
the strongest tendencies of infancy, first formed the disposition which
reason afterwards strengthened into principle, and Laura grew up a pious
Christian.

It is the fashion of the age to account for every striking feature of a
character from education or external circumstance. Those who are fond of
such speculations may trace, if they can, the self-denying habits of
Laura, to the eagerness with which her enthusiastic mind imbibed the
stories of self-devoting patriots and martyrs, and may find, in one
lesson of her preceptress, the tint which coloured her future days. The
child had been reading a narrative of the triumphant death of one of the
first reformers, and, full of the emulation which the tale of heroic
virtue inspires, exclaimed, her eyes flashing through their tears, her
little form erect with noble daring,--'Let them persecute me and I will
be a martyr.' 'You may be so now, to-day, every day,' returned Mrs
Douglas. 'It was not at the stake that these holy men began their
self-denial. They had before taken up their cross daily; and whenever,
from a regard to duty, you resign any thing that is pleasing or valuable
to you, you are for the time a little martyr.'

In a solitary village, remote from her equals in age and rank, Laura
necessarily lived much alone, and in solitude she acquired a grave and
contemplative turn of mind. Far from the scenes of dissipation and
frivolity, conversant with the grand and the sublime in nature, her
sentiments assumed a corresponding elevation. She had heard that there
was vice in the world: she knew that there was virtue in it; and, little
acquainted with other minds, deeply studious of her own, she concluded
that all mankind were, like herself, engaged in a constant endeavour
after excellence; that success in this struggle was at once virtue and
happiness, while failure included misery as well as guilt. The habit of
self-examination, early formed, and steadily maintained, made even
venial trespass appear the worst of evils;--while, in the labours of
duty and the pleasures of devotion, she found joys which sometimes rose
to rapture.

The capricious unkindness of her mother gave constant exercise to her
fortitude and forbearance, while the principle of charity, no less than
the feelings of benevolence, led to frequent efforts of self-denial. The
latter virtue became daily more necessary, for mismanagement had now
brought her mother's fortune almost to a close; and Captain Montreville,
while he felt that she was injuring his child, could not prevail on
himself to withhold from Lady Harriet the control of what he considered
her own, especially as her health was such as to afford a plea for
indulgence.

Laura had reached her sixteenth year, when Mr Douglas was induced, by a
larger benefice, to remove to a parish almost twenty miles distant from
Glenalbert; and parting with her early friend, was the severest sorrow
that Laura had ever yet known. Captain Montreville promised, however,
that his daughter should often visit the new parsonage; but Lady
Harriet's increasing illness long prevented the performance of his
promise. After a confinement of many months she died, and was lamented
by her husband, with that sort of sorrow which it usually costs a man to
part with an object which he is accustomed to see, when he knows that he
shall see it no more.

It was on the third evening after her mother's funeral, that Captain
Montreville prevailed on his daughter to take a solitary walk. Slowly
she ascended the hill that overlooked the village, and, stopping near
its brow, looked back towards the churchyard, to observe a brown hillock
that marked the spot where her mother slept. Tears filled her eyes, as,
passing over long intervals of unkindness, she recollected some casual
proof of maternal love; and they fell fast as she remembered, that for
that love she could now make no return. She turned to proceed;--and the
moist eye sparkled with pleasure, the faded cheek glowed with more than
the flush of health, when, springing towards her, she beheld the
elegant, the accomplished, Colonel Hargrave. Forgotten was languor;
forgotten was sorrow; for Laura was just seventeen, and Colonel Hargrave
was the most ardent, the most favoured of lovers. His person was
symmetry itself; his manners had all the fascination that vivacity and
intelligence, joined to the highest polish, can bestow. His love for
Laura suited with the impetuosity of his character, and for more than a
year he had laboured with assiduity and success to inspire a passion
corresponding to his own. Yet it was not Hargrave whom Laura loved; for
the being on whom she doated had no resemblance to him, but in
externals. It was a creature of her own imagination, pure as her own
heart, yet impassioned as the wildest dreams of fiction,--intensely
susceptible of pleasure, and keenly alive to pain, yet ever ready to
sacrifice the one and to despise the other. This ideal being, clothed
with the fine form, and adorned with the insinuating manners, and
animated with the infectious love of Hargrave, what heart of woman could
resist? Laura's was completely captivated.

Hargrave, charmed with her consummate loveliness, pleased with her
cheerful good sense, and fascinated with her matchless simplicity, at
first sought her society without thought but of present gratification,
till he was no longer master of himself. He possessed an ample fortune,
besides the near prospect of a title; and nothing was farther from his
thoughts, than to make the poor unknown Laura a sharer in these
advantages. But Hargrave was not yet a villain, and he shuddered at the
thought of seduction. 'I will see her only _once_ more', said he, 'and
then tear myself from her for ever.'--'Only this once,' said he, while
day after day he continued to visit her,--to watch with delight, and to
cherish with eager solicitude, the tenderness which, amidst her daily
increasing reserve, his practised eye could distinguish. The passion
which we do not conquer, will in time reconcile us to any means that
can aid its gratification. 'To leave her now would be dishonourable, it
would be barbarous,' was his answer to his remonstrating conscience, as
he marked the glow of her complexion at his approach, the tremor of her
hand at his pressure. 'I cannot, indeed, make her my wife. The woman
whom I marry, must assist in supporting the rank which she is to fill.
But Laura is not made for high life. Short commerce with the world would
destroy half her witchery. Love will compensate to us for every
privation. I will hide her and myself from a censorious world; she loves
solitude; and, with her, solitude will be delightful.'--He forgot that
solitude is delightful to the innocent alone.

Meantime, the artless Laura saw, in his highly-coloured pictures of
happy love, only scenes of domestic peace and literary leisure; and,
judging of his feelings by her own, dreamed not of ought that would have
disgraced the loves of angels. Tedious weeks of absence had intervened
since their last meeting; and Hargrave's resolution was taken. To live
without her was impossible; and he was determined to try whether he had
overrated the strength of her affection, when he ventured to hope that
to it she would sacrifice her all. To meet her thus unexpectedly filled
him with joy, and the heart of Laura throbbed quick as he expressed his
rapture. Never had his professions been so ardent; and, softened by
sorrow and by absence, never had Laura felt such seducing tenderness as
now stole upon her. Unable to speak, and unconscious of her path, she
listened with silent rapture to the glowing language of her lover, till
his entreaties wrung from her a reluctant confession of her preference.
Unmindful of the feeling of humiliation that makes the moment of such a
confession, of all others, the least favourable to a lover's boldness,
Hargrave poured forth the most vehement expressions of passion; while,
shrinking into herself, Laura now first observed, that the shades of
evening were closing fast, while their lonely path led through a wood
that climbed the rocky hill.--She stopped.--'I must return,' said she,
'my father will be anxious for me at this hour.'--'Talk not now of
returning,' cried Hargrave impetuously, 'trust yourself to a heart that
adores you. Reward all my lingering pains, and let this happy hour begin
a life of love and rapture.'--Laura, wholly unconscious of his meaning,
looked up in his face with an innocent smile. 'I have often taxed you
with raving,' said she, 'now, I am sure, you must admit the
charge.'--'Do not sport with me loveliest,' cried Hargrave, 'nor waste
these precious moments in cold delay. Leave forms to the frozen hearts
that wait them, and be from this hour mine, wholly and for ever.' Laura
threw a tearful glance on her mourning habit. 'Is this like bridal
attire?' said she: 'Would you bring your nuptial festivities into the
house of death, and mingle the sound of your marriage vow with my
mother's dying groans?' Can this simplicity be affected, thought
Hargrave. Is it that she will not understand me? He examined her
countenance. All there was candour and unsuspecting love. Her arm rested
on his with confiding pressure, and for a moment Hargrave faltered in
his purpose. The next, he imagined that he had gone too far to recede;
and pressing her to his breast with all the vehemence of passion, he, in
hurried half-articulate whispers, informed her of his real design. No
words can express her feelings, when, the veil thus rudely torn from her
eyes, she saw her pure, her magnanimous Hargrave--the god of her
idolatry, degraded to a sensualist--a seducer. Casting on him a look of
mingled horror, dismay, and anguish, she exclaimed, 'Are you so base?'
and freeing herself, with convulsive struggle, from his grasp, sunk
without sense or motion to the ground.

As he gazed on the death-pale face of Laura, and raised her lifeless
form from the earth, compassion, which so often survives principle,
overpowered all Hargrave's impetuous feelings; and they were succeeded
by the chill of horror, as the dreadful idea occurred to him, that she
was gone for ever. In vain he chafed her cold hands, tried to warm her
to life in his bosom, bared her's to the evening-breeze, and
distractedly called for help; while, with agony, which every moment
increased, he remembered, what so lately he had thought of with delight,
that no human help was near. No sign of returning life appeared. At last
he recollected that, in their walk, they had at some distance crossed a
little stream, and starting up with renovated hope, he ran to it with
the speed of lightning; but the way, which was so short as he passed it
before, now seemed lengthened without end. At last he reached it; and
filling his hat with water, returned with his utmost speed. He darted
forward till he found himself at the verge of the wood, and then
perceived that he had mistaken the path. As he retraced his steps, a
thousand times he cursed his precipitancy, and wished that he had more
cautiously ascertained the sentiments of his mistress, ere he permitted
his licentious purpose to be seen. After a search, prolonged by his own
frantic impatience, he arrived at the spot where he left her;--but no
Laura was there. He called wildly on her name--he was answered by the
mountain-echo alone. After seeking her long, a hope arose that she had
been able to reach the village; and thither he determined to return,
that, should his hope prove groundless, he might at least procure
assistance in his search.

As he approached the little garden that surrounded Captain Montreville's
cottage, he with joy perceived a light in the window of Laura's
apartment; and never, in the cheerfulest scenes, had he beheld her with
such delight as he did now, when every gesture seemed the expression of
unutterable anguish. He drew nearer, and saw despair painted on her
every feature; and he felt how tender was the love that could thus mourn
his degeneracy, and its own blighted hopes. If she could thus feel for
his guilt, the thought irresistibly pressed on his mind, with what
bitterness would she feel her own. Seduction, he perceived, would with
her be a work of time and difficulty; while, could he determine to make
her his wife, he was secure of her utmost gratitude and tenderness. The
known honour, too, of Captain Montreville made the seduction of his
daughter rather a dangerous exploit; and Colonel Hargrave knew, that, in
spite of the licence of the times, should he destroy the daughter's
honour, and the father's life, he would no longer be received, even in
the most fashionable circles, with the cordiality he could at present
command. The dignified beauty of Laura would grace a coronet, and more
than excuse the weakness which raised her to that distinction:--his wife
would be admired and followed, while all her affections would be his
alone. In fancy he presented her glittering with splendour, or majestic
in unborrowed loveliness, to his companions; saw the gaze of admiration
follow wherever she turned;--and that thought determined him. He would
go next morning, and in form commence honourable lover, by laying his
pretensions before Captain Montreville. Should Laura have acquainted her
father with the adventures of the evening, he might feel some little
awkwardness in his first visit; but she might perhaps have kept his
secret; and, at all events, his generous intentions would repair his
offence. Satisfied with himself, he retired to rest, and enjoyed a
repose that visited not the pillow of the innocent Laura.




CHAPTER II


Scarcely had Hargrave quitted Laura, when her senses began to return,
and with them an indefinite feeling of danger and alarm. The blood
gushing from her mouth and nostrils, she quickly revived to a full sense
of her situation, and instinctively endeavoured to quit a spot now so
dark and lonely. Terror gave her strength to proceed. Every path in her
native woods was familiar to her: she darted through them with what
speed she could command; and, reckless of all danger but that from which
she fled, she leapt from the projecting rocks, or gradually descended
from the more fearful declivities, by clinging to the trees which burst
from the fissures; till, exhausted with fatigue, she reached the valley,
and entered the garden that surrounded her home. Here, supported no
longer by the sense of danger, her spirits utterly failed her; and she
threw herself on the ground, without a wish but to die.

From this state she was aroused by the voice of her father, who, on the
outside of the fence, was inquiring of one of the villagers, whether she
had been seen. Wishing, she scarcely knew why, to escape all human eyes,
she rose, and, without meeting Captain Montreville, gained her own
apartment. As she closed her door, and felt for a moment the sense of
security, which everyone experiences in the chamber which he calls his
own,--'Oh!' cried she, 'that I could thus shut out the base world for
ever.'

There was in Laura's chamber one spot, which had, in her eyes, something
of holy, for it was hallowed by the regular devotions of her life. On
_it_ she had breathed her first infant prayer. _There_ shone on her the
eastern sun, as she offered her morning tribute of praise. _There_ first
fell the shades of evening that invited her to implore the protection of
her God. On that spot she had so often sought consolation, so often
found her chief delight, that it was associated in her mind with images
of hope and comfort; and springing towards it, she now almost
unconsciously dropped upon her knees. While she poured forth her soul in
prayer, her anguish softened into resignation; and with the bitter tears
of disappointment, those of gratitude mingled, while she thanked Him
who, though He had visited her with affliction, had preserved her from
guilt.

She rose, composed though wretched, resigned though hopeless; and, when
summoned to supper, had sufficient recollection to command her voice,
while she excused herself on the plea of a violent head-ache. Left to
herself, she passed the sleepless night, now in framing excuses for her
lover, now in tormenting reflections on her mistaken estimate of his
character; and in bitter regrets that what seemed so excellent should be
marred with so foul a stain. But Laura's thoughts were so habitually the
prelude to action, that, even in the severest conflict of her powers,
she was not likely to remain long in a state of ineffective meditation.
'What ought I _now_ to do,' was a question which, from childhood, Laura
had every hour habitually asked herself; and the irresistible force of
the habit of many years, brought the same question to her mind when she
rose with the dawn.

With a heavy heart, she was obliged to confess, that delicacy, no less
than prudence, must forbid all future intercourse with Hargrave. But he
had for some time been a constant visitor at the cottage, till excluded
by the increasing illness of Lady Harriet. He might now renew his
visits, and how was it possible to prevent this? Should she now refuse
to see him, her father must be made acquainted with the cause of such a
refusal, and she could not doubt that the consequences would be such as
she shuddered to think of. She groaned aloud as the horrid possibility
occurred to her, that her father might avenge her wrongs at the expense
of his virtue and his life--become for her sake a murderer, or fall by a
murderer's hand. She instantly resolved to conceal for ever the insult
she had received; and to this resolution she determined that all other
circumstances should bend. Yet should she receive Colonel Hargrave as
formerly, what might he not have the audacity to infer? How could she
make him fully sensible of her indignant feelings, yet act such a part
as might deceive the penetration of her father? Act a part!--deceive her
father! Laura's thoughts were usually clear and distinct; and there was
something in this distinct idea of evasions and deceit, that sickened
her very soul. This was the first system of concealment that had ever
darkened her fair and candid mind; and she wept bitterly when she
convinced herself, that from such conduct there was no escape.

She sat lost in these distressing reflections, till the clock struck the
hour of breakfast; then recollecting that she must not suffer her
appearance to betray her, she ran to her glass, and, with more interest
than she had perhaps ever before felt in the employment, proceeded to
dress her countenance to advantage. She bathed her swollen eyes, shaded
them with the natural ringlets of her dark hair, rubbed her wan cheeks
till their colour returned, and then entered the parlour with an
overacted gaiety that surprised Captain Montreville. 'I scarcely
expected,' said he, 'to see you so very animated, after being so ill as
to go to rest last night, for the first time in your life, without your
father's blessing.'

Laura, instantly sensible of her mistake, colouring, stammered something
of the cheering influence of the morning air; and then meditating on a
proper medium in her demeanour, sunk into so long a silence, as Captain
Montreville could not have failed to remark, had not his attention been
diverted by the arrival of the newspaper, which he continued to study
till breakfast was ended, when Laura gladly retired to her room.

Though the understanding of Laura was above her years, she had not
escaped a mistake common to the youth of both sexes, when smarting under
a recent disappointment in love,--the mistake of supposing, that all the
interest of life is, with respect to them, at an end, and that their
days must thenceforth bring only a dull routine of duties without
incitement, and of toils without hope. But the leading principle of
Laura's life was capable of giving usefulness, and almost
respectability, even to her errors; and the gloom of the wilderness,
through which her path seemed to lie, only brightened, by contrast, the
splendour that lay beyond. 'The world,' thought she, 'has now nothing to
offer that I covet, and little to threaten that I fear. What then
remains but to do my duty, unawed by its threatenings, unbribed by its
joys. Ere this cloud darkened all my earthly prospects, I was not
untaught, though I had too much forgotten the lesson, that it was not
for pastime I was sent hither. I am here as a soldier, who strives in an
enemy's land; as one who must run--must wrestle--must strain every
nerve--exert every power, nor once shrink from the struggle till the
prize is my own. Nor do I live for myself alone. I have a friend to
gratify--the poor to relieve--the sorrowful to console--a father's age
to comfort--a God to serve. And shall selfish feeling disincline me to
such duties as these? No, with more than seeming cheerfulness, I will
perform them all. I will thank Heaven for exempting me from the far
heavier task of honouring and obeying a profligate.'

A profligate! Must she apply such a name to Hargrave. The enthusiasm of
the moment expired at the word, and the glow of virtuous resolution
faded to the paleness of despondency and pain.

From a long and melancholy reverie, Laura was awakened by the sound of
the garden gate, and she perceived that it was entered by Colonel
Hargrave. Instinctively she was retreating from the window, when she saw
him joined by her father; and, trembling lest candour was about to
confess, or inadvertence to betray, what she so much wished to conceal,
she continued with breathless anxiety to watch their conference.

Though Colonel Hargrave was certainly one of the best bred men in the
kingdom, and, of consequence, entirely divested of the awkwardness of
_mauvaise honte_, it must be confessed, that he entered the presence of
the father of Laura with rather less than his accustomed ease; but the
cordial salutation of Captain Montreville banishing all fear that the
lady had been too communicative, our lover proceeded, without any
remaining embarrassment, to unfold the purpose of his visit. Nor could
any one have conjectured, from the courtly condescension of the great
man, that he conceived he was bestowing a benefit; nor from the manly
frankness of the other, that he considered himself as receiving a
favour. Not but that the Colonel was in full possession of the pleasures
of conscious generosity and condescension. So complete, indeed, was his
self-approbation, that he doubted not but his present magnanimous
resolve would efface from the mind of Laura all resentment for his
offence. Her displeasure he thought would be very short lived, if he
were able to convince her that his fault was not premeditated. This he
conceived to be an ample excuse, because he chose to consider the insult
he had offered, apart from the base propensities, the unbridled
selfishness which it indicated. As Laura had so well concealed his
indiscretion, he was too good a politician himself to expose it; and he
proceeded to make such offers in regard to settlements, as suited the
liberality of his character.

Captain Montreville listened with undisguised satisfaction to proposals
apparently so advantageous to his beloved child; but, while he
expressed his entire approbation of the Colonel's suit, regard to
feminine decorum made him add, 'that he was determined to put no
constraint on the inclinations of his daughter.' The Colonel felt a
strong conviction, that no constraint would be necessary: nevertheless,
turning a neat period, importing his willingness to resign his love,
rather than interfere with the happiness of Miss Montreville, he closed
the conference, by entreating that the Captain would give him an
immediate opportunity of learning his fate from the lips of the fair
Laura herself.

Laura had continued to follow them with her eyes, till they entered the
house together; and the next minute Captain Montreville knocked at her
door.

'If your head-ache is not quite gone,' said he, with a significant
smile, 'I will venture to recommend a physician. Colonel Hargrave is
waiting to prescribe for you; and you may repay him in kind, for he
tells me he has a case for your consideration.'

Laura was on the point of protesting against any communication with
Colonel Hargrave; but instantly recollecting the explanation that would
be necessary, 'I will go to him this instant,' she exclaimed with an
eagerness that astonished her father.

'Surely, you will first smooth these reddish locks of yours,' said he,
fondly stroaking his hand over her dark auburn hair. 'I fear so much
haste may make the Colonel vain.'

Laura coloured violently; for, amidst all her fears of a discovery, she
found place for a strong feeling of resentment, at the easy security of
forgiveness that seemed intimated by a visit so immediately succeeding
the offence. Having employed the few moments she passed at her toilette
in collecting her thoughts, she descended to the parlour, fully resolved
to give no countenance to the hopes her lover might have built on her
supposed weakness.

The Colonel was alone; and as she opened the door, eagerly advanced
towards her. 'My adored Laura,' cried he, 'this condescension--.' Had he
staid to read the pale, but resolute countenance of his 'adored' Laura,
he would have spared his thanks for her condescension.

She interrupted him. 'Colonel Hargrave,' said she, with imposing
seriousness, 'I have a request to make to you. Perhaps the peace of my
life depends upon your compliance.'

'Ah, Laura! what request can I refuse, where I have so much to ask?'

'Promise me, that you will never make known to my father--that you will
take every means to conceal from him the--,' she hesitated, 'the--our
meeting last night,' she added, rejoiced to have found a palliative
expression for her meaning.

'Oh! dearest Laura! forget it;--think of it no more.'

'Promise--promise solemnly. If indeed,' added she shuddering, while an
expression of anguish crossed her features, 'if indeed promises can
weigh with such a one as you.'

'For pity's sake, speak not such cutting words as those.'

'Colonel Hargrave, will you give me your promise?'

'I do promise--solemnly promise. Say, but that you forgive me.'

'I thank you, Sir, for so far ensuring the safety of my father, since he
might have risked his life to avenge the wrongs of his child. You cannot
be surprised, if I now wish to close our acquaintance, as speedily as
may be consistent with the concealment so unfortunately necessary.'

Impatient to conclude an interview which tasked her fortitude to the
utmost, Laura was about to retire. Hargrave seized her hand. 'Surely,
Laura, you will not leave me thus. You cannot refuse forgiveness to a
fault caused by intemperate passion alone. The only atonement in my
power, I now come to offer: my hand--my fortune--my future rank.'

The native spirit, and wounded delicacy of Laura, flashed from her eyes,
while she replied: 'I fear, Sir, I shall not be suitably grateful for
your generosity, while I recollect the alternative you would have
preferred.'

This was the first time that Laura had ever appeared to her lover, other
than the tender, the timid girl. From this character she seemed to have
started at once into the high-spirited, the dignified woman; and, with a
truly masculine passion for variety, Hargrave thought he had never seen
her half so fascinating. 'My angelic Laura,' cried he, as he knelt
before her, 'lovelier in your cruelty, suffer me to prove to you my
repentance--my reverence--my adoration;--suffer me to prove them to the
world, by uniting our fates for ever.'

'It is fit the guilty should kneel,' said Laura, turning away, 'but not
to their fellow mortals. Rise, Sir, this homage to me is but mockery.'

'Say, then, that you forgive me; say, that you will accept the
tenderness, the duty of my future life.'

'What! rather than control your passions, will you now stoop to receive
as your wife, her whom so lately you thought vile enough for the lowest
degradation? Impossible! yours I can never be. Our views, our
principles, are opposite as light and darkness. How shall I call heaven
to witness the prostitution of its own ordinances? How shall I ask the
blessing of my Maker, on my union with a being at enmity with him?'

'Good heavens, Laura, will you sacrifice to a punctilio--to a fit of
Calvinistic enthusiasm, the peace of my life, the peace of your own? You
have owned that you love me--I have seen it--delighted seen it a
thousand times--and will you now desert me for ever?'

'I do not act upon punctilio,' returned Laura calmly;--'I believe I am
no enthusiast. What _have_ been my sentiments, is now of no importance;
to unite myself with vice would be deliberate wickedness--to hope for
happiness from such an union would be desperate folly.'

'Dearest Laura, bound by your charms, allured by your example, my
reformation would be certain, my virtue secure.'

'Oh, hope it not!--Familiar with my form, my only hold on your regard,
you would neglect, forsake, despise me; and who should say that my
punishment was not just.'

'And will you then,' cried Hargrave, in an agony; 'Will you then cut me
off forever? Will you drive me for ever from your heart?'

'I have now no choice--leave me--forget me--seek some woman less
fastidious; or rather endeavour, by your virtues, to deserve one
superior far. Then honoured, beloved, as a husband, as a father'--The
fortitude of Laura failed before the picture of her fancy, and she was
unable to proceed. Determined to conceal her weakness from Hargrave, she
broke from him, and hurried towards the door;--but, melting into
tenderness at the thought that this interview was perhaps the last, she
turned. 'Oh, Hargrave,' she cried, clasping her hands as in
supplication, 'have pity on yourself--have pity on me--forsake the fatal
path on which you have entered, that, though for ever torn from you
here, I may yet meet you in a better world.'

She then darted from the room, leaving her lover in dumb amazement, at
the conclusion of an interview so different from his expectations. For
the resentment of Laura he had been prepared; but upon her determined
refusal, he had never calculated, and scarcely could he now admit the
reality. Could he give her credit for the professed motive of her
rejection? Colonel Hargrave had nothing in himself that made it natural
for him to suppose passion sacrificed to reason and principle. Had he
then deceived himself,--had she never really loved him?--the suggestion
was too mortifying to be admitted. Had resentment given rise to her
determination? She had spoken from the first with calmness,--at last
with tenderness. Was all this but a scene of coquetry, designed to
enhance her favours? The simple, the noble, the candid Laura guilty of
coquetry?--impossible! While these thoughts darted with confused
rapidity through his mind, one idea alone was distinct and
permanent--Laura had rejected him. This thought was torture. Strong
resentment mingled with his anguish; and to inflict, on the innocent
cause of it, pangs answering to those he felt, would have afforded to
Hargrave the highest gratification. Though his passion for Laura was the
most ardent of which he was capable, its effects, for the present, more
resembled those of the bitterest hatred. That she loved him, he would
not allow himself to doubt; and, therefore, he concluded that neglect
would inflict the surest, as well as the most painful wound. Swearing
that he would make her feel it at her heart's core, he left the cottage,
strode to the village inn, surlily ordered his horses, and, in a humour
compounded of revenge, impatient passion, and wounded pride, returned to
his quarters at ----. His scheme of revenge had all the success that
such schemes usually have or deserve; and while, for one whole week, he
deigned not, by visit or letter, to notice his mistress, the real
suffering which he inflicted, did not exactly fall on her for whom he
intended the pain.




CHAPTER III


To an interview which he presumed would be as delightful as interesting,
Captain Montreville chose to give no interruption; and therefore he had
walked out to superintend his hay-making: But, after staying abroad for
two hours, which he judged a reasonable length for a tête-à-tête, he
returned, and was a little surprised to find that the Colonel was gone.
Though he entertained not a doubt of the issue of the conference, he had
some curiosity to know the particulars, and summoned Laura to
communicate them.

'Well, my love,' said he, as the conscious Laura shut the parlour door,
'is Colonel Hargrave gone?'

'Long ago, Sir.'

'I thought he would have waited my return.'

Laura made no answer.

'When are we to see him again?'

Laura did not know.

'Well, well,' said Captain Montreville, a little impatiently, 'since the
Colonel is gone without talking to me, I must just hear from you what it
is you have both determined on.'

Laura trembled in every limb. 'I knew,' said she, without venturing to
lift her eye, 'that you would never sacrifice your child to rank or
fortune; and therefore I had no hesitation in refusing Colonel
Hargrave.'

Captain Montreville started back with astonishment,--'Refuse Colonel
Hargrave?' cried he,--'Impossible--you cannot be in earnest.'

Laura, with much truth, assured him that she never in her life had been
more serious.

Captain Montreville was thunderstruck. Surprise for a few moments kept
him silent. At last recovering himself,--'Why, Laura,' said he, 'what
objection could you possibly make to Hargrave?--he is young, handsome,
accomplished, and has shewn such generosity in his choice of you'--

'Generosity! Sir,' repeated Laura.

'Yes; it was generous in Colonel Hargrave, who might pretend to the
first woman in the kingdom, to think of offering to share his fortune
and his rank with you, who have neither.'

Laura's sentiments on this subject did not exactly coincide with her
father's, but she remained silent while he continued: 'I think I have a
right to hear your objections, for I am entirely at a loss to guess
them. I don't indeed know a fault Hargrave has, except perhaps a few
gallantries; which most girls of your age think a very pardonable
error.'

A sickness, as of death, seized Laura; but she answered steadily,
'Indeed, Sir, the Colonel's views are so different from mine--his
dispositions so very unlike--so opposite, that nothing but unhappiness
could possibly result from such an union. But,' added she, forcing a
languid smile, 'we shall, if you please, discuss all this to-morrow;
for, indeed, today, I am unable to defend my own case with you. I have
been indisposed all day.'

Captain Montreville looked at Laura, and, in the alarm which her unusual
paleness excited, lost all sense of the disappointment she had just
caused him. He threw his arm tenderly round her--supported her to her
own apartment--begged she would try to rest,--ran to seek a cordial for
his darling; and then, fearing that the dread of his displeasure should
add to her disorder, hastened back to assure her that, though her
happiness was his dearest concern, he never meant to interfere with her
judgment of the means by which it was to be promoted.

Tears of affectionate gratitude burst from the eyes of Laura. 'My dear
kind father,' she cried, 'let me love--let me please you--and I ask no
other earthly happiness.'

Captain Montreville then left her to rest; and, quite exhausted with
illness, fatigue, and sorrow, she slept soundly for many hours.

The Captain spent most of the evening ruminating on the occurrence of
the day; nor did his meditations at all diminish his surprize at his
daughter's unaccountable rejection of his favourite. He recollected many
instances in which he thought he had perceived her partiality to the
Colonel;--he perplexed himself in vain to reconcile them with her
present behaviour. He was compelled at last to defer his conclusions
till Laura herself should solve the difficulty. The subject was, indeed,
so vexatious to him, that he longed to have his curiosity satisfied, in
order finally to dismiss the affair from his mind.

Laura had long been accustomed, when assailed by any adverse
circumstance, whether more trivial or more important, to seize the first
opportunity of calmly considering how far she had herself contributed to
the disaster; and, as nothing is more hostile to good humour than an
ill-defined feeling of self-reproach, the habit was no less useful to
the regulation of our heroine's temper, than to her improvement in the
rarer virtues of prudence and candour. Her first waking hour, except
that which was uniformly dedicated to a more sacred purpose, she now
employed in strict and impartial self-examination. She endeavoured to
call to mind every part of her behaviour to Colonel Hargrave, lest her
own conduct might have seemed to countenance his presumption. But in
vain. She could not recall a word, a look, even a thought, that could
have encouraged his profligacy. 'Yet why should I wonder,' she
exclaimed, 'if he expected that temptation might seduce, or weakness
betray me, since he knew me fallible, and of the Power by which I am
upheld he thought not.'

Satisfied of the purity of her conduct, she next proceeded to examine
its prudence: but here she found little reason for self-congratulation.
Her conscience, indeed, completely acquitted her of levity or
forwardness, but its charges of imprudence she could not so easily
parry. Why had she admitted a preference for a man whose moral character
was so little known to her? Where slept her discretion, while she
suffered that preference to strengthen into passion? Why had she
indulged in dreams of ideal perfection? Why had she looked for
consistent virtue in a breast where she had not ascertained that piety
resided? Had she allowed herself time for consideration, would she have
forgotten that religion was the only foundation strong enough to support
the self-denying, the purifying virtues? These prudent reflections came,
in part, too late; for to love, Laura was persuaded she must henceforth
be a stranger. But to her friendships, she conceived, that they might be
applicable; and she determined to make them useful in her future
intercourse with her own sex; to whom, perhaps, they may be applied even
with more justice than to the other.

The mind of Laura had been early stored with just and rational
sentiments. These were the bullion--but it was necessary that
experience should give the stamp that was to make them current in the
ordinary business of life. Had she called prudence to her aid, in the
first stage of her acquaintance with the insinuating Hargrave, what
anguish would she not have spared herself. But if the higher wisdom is
to foresee and prevent misfortune, the next degree is to make the best
of it when unavoidable; and Laura resolved that this praise at least
should be her's. Fortified by this resolution, she quitted her
apartment, busied herself in her domestic affairs, met her father almost
with cheerfulness; and, when he renewed the subject of their last
conversation, repeated, with such composure, her conviction of the
dissimilarity of Hargrave's dispositions to her own, that Captain
Montreville began to believe that he had been mistaken in his opinion of
her preference. Still, however, he could not account for her rejection
of an offer so unobjectionable; and he hinted a suspicion, that some of
Hargrave's gallantries had been repeated to her, and perhaps with
exaggeration. With trembling lips, Laura assured him she had never heard
the slightest insinuation against Colonel Hargrave. Though Laura had
little of romance in her composition, her father now began to imagine,
that she allowed herself to cherish the romantic dream, that sympathy of
souls, and exactly concordant tastes and propensities, were necessary to
the happiness of wedded life. But Laura calmly declared, that her tastes
were not inflexible; and that, had she intended to marry, she should
have found it an easy duty to conform them to those of her husband: but
that the thought of marriage was shocking to her, and she trusted no man
would ever again think of her as a wife. Montreville, who for once
suspected his daughter of a little affectation, made no effort to combat
this unnatural antipathy, but trusted to time and nature for its cure.

As soon as her father left her, Laura, determined not to be brave by
halves, began the painful task of destroying every relic of Hargrave's
presence. She banished from her port-folio the designs he had made for
her drawings, destroyed the music from which he had accompanied her, and
effaced from her books the marks of his pencil. She had amused her
solitary hours by drawing, in chalks, a portrait of features indelibly
engraven on her recollection, and her fortitude failed her when about to
consign it to the flames.--'No;' she exclaimed, 'I can never part with
this. This, at least, I may love unreproved,' and she pressed it in
agony to her heart--inwardly vowing that no human being should fill its
place. But such thoughts as these could not linger in the reasonable
mind of Laura. The next moment she blushed for her weakness; and,
casting away its last treasure, averted her eyes till the flames had
consumed it to ashes. 'Now all is over,' she cried, as she threw herself
into a chair and burst into tears. But, quickly wiping them away, she
resolved that she would not wilfully bind herself to the rack of
recollection, and hastened to exert herself in some of her ordinary
employments.

Laura was aware that the cottage, where every walk, every shrub, every
flower spoke of Hargrave, was a scene unlikely to aid her purpose of
forgetting him; and, therefore, she that evening proposed to her father
that they should pay their long promised visit to Mrs Douglas. He
readily consented. Their journey was fixed for the following day, and
Laura occupied herself in preparing for their departure, though with
feelings far different from the delight with which, a few days before,
she would have anticipated a meeting with her early friend.




CHAPTER IV


Mrs Douglas observed, with satisfaction, the improved stature and
increasing gracefulness of her young favourite; but she remarked, with
painful interest, that the hectic of pleasure which tinged the cheek of
Laura, at their meeting, faded fast to the hue of almost sickly
delicacy. She soon noticed that an expression, as of sudden torture,
would sometimes contract, for a moment, the polished forehead of Laura;
that it was now succeeded by the smothered sigh, the compressed lip, the
hasty motion that spoke of strong mental effort, now subsided into the
languor of deep unconquered melancholy. Such depression Mrs Douglas
could not attribute to the loss of a mother, whose treatment furnished
more occasions of patience than of gratitude; and she anxiously longed
to discover its real cause. But it was soon evident that this was a
secret which Laura had no intention to disclose. A glance from the
inquiring eye of Mrs Douglas, at once recalled her to constrained
cheerfulness; and the presence of Captain Montreville seemed always to
put her entirely upon her guard. While he was in the room, she talked,
read aloud, or played with the children, as if determined to be amused;
but as soon as he retired, she relapsed, like one wearied with effort,
into languor and melancholy, till recalled to herself by the
scrutinizing looks of Mrs Douglas. Even in their most private
conversations, the name of Hargrave never passed her lips. Months,
indeed, had elapsed since Laura could have pronounced that name without
painful emotion--to utter it now was become almost impossible. She felt
that she had no right to publish, while she rejected, his addresses; and
she felt an invincible repugnance to expose even his failings, but much
more his vices, to the censure of the respectable Mrs Douglas. Soon
after she first saw Hargrave, she had written to her friend a warm
eulogium of his fine person, captivating manners, and elegant
accomplishments. Mrs Douglas, in reply, had desired to hear more of this
phoenix; but before Laura again found leisure to write, she was no
longer inclined to make Hargrave her subject, and her friend had
desisted from fruitless inquiries. Mrs Douglas had lately had an
opportunity of judging for herself of the Colonel's attractions; and, so
great did they appear to her, that it was with extreme astonishment she
heard his late disappointment from Captain Montreville, who did not feel
his daughter's delicacy on the subject. This communication only served
to increase her perplexity as to the cause of Laura's depression; yet
she felt herself relieved from the apprehension, that hopeless love for
Hargrave was wasting the health and peace of her dear Laura. Still,
however, she continued to watch that expressive countenance, to weigh
every word that might tend to unfold the enigma. In vain;--Laura
studiously avoided all approach to an explanation. Mrs Douglas's anxiety
now increased to a painful extreme. She felt how necessary to female
inexperience is the advice of a female,--how indispensable to feminine
sorrows are the consolations of feminine sympathy; and she resolved that
no false delicacy should withhold her from offering such relief as she
might have power to bestow.

One morning, after the gentlemen had left them alone together, Mrs
Douglas, meditating on the best means of introducing the subject she had
so much at heart, had fallen into a long silence; when, looking up, she
perceived that Laura had let fall her work, and was sitting with her
eyes fixed, and her arms dropped, in the attitude of one whose thoughts
had no connection with present objects. At the heavy sigh with which Mrs
Douglas surveyed her, she started, and was rousing her attention to some
indifferent subject, when Mrs Douglas, kindly taking her hand, said, 'My
dear child, whatever may be necessary with others, I beseech you to be
under no constraint with me. I am far from wishing to intrude into your
confidence, but do not add the pain of constraint to anguish that
already seems so oppressive.'

Large tears stole from under Laura's downcast eyelids; but she spoke
not. Mrs Douglas continued--'If my best advice, my most affectionate
sympathy, can be of use to you, I need not say you may command them.'

Laura threw herself into the arms of her friend, and for some moments
sobbed with uncontrolled emotion; but soon composing herself, she
replied: 'If advice could have profited, if consolation could have
reached me, where should I have sought them unless from you, respected
friend of my youth;--but the warning voice of wisdom comes now too late,
and even your sympathy would be bestowed in vain.'

'Heaven forbid that my dearest Laura should be beyond the reach of
comfort. That is the lot of guilt alone.'

'I am grateful to Heaven,' said Laura, 'that I have been less guilty
than imprudent. But, my best friend, let us quit this subject. This
wretchedness cannot, shall not last. Only let me implore you not to
notice it to my father. You know not what horrors might be the
consequence.'

Mrs Douglas shook her head. 'Ah! Laura,' said she, 'that path is not the
path of safety in which you would elude a father's eye.' Laura's glance
met that of her friend; and she read suspicion there. The thought was so
painful to her, that she was on the point of disclosing all; but she
remembered that the reasons which had at first determined her to
silence, were not altered by any one's suspicions, and she restrained
herself. Colonel Hargrave had cruelly wronged and insulted her--she
ought therefore to be doubly cautious how she injured him. Sympathy, in
her case, she felt, would be a dangerous indulgence; and, above all, she
shrunk with horror from exposing her lover, or his actions, to
detestation or contempt. 'Perhaps the time may come,' said she, pursuing
her reflections aloud, 'when you will be convinced that I am incapable
of any clandestine purpose. At present your compassion might be a
treacherous balm to me, when my best wisdom must be to forget that I
have need of pity.'

Mrs Douglas looked on the open candid countenance of Laura, and her
suspicions vanished in a moment; but they returned when her young friend
reiterated her intreaties that she would not hint the subject to her
father. Laura was, however, fortified in her resolutions of concealment,
by an opinion she had often heard Mrs Douglas express, that the feelings
of disappointed love should by women be kept inviolably a secret. She
was decisively giving a new turn to the conversation, when it was
interrupted by the entrance of the gentlemen; and Mrs Douglas, a little
hurt at the steadiness of her young friend, more than half determined to
renew the subject no more.

A letter lay on the table, which the post had brought for Captain
Montreville; he read it with visible uneasiness, and immediately left
the room. Laura perceived his emotion; and, ever alive to the painful
subject nearest her heart, instantly concluded that the letter brought a
confession from Hargrave. She heard her father's disordered steps pacing
the apartment above, and earnestly longed, yet feared to join him.
Anxiety at length prevailed; and she timidly approached the door of
Captain Montreville's chamber. She laid her hand upon the lock; paused
again, with failing courage, and was about to retire, when her father
opened the door. 'Come in, my love,' said he, 'I wish to speak with
you.' Laura, trembling, followed him into the room. 'I find,' said he,
'we must shorten our visit to our kind friends here, and travel
homewards, I must prepare,' continued he, and he sighed heavily, 'I must
prepare for a much longer journey.'

Laura's imagination took the alarm; and, forgetting how unlikely it was
that Captain Montreville should disclose such a resolution to her, she
thought only of his intending to prepare for a journey whence there is
no return, before he should stake his life against that of Hargrave. She
had not power to speak; but, laying her hand on her father's arm, she
cast on him a look of imploring agony. 'Do not be alarmed, my love,'
said he: 'I shall, in a few days, convey your commands to London; but I
do not mean to be long absent.'

Laura's heart leapt light. 'To London, Sir?' said she, in a tone of
cheerful inquiry.

'Yes, my dear child; I must go, and leave you alone at home--while yet I
have a home to shelter you. Had you resembled any other girl of your
age, I should have said no more of this--but I will have no concealments
from you. Read this letter.'

It was from Captain Montreville's agent, and briefly stated, that the
merchant in whose hands he had lately vested his all, in an annuity on
his daughter's life, was dead; and that, owing to some informality in
the deed, the heirs refused to make any payment. Having read the letter,
Laura continued for some moments to muse on its contents, with her eyes
vacantly fixed on the civil expression of concern with which it
concluded. 'How merciful it is,' she exclaimed, 'that this blow fell not
till my mother was insensible of the stroke.'

'For myself,' said Captain Montreville, 'I think I could have borne it
well; but this was the little independence I thought I had secured for
you, dear darling of my heart; and now'--The father's lip quivered, and
his eyes filled; but he turned aside, for he could _be_ tender--but
would not _seem_ so.

'Dearest father,' said Laura, 'think not of me. Could you have given me
millions, I should still have been dependent on the care of Providence,
even for my daily bread. My dependence will now only be a little more
perceptible. But perhaps,' added she cheerfully, 'something may be done
to repair this disaster, Warren's heirs will undoubtedly rectify this
mistake, when they find it has been merely accidental. At all events, a
journey to London will amuse you; and I shall manage your harvest so
actively in your absence.'

Captain Montreville had, from Laura's infancy, been accustomed to
witness instances of her fortitude, to see her firm under unmerited and
merciless chastisement, and patient under intense bodily suffering--but
her composure on this occasion, so far surpassed his expectations, that
he was inclined to attribute it less to fortitude than to
inconsideration. 'How light-hearted is youth,' thought he, as he quitted
her. 'This poor child has never seen the harsh features of poverty, but
when distance softened their deformity, and she now beholds his approach
without alarm.' He was mistaken. Laura had often taken a near survey of
poverty. She had entered the cabins of the very poor--seen infancy
squalid, and youth spiritless--manhood exhausted by toil, and age pining
without comfort. In fancy she had substituted herself in the place of
these victims of want; felt by sympathy their varieties of wretchedness;
and she justly considered poverty among the heaviest of human
calamities. But she was sensible that her firmness might support her
father's spirits, or her weakness serve to aggravate his distress; and
she wisely pushed aside the more formidable mischief, which she could
not surmount, to attend to the more immediate evil, which she felt it in
her power to alleviate.

The moment she was alone, Laura fell on her knees: 'Oh! Heavenly
Providence,' she cried, 'save, if it be thy will, my dear father's age
from poverty, though, like my great Master, I should not have where to
lay my head.' She continued to pray long and fervently, for spirits to
cheer her father under his misfortune; and for fortitude to endure her
own peculiar sorrow, in her estimation so much more bitter. Having
implored the blessing of Heaven on her exertions, she next began to
practice them. She wandered out to court the exhilarating influence of
the mountain air; and, studiously turning her attention to all that was
gay, sought to rouse her spirits for the task she had assigned them. She
was so successful, that she was that evening the life of the little
friendly circle. She talked, sang, and recited--she exerted all the wit
and vivacity of which she was mistress--she employed powers of humour
which she herself had scarcely been conscious of possessing. Her gaiety
soon became contagious. Scarcely a trace appeared of the anxious fears
of Mrs Douglas, or the parental uneasiness of Captain Montreville, and
fewer still of the death-stroke which disappointed confidence had
carried to the peace of poor Laura. But, retired to the solitude of her
chamber, her exhausted spirits found relief in tears. She felt, that
long to continue her exertion would be impossible; and, in spite of
reason, which told of the danger of solitude, anticipated, with
pleasure, the moment when total seclusion should leave her free to
undisguised wretchedness.

Laura was not yet, however, destined to the hopeless task of combating
misplaced affection in entire seclusion. On the following morning she
found a stranger at the breakfast-table. He seemed a man of information
and accomplishments. An enthusiast in landscape, he was come to
prosecute his favourite study amidst the picturesque magnificence of
Highland scenery; and the appearance and manners of a gentleman,
furnished him with a sufficient introduction to Highland hospitality.
Relieved, by his presence, from the task of entertaining, Laura scarcely
listened to the conversation, till the stranger, having risen from
table, began to examine a picture which occupied a distinguished place
in Mrs Douglas's parlour. It was the work of Laura, who was no mean
proficient. She had early discovered what is called a genius for
painting; that is to say, she had exercised much of her native
invention, and habitual industry on the art. Captain Montreville added
to his personal instructions, every facility which it was in his power
to bestow. Even when her performances had little in them of wonderful
but their number, her acquaintance pronounced them wonderful; and they
obtained the more useful approbation of a neighbouring nobleman, who
invited her to use, as copies, any part of his excellent collection. Her
progress was now, indeed, marvellous to those who were new to the
effects of unremitting industry, guided by models of exquisite skill.
Having long and sedulously copied, from pieces of acknowledged merit,
she next attempted an original; and having, with great care composed,
and with incredible labour finished her design, she dedicated to Mrs
Douglas the first fruits of her improved talents, in the picture which
the stranger was now contemplating. Willing that her young friend should
reap advantage from the criticisms of a judicious artist, Mrs Douglas
encouraged him to speak freely of the beauties and defects of the piece.
After remarking that there was some skill in the composition, much
interest in the principal figure, and considerable freedom in the
touch, he added: 'If this be, as I suppose, the work of a young artist,
I shall not be surprised that he one day rise both to fame and fortune.'

Mrs Douglas was about to direct his praise to its rightful owner, but
Laura silenced her by a look. The stranger's last expression had excited
an interest which no other earthly subject could have awakened. Her
labours might, it appeared, relieve the wants or increase the comforts
of her father's age; and, with a face that glowed with enthusiasm, and
eyes that sparkled with renovated hope, she eagerly advanced to question
the critic as to the value of her work. In reply, he named a price so
far exceeding her expectations, that her resolution was formed in a
moment. She would accompany her father to London, and there try what
pecuniary advantage was to be derived from her talent. On a scheme which
was to repair all her father's losses, prudence had not time to pause;
and, feeling company rather a restraint on her pleasure, Laura ran to
her apartment, rather to enjoy than to reconsider her plan. Having spent
some time in delighted anticipation of the pleasure which her father
would take in the new team and thrashing-mill with which she would adorn
his farm, and the comfort he would enjoy in the new books and easy sofa
with which her labours would furnish his library, she recollected a
hundred questions that she wished to ask the stranger, concerning the
best means of disposing of her future productions, and she ran down
stairs to renew the conversation--but the parlour was empty, the
stranger was gone. No matter. No trifle could at this moment have
discomposed Laura; and, with steps as light as a heart from which, for a
time, all selfish griefs were banished, she crossed the little lawn in
search of her father.

The moment she overtook him, locking her arm in his, and looking
smilingly up in his face, she began so urgent an entreaty to be admitted
as the companion of his journey, that Captain Montreville, with some
curiosity, inquired what had excited in her this sudden inclination to
travel? Laura blushed and hesitated; for though her plan had, in her own
opinion, all the charms which we usually attribute to the new born
children of our fancy, she felt that an air of more prudence and
forethought might be requisite to render it equally attractive in the
eyes of Captain Montreville. She exerted, however, all the rhetoric she
could at that moment command, to give her scheme a plausible appearance.
With respect to herself, she was entirely successful; and she ventured
to cast a look of triumphant appeal on her father. Captain Montreville,
unwilling to refuse the request of his darling, remained silent; but at
the detail of her plan, he shook his head. Now, to a projector of
eighteen, a shake of the head is, of all gestures, the most offensive;
and the smile which usually accompanies it, miserably perverts the
office of a smile. Tears, half of sorrow, half of vexation, forced their
way to the eyes of Laura; and she walked silently on, without courage to
renew the attack, till they were joined by Mrs Douglas. Disconcerted by
her ill success with her father, Laura felt little inclination to
subject her scheme to the animadversions of her friend; but Captain
Montreville, expecting an auxiliary, by whose aid he might conquer the
weakness of yielding without conviction, called upon Mrs Douglas, in a
manner which shewed him secure of her reply, to give her opinion of
Laura's proposal. Mrs Douglas, who had heard, with a degree of horror,
of the intention to consign Laura to solitude in her present state of
suppressed dejection, and who considered new scenes and new interests as
indispensable to her restoration, interpreting the asking looks of the
fair petitioner, surprised Captain Montreville by a decided verdict in
her favour. Rapturously thanking her advocate, Laura now renewed her
intreaties with such warmth, that her father, not possessed of that
facility in refusing which results from practice, gave a half-reluctant
acquiescence. The delight which his consent conveyed to Laura, which
sparkled in her expressive features, and animated her artless gestures,
converted his half-extorted assent into cordial concurrence; for to the
defects of any scheme that gave her pleasure, he was habitually blind.

In the course of the evening, Captain Montreville announced that, in
order to give his daughter time to prepare for her journey, it would be
necessary for them to return to Glenalbert on the following morning.

While Mrs Douglas was assisting Laura to pack up her little wardrobe,
she attempted to break her guarded silence on the subject of Hargrave,
by saying, 'I doubt this same journey of your's will prevent Colonel
Hargrave from trying the effects of perseverance, which I used to think
the most infallible resort in love, as well as in more serious
undertakings.' Laura began a most diligent search for something upon the
carpet. 'Poor Hargrave,' Mrs Douglas resumed, 'he is a great favourite
of mine. I wish he had been more successful.' Laura continued
industriously cramming a bandbox. 'All these gowns and petticoats will
crush your new bonnet to pieces, my dear.' Laura suddenly desisted from
her employment, rose, and turning full towards Mrs Douglas, said--'It is
unkind, it is cruel, thus to urge me, when you know that duty more than
inclination keeps me silent.' 'Pardon me, my dear Laura,' said Mrs
Douglas, 'I have no wish to persecute you; but you know I was ignorant
that Colonel Hargrave was our interdicted subject.'

She then entered on another topic; and Laura, vexed at the partial
disclosure she had inadvertently made, uneasy at being the object of
constant scrutiny, and hurt at being obliged to thwart the habitual
openness of her temper, felt less sorry than relieved as she sprung into
the carriage that was to convey her to Glenalbert. So true is it, that
concealment is the bane of friendship.

Other interests, too, quickened her desire to return home. She longed,
with a feeling which could not be called hope, though it far exceeded
curiosity, to know whether Hargrave had called or written during her
absence; and the moment the chaise stopped, she flew to the table where
the letters were deposited to wait their return. There were none for
her. She interrupted Nanny's expression of joy at the sight of her
mistress, by asking who had called while they were from home. 'Nobody
but Miss Willis.' Laura's eyes filled with tears of bitterness. 'I am
easily relinquished,' thought she--'but it is better that it should be
so;' and she dashed away the drops as they rose.

She would fain have vented her feelings in the solitude of her chamber;
but this was her father's first return to a widowed home, and she would
not leave him to its loneliness. She entered the parlour. Captain
Montreville was already there; and, cheerfully welcoming him home, she
shook up the cushion of an elbow-chair by the fire-side, and invited him
to sit. 'No, love,' said he, gently compelling her, 'do you take that
seat; it was your mother's.' Laura saw his lip quiver, and, suppressing
the sob that swelled her bosom, she tenderly withdrew him from the room,
led him to the garden, invited his attention to her new-blown
carnations, and gradually diverted his regard to such cheerful objects,
that, had Captain Montreville examined what was passing in his own mind,
he must have confessed that he felt the loss of Lady Harriet less as a
companion than an antagonist. She was more a customary something which
it was unpleasant to miss from its place, than a real want which no
substitute could supply. Laura's conversation, on the contrary, amusing
without effort, ingenious without constraint, and rational without
stiffness, furnished to her father a real and constant source of
enjoyment; because, wholly exempt from all desire to shine, she had
leisure to direct to the more practicable art of pleasing, those efforts
by which so many others vainly attempt to dazzle.




CHAPTER V


The three following days Laura employed in making arrangements for her
journey. Desirous to enliven the solitude in which she was about to
leave her only attendant, she consigned the care of the cottage, during
her absence, to the girl's mother, who was likewise her own nurse; and
cautious of leaving to the temptations of idleness, one for whose
conduct she felt herself in some sort accountable, she allotted to Nanny
the task of making winter clothing for some of the poorest inhabitants
of Glenalbert; a task which her journey prevented her from executing
herself. Nor were the materials of this little charity subtracted from
her father's scanty income, but deducted from comforts exclusively her
own.

Though, in the bustle of preparation, scarcely a moment remained
unoccupied, Laura could not always forbear from starting at the sound of
the knocker, or following with her eyes the form of a horseman winding
through the trees. In vain she looked--in vain she listened. The
expected stranger came not--the expected voice was unheard. She tried to
rejoice at the desertion: 'I am glad of it,' she would say to herself,
while bitter tears were bursting from her eyes. She often reproached
herself with the severity of her language at her last interview with
Hargrave. She asked herself what right she had to embitter
disappointment by unkindness, or to avenge insult by disdain. Her
behaviour appeared to her, in the retrospect, ungentle, unfeminine,
unchristian. Yet she did not for a moment repent her rejection, nor
waver for a moment in her resolution to adhere to it. Her soul sickened
at the thought, that she had been the object of licentious passion
merely; and she loathed to look upon her own lovely form, while she
thought that it had seduced the senses, but failed to touch the soul of
Hargrave.

Amidst these employments and feelings the week had closed; and the
Sabbath evening was the last which Laura was to spend at Glenalbert.
That evening had long been her chosen season of meditation, the village
church-yard the scene where she loved to 'go forth to meditate.' The way
which led to it, and to it alone, was a shady green lane, gay with
veronica and hare-bell, undefaced by wheels, but marked in the middle
with one distinct track, and impressed towards the sides with several
straggling half-formed footpaths. The church itself stood detached from
the village, on a little knoll, on the west side of which the
burial-ground sloped towards the woody bank that bounded a brawling
mountain stream. Thither Laura stole, when the sun, which had been hid
by the rugged hill, again rolling forth from behind the precipitous
ascent, poured through the long dale his rays upon this rustic cemetery;
the only spot in the valley sufficiently elevated to catch his parting
beam.

'How long, how deep is the shadow--how glorious in brightness the
reverse,' said she, as she seated herself under the shade of the newly
raised grave-stone that marked the place of her mother's rest; and
turning her mind's eye from what seemed a world of darkness, she raised
it to scenes of everlasting light. Her fancy, as it soared to regions of
bliss without alloy, looked back with something like disgust on the
labours that were to prepare her for their enjoyment, and a feeling
almost of disappointment and impatience accompanied the recollection,
that her pilgrimage was to all appearance only beginning. But she
checked the feeling as it rose, and, in penitence and resignation,
raised her eyes to heaven. They rested as they fell upon a stone marked
with the name and years of one who died in early youth. Laura remembered
her well--she was the beauty of Glenalbert; but her lover left her for a
richer bride, and her proud spirit sunk beneath the stroke. The village
artist had depicted her want of resignation in a rude sculpture of the
prophet's lamentation over his withered gourd. 'My gourd, too, is
withered,' said Laura. 'Do I well to be angry even unto death? Will the
giver of all good leave me even here without comfort? Shall I refuse to
find pleasure in any duties but such as are of my own selection: Because
the gratification of one passion--one misplaced passion, is refused, has
this world no more to offer? this fair world, which its great Creator
has stamped with his power, and stored by his bounty, and ennobled by
making it the temple of his worshippers, the avenue to heaven! Shall I
find no balm in the consolations of friendship, the endearments of
parental love--no joy in the sweets of benevolence, the stores of
knowledge, the miracles of grace! Oh! may I ever fearlessly confide in
the fatherly care, that snatched me from the precipice from which my
rash confidence was about to plunge me to my ruin--that opened my eyes
on my danger ere retreat was impossible.'

The reflections of Laura were disturbed by the noise of some one
springing over the fence; and, the next moment, Hargrave was at her
side. Laura uttered neither shriek nor exclamation--but she turned; and,
with steps as precipitate as would bear the name of walking, proceeded
towards the gate. Hargrave followed her. 'Am I indeed so happy as to
find you alone?' said he. Laura replied not, by word or look. 'Suffer me
to detain you for a few moments.' Laura rather quickened her pace. 'Will
you not speak to me Miss Montreville?' said Hargrave, in a tone of
tender reproach. Laura continued to advance. 'Stay but one moment,' said
he, in a voice of supplication. Laura laid her hand upon the gate.
Hargrave's patience was exhausted. 'By heaven you _shall_ hear me!' he
cried, and, throwing his arm round her, compelled her to be seated on
the stone-bench at the gate. Laura coldly withdrew herself. 'By what
right, Sir,' said she, 'do you presume to detain me?' 'By the right of
wretchedness--of misery not to be endured. Since I last saw you, I have
never known rest or peace. Surely, Laura, you are now sufficiently
avenged--surely your stubborn pride may now condescend to hear
me.'--'Well, Sir,' said Laura, without attempting to depart; 'what are
your commands?' 'Oh, Laura, I cannot bear your displeasure--it makes me
supremely miserable. If you have any pity, grant me your forgiveness.'
'If my forgiveness is of any value to you, I give it you, I trust, like
a Christian--from the heart. Now, then, suffer me to go.'

'What--think you it is the frozen forgiveness of duty that will content
me? Torn, as I am, by every passion that can drive man to frenzy, think
you that I will accept--that I will endure this heartless, scornful
pardon? Laura, you loved me once. I have doated on you--pined for
you--and passion--passion only--will I accept, or bear from you.'

Laura shrunk trembling from his violence. 'Colonel Hargrave,' said she,
'if you do not restrain this vehemence, I must, I will be gone. I would
fain spare you unnecessary pain; but while you thus agitate yourself, my
stay is useless to you, and to me most distressing.' 'Say, then, that
you accept my vows--that, hopeless of happiness but with me, you bind
yourself to me alone, and for ever. Speak, heavenly creature, and bless
me beyond the fairest dreams of hope!'

'Colonel Hargrave,' said Laura, 'you have my forgiveness. My--what shall
I say--my esteem you have cast from you--my best wishes for your
happiness shall ever be yours--more I cannot give. In pity to yourself,
then--in pity to me--renounce one who can never be yours.'

Hargrave's eyes flashed fire, while his countenance faded to ghastly
paleness. 'Yes;' he exclaimed, 'cold, pitiless, insensible woman--yes I
renounce you. In the haunts of riot, in the roar of intemperance, will I
forget that form, that voice--and, when I am lost to fame, to health, to
usefulness--my ruin be on your soul.' 'Oh! Hargrave,' cried the
trembling Laura, 'talk not so wildly; Heaven will hear my prayers for
you.--Amidst the pursuits of wisdom--amidst the attractions of others,
you will forget me.'

'Forget you! Never. While I have life, I will follow
you--supplicate--persecute you.--Mine you shall be, though infamy and
death ensue. Dare not,' said he, grasping her arm,--'dare not to seek
the protection of another.--Dare but to give him one smile, and his life
shall be the forfeit.'

'Alas! Alas!' cried Laura, wringing her hands in anguish, 'this is real
frenzy. Compose yourself, I implore you--there is no other--there never
can be'--

Her tears recalled Hargrave to something like composure. 'Dearest
Laura,' said he, 'I wish to soften--I only terrify you. Fear not,
beloved of my soul--speak to me without alarm. I will hear you, if it be
possible, with calmness--but say not, oh! say not, that you reject me!'
Laura averted her face. 'Why prolong this distressing interview,' said
she,--'You have heard my determination. I know that it is right, and I
cannot relinquish it.'

The triumph of self-conquest gave firmness to her voice; and Hargrave,
driven again from composure by her self-command, sprang from her side.
'It is well, Madam,' he cried; 'triumph in the destruction of my peace;
but think not I will so tamely resign you. No; by Heaven. I will go this
moment to your father--I will tell him my offence; and ask if he thinks
it deserves such punishment. Let him take my life--I abhor it.'

'Is your promise, then, of such small avail?' said Laura, sternly.

'Shall a promise bind me to a life of wretchedness? Shall I regard the
feelings of one who takes an inhuman pleasure in my sufferings?' At this
moment Laura's eyes fell on her father, who was entering the little
avenue. Hargrave's glance followed hers, and he prepared to join Captain
Montreville. In an agony of terror, Laura grasped his arm. 'Spare me,
spare me,' she said, 'and do with me what you will!' Captain Montreville
saw that the walk was occupied; he turned from it, and Laura had again
time to breathe. 'Say, then,' said Hargrave, softened by her
emotion,--'say that, when years of penitence have atoned my offence, you
will yet be mine.' Laura covered her face with her hands. 'Let me not
hear you--let me not look upon you,' said Laura;--'leave me to think, if
it be possible,'--and she poured a silent prayer to Heaven for help in
this her sorest trial. The effort composed her, and the majesty of
virtue gave dignity to her form, and firmness to her voice, while she
said,--'My father's life is in the hands of Providence--it will still be
so, when I have repeated to you, that I dare not trust to principles
such as yours the guardianship of this the infancy of my being. I dare
not incur certain guilt to escape contingent evil. I cannot make you the
companion of this uncertain life, while your conduct is such, as to make
our eternal separation the object of my dreadful hope.'

Hargrave had trusted that the tenderness of Laura would seduce, or his
ardour overpower her firmness; but he read the expression of her pale
determined countenance, and felt assured that she was lost to him
forever. Convinced that all appeal to her feelings would be hopeless, he
would deign to make none; but in a voice made almost inarticulate by the
struggle of pride and anguish, he said,--'Miss Montreville, your
father's life is safe from me--I will not lift my hand against it. That
he should take mine is of small importance, either to you or myself. A
violent death,' continued he, his pale lip quivering with a smile of
bitterness,--'may perhaps procure me your tardy pity.'

From the storm of passion, Laura had shrunk with terror and dismay; but
the voice of suppressed anguish struck her to the soul. 'Oh! Hargrave,'
she cried, with tears no longer to be restrained, 'you have my tenderest
pity--would to Heaven that the purity of your future life would restore
me to the happiness of esteeming you!'

Laura's tenderness revived, in a moment, the hopes of Hargrave. 'Angel
of sweetness,' he exclaimed, 'mould me to your will--say that, when
purified by years of repentance, you will again bless me with your love;
and no exertion will be too severe--no virtue too arduous.'

'No; this I dare not promise; let a higher motive influence you; for it
is not merely the conduct--it is the heart that must have changed, ere I
durst expose my feeble virtue to the trial of your example--your
authority; ere I durst make it my duty to shut my eyes against your
faults, or to see them with the indulgence of love.'

'Dearest Laura, one word from you will lure me back to the path of
virtue--will you wilfully destroy even the wish to return. If for a
year--for two years--my conduct should bear the strictest scrutiny--will
you not accept this as a proof that my heart is changed--changed in
every thing but its love for you--will you not then receive me?'

Laura had resisted entreaty--had withstood alarm--had conquered strong
affection; but the hope of rousing Hargrave to the views, the pursuits,
the habits of a Christian, betrayed her caution, and gladdened her heart
to rapture. 'If for two years,' said she, her youthful countenance
brightening with delight, 'your conduct is such as you describe--if it
will bear the inspection of the wise, of the sober-minded, of the
pious,--as my father's friend, as my own friend, will I welcome you.'

Thus suddenly raised from despair, Hargrave seemed at the summit of
felicity. Once admitted as her 'father's friend, as her own,' he was
secure of the accomplishment of his wishes. The time that must first
elapse, appeared to him but a moment; and the labours of duty required
of him seemed a smiling dream. Love and joy animated every feature of
his fine countenance; he threw himself at the feet of Laura, and
rapturously blessed her for her condescension. His extasies first made
her sensible of the extent of her concession; and she feared that she
had gone too far. But with her, a promise, however inadvertent, was a
sacred thing, which she would neither qualify nor retract. She contented
herself, therefore, with merely repeating the terms of it, emphatically
guarding the conditions. Desirous now to have leisure for reflection,
she reminded him that the lateness of the hour made it fit that he
should depart; and, inwardly persuaded that she would not long
obdurately refuse him another interview, he obeyed without much
opposition.




CHAPTER VI


The lovers were no sooner parted, than Hargrave began to repent that he
had not more distinctly ascertained the kind and manner of the
intercourse which he was to hold with his mistress during the term of
his probation; and though he had little fear that she would be very
rigid, he considered this as a point of such importance, that he
resolved not to quit Glenalbert without having the matter settled to his
satisfaction. For this reason he condescended to accept the
accommodations of the little straw-roofed cottage, by courtesy called
the Inn, where he had already left his horse; and thither he retired
accordingly, not without some national misgivings of mind on the subject
of Scotish nastiness and its consequences. His apartment, however,
though small, was decent, his bed was clean, his sleep refreshing, and
his dreams pleasant; nor was it till a late hour the following morning,
that he rose to the homely comfort, and clumsy abundance of a Highland
breakfast. As soon as he had finished his repast, he walked towards
Montreville's cottage, ostensibly to pay his respects to the Captain,
but, in reality, with the hope of obtaining a private interview with
Laura. He entered the garden, where he expected to find Captain
Montreville. It was empty. He approached the house. The shutters were
barred. He knocked at the door, which was opened by the old woman; and,
on inquiring for Captain Montreville, he was answered, 'Wow, Sir, him
an' Miss Laura's awa' at six o'clock this morning.' 'Away,' repeated the
Colonel,--'Where are they gone?' 'To London, Sir; and I'm sure a lanely
time we'll hae till they come hame again.' 'What stay do they intend
making?' 'Hech, Sir, I dare say that's what they dinna ken themsels.'
'What is their address?' inquired the Colonel. 'What's your will, Sir:'
'Where are they to be found?' 'Am'n I tellan you they're in London, Sir.
I'm sure ye ken whar that is?' 'But how are you to send their letters?'
'Wow! they never got mony letters but frae England; and now 'at they're
in London, ye ken the folk may gie them into their ain hand.' 'But
suppose you should have occasion to write to them yourself?' said
Hargrave, whose small stock of patience wore fast to a close. 'Hech,
Sir, sorrow a scrape can I write. They learn a' thae newfangled things
now; but, trouth, i' my young days, we were na' sae upsettan.' Hargrave
was in no humour to canvas the merits of the different modes of
education; and, muttering an ejaculation, in which the word _devil_ was
distinctly audible, he turned away.

Vexed and disappointed, he wandered down the churchyard-lane, and
reached the spot where he had last seen Laura. He threw himself on the
seat that had supported her graceful form--called to mind her consummate
loveliness--her ill-repressed tenderness--and most cordially consigned
himself to Satan for neglecting to wring from her some further
concessions. She was now removed from the solitude where he had reigned
without a rival. Her's would be the gaze of every eye--her's the command
of every heart. 'She may soon choose among numbers,' cried he,--'she
will meet with people of her own humour, and some canting hypocritical
scoundrel will drive me completely from her mind.' By the time he had
uttered this prediction, and bit his lip half through--he was some steps
on his way to order his horses, that he might pursue his fair fugitive,
in the hope of extorting from her some less equivocal kind of promise.
Fortunately for his reputation for sanity, however, he recollected,
before he began his pursuit, that, ere he could overtake her, Laura must
have reached Edinburgh, where, without a direction, it might be
difficult to discover her abode. In this dilemma, he was again obliged
to have recourse to the old woman at the cottage; but she could give him
no information. She neither knew how long Captain Montreville purposed
remaining in Edinburgh, nor in what part of the town he intended to
reside.

Thus baffled in his inquiries, Hargrave was convinced that his pursuit
must be ineffectual; and, in no very placid frame of mind, he changed
his destination from Edinburgh to his quarters. He arrived there in time
for a late dinner, but his wine was insipid, his companions tiresome;
and he retired early, that, early next morning, he might set out on a
visit to Mrs Douglas, from whom he purposed to learn Captain
Montreville's address.

On comparing the suppressed melancholy of Laura, her embarrassment at
the mention of Hargrave, and her inadvertent disclosure, with her
father's detail of her rejection of the insinuating young soldier, a
suspicion not very remote from truth, had entered the mind of Mrs
Douglas. She imagined that Captain Montreville had in some way been
deceived as to the kind of proposals made to his daughter; and that
Laura had rejected no offers but such as it would have been infamy to
accept. Under this conviction, it is not surprising that her reception
of the Colonel was far from being cordial; nor that, guessing his
correspondence to be rather intended for the young lady than for the old
gentleman, she chose to afford no facility to an intercourse which she
considered as both dangerous and degrading. To Hargrave's questions,
therefore, she answered, that until she should hear from London, she was
ignorant of Captain Montreville's address; and that the time of his
return was utterly unknown to her. When the Colonel, with the same
intention, soon after repeated his visit, she quietly, but steadily,
evaded all his inquiries, equally unmoved by his entreaties, and the
paroxysms of impatience with which he endured his disappointment.

Hargrave was the only child of a widow--an easy, indolent, good sort of
woman, who would gladly have seen him become every thing that man ought
to be, provided she could have accomplished this laudable desire without
recourse to such harsh instruments as contradiction and restraint. But
of these she disliked the use, as much as her son did the endurance: and
thus the young gentleman was educated, or rather grew up, without the
slightest acquaintance of either. Of consequence, his naturally warm
temper became violent, and his constitutionally strong passions
ungovernable.

Hargrave was the undoubted heir of a title, and of a fine estate. Of
money he had never felt the want, and did not know the value; he was,
therefore, so far as money was concerned, generous even to profusion.
His abilities were naturally of the highest order. To force him to the
improvement of them, was an effort above the power of Mrs Hargrave; but,
fortunately for him, ere his habits of mental inaction were
irremediable, a tedious illness confined him to recreations in which
mind had some share, however small. During the interdiction of bats and
balls, he, by accident, stumbled on a volume of Peregrine Pickle, which
he devoured with great eagerness; and his mother, delighted with what
she was pleased to call a _turn for reading_, took care that this new
appetite should not, any more than the old ones, pine for want of
gratification. To direct it to food wholesome and invigorating, would
have required unremitting though gentle labour: and to labour of all
kinds Mrs Hargrave had a practical antipathy. But it was very easy to
supply the young man with romances, poetry, and plays; and it was
pleasing to mistake their intoxicating effect for the bursts of mental
vigour. A taste for works of fiction, once firmly established, never
after yielded to the attractions of sober truth; and, though his
knowledge of history was neither accurate nor extensive, Hargrave could
boast of an intimate acquaintance with all the plays, with almost all
the poetry, and as far as it is attainable by human diligence, with all
the myriads of romances in his mother tongue. He had chosen, of his own
free-will, to study the art of playing on the flute; the violin
requiring more patience than he had to bestow; and emulation, which
failed to incite him to more useful pursuits, induced him to try whether
he could not draw as well as his play-fellow, De Courcy. At the age of
seventeen he had entered the army. As he was of good family, of an
elegant figure, and furnished by nature with one of the finest
countenances she ever formed, his company was courted in the highest
circles, and to the ladies he was particularly acceptable. Among such
associates, his manners acquired a high polish; and he improved in what
is called knowledge of the world; that is, a facility of discovering,
and a dexterity in managing the weaknesses of others. One year--one
tedious year, his regiment had been quartered in the neighbourhood of
the retirement where the afore-said De Courcy was improving his 'few
paternal acres;' and, partly by his persuasion and example, partly from
having little else to do, partly because it was the fashionable science
of the day, Hargrave had prosecuted the study of chemistry. Thus have we
detailed, and in some measure accounted for, the whole of Colonel
Hargrave's accomplishments, excepting only, perhaps, the one in which he
most excelled--he danced inimitably. For the rest, he had what is called
a good heart; that is, he disliked to witness or inflict pain, except
from some incitement stronger than advantage to the sufferer. His fine
eyes had been seen to fill with tears at a tale of _elegant_ distress;
he could even compassionate the more vulgar sorrows of cold and hunger
to the extent of relieving them, provided always that the relief cost
nothing but money. Some casual instances of his feeling, and of his
charity, had fallen under the observation of Laura; and upon these, upon
the fascination of his manners, and the expression of his countenance,
her fervid imagination had grafted every virtue that can exalt or adorn
humanity. Gentle reader, excuse the delusion. Laura was only
seventeen--Hargrave was the first handsome man of fashion she had ever
known, the first who had ever poured into her ear the soothing voice of
love.

Unprepared to find, in an obscure village in Scotland, the most perfect
model of dignified loveliness, Hargrave became the sudden captive of her
charms; and her manner, so void of all design,--the energy--the
sometimes wild poetic grace of her language--the shrewdness with which
she detected, and the simplicity with which she unveiled, the latent
motives of action, whether in herself or in others, struck him with all
the force of contrast, as he compared them with the moulded artificial
standard of the day. His interest in her was the strongest he had ever
felt, even before it was heightened by a reserve that came too late to
repress or conceal the tenderness with which she repaid his passion. Yet
Hargrave was not less insensible to the real charms of Laura's mind,
than she was unconscious of the defects in his. Her benevolence pleased
him; for bright eyes look brighter through tears of sympathy, and no
smile is so lovely as that which shines on the joys of others. Her
modesty charmed him; for every voluptuary can tell what allurements
blushes add to beauty. But of her self-denial and humility he made no
account. Her piety, never obtruded on his notice, had at first escaped
his observation altogether; and, now that it thwarted his favourite
pursuit, he considered it merely as a troublesome prejudice. Of all her
valuable qualities, her unfailing sweetness of temper was perhaps the
only one that he valued for its own sake. But her person he idolized. To
obtain her no exertion would have appeared too formidable; and,
remembering the conditions of their future reconciliation, he began, for
the first time in his life, to consider his conduct with a view to its
moral fitness.

This he found a subject of inextricable difficulty. He was ignorant of
the standard by which Laura would judge him. He was willing to believe
that, if she were left to herself, it would not be severe; but the words
of her promise seemed to imply, that his conduct was to be subjected to
the scrutiny of less partial censors, and he felt some anxiety to know
who were to be his 'wise,' 'sober-minded,' 'pious' inspectors. He did
not game, his expences did not much exceed his income, therefore he
could imagine no change in his deportment necessary to conciliate the
'wise.' Though, under the name of sociality, he indulged freely in wine,
he seldom exceeded to intoxication. Here again reform seemed needless.
But, that he might give no offence to the 'sober-minded,' he intended to
conduct his indispensable gallantries with great discretion, he
determined to refrain from all approach to seduction, and magnanimously
resolved to abstain from the molestation of innocent country-girls and
decent maid-servants. Finally, to secure the favour of the 'pious,' he
forthwith made a purchase of Blair's sermons, and resolved to be seen in
Church once at least every Sunday.

It might be supposed, that when the scale of duty which we trace is low,
we should be more likely to reach the little eminence at which we
aspire; but experience shews us, that they who poorly circumscribe the
Christian race, stop as much short of their humble design, as does he of
his nobler purpose, whose glorious goal is perfection. The sequel will
show the attainments of Colonel Hargrave in the ways of virtue. In the
meantime his magnet of attraction to Perthshire was gone; he soon began
to grow weary of the feeling of restraint, occasioned by supposing
himself the subject of a system of _espionage_; and to kill the time,
and relieve himself from his imaginary shackles, he sought the
assistance of the Edinburgh races; determined, that if Laura prolonged
her stay in London, he would obtain leave of absence, and seek her
there.




CHAPTER VII


The grey lights of morning shone mild on Glenalbert, as the carriage,
which was conveying Laura to scenes unknown, wound slowly up the hill.
With watery eyes she looked back on the quiet beauties of her native
valley. She listened to the dashing of its stream, till the murmur died
on her ear. Her lowly home soon glided behind the woods; but its early
smoke rose peaceful from amidst its sheltering oaks, till it blended
with the mists of morning; and Laura gazed on it as on the parting steps
of a friend. 'Oh, vales!' she exclaimed, 'where my childhood
sported--mountains that have echoed to my songs of praise, amidst your
shades may my age find shelter--may your wild-flowers bloom on my
grave!'--Captain Montreville pressed the fair enthusiast to his breast
and smiled. It was a smile of pity--for Montreville's days of enthusiasm
were past. It was a smile of pleasure--for we love to look upon the
transcript of our early feelings. But, whatever it expressed, it was
discord with the tone of Laura's mind. It struck cold on her glowing
heart; and she carefully avoided uttering a word that might call forth
such another, till, bright gleaming in the setting sun, she first beheld
romantic Edinburgh. 'Is it not glorious!' she cried, tears of wonder and
delight glittering in her eyes, and she longed for its re-appearance,
when the descent of the little eminence which had favoured their view,
excluded the city from their sight.

As the travellers approached the town, Laura, whose attention was
rivetted by the castle and its rocks, now frowning majestic in the
shades of twilight, and by the antique piles that seemed the work of
giants, scarcely bestowed a glance on the neat row of modern buildings
along which she was passing, and she was sorry when the carriage turned
from the objects of her admiration towards the hotel where Captain
Montreville intended to lodge.

Next morning, Laura, eager to renew the pleasure of the evening,
proposed a walk; not without some dread of encountering the crowd which
she expected to find in such a city. Of this crowd, she had, indeed,
seen nothing the night before; but she concluded, ere that she reached
town, most of the inhabitants had soberly retired to rest. At the season
of the year, however, when Laura reached Edinburgh, she had little cause
for apprehension. The noble streets through which she passed had the
appearance of being depopulated by pestilence. The houses were
uninhabited, the window-shutters were closed, and the grass grew from
the crevices of the pavement. The few well-dressed people whom she saw,
stared upon her with such oppressive curiosity, as gave the uninitiated
Laura a serious uneasiness. At first she thought that some peculiarity
in her dress occasioned this embarrassing scrutiny. But her dress was
simple mourning, and its form the least conspicuous possible. She next
imagined, that to her rather unusual stature she owed this unenviable
notice; and, with a little displeasure, she remarked to her father, that
it argued a strange want of delicacy to appear to notice the
peculiarities of any one's figure; and that, in this respect, the upper
ranks seemed more destitute of politeness than their inferiors. Captain
Montreville answered, with a smile, that he did not think it was her
height which drew such attention. 'Well,' said she, with great
simplicity, 'I must endeavour to find food for my vanity in this notice,
though it is rather against my doing so, that the women stare more
tremendously than the gentlemen.'

As they passed the magnificent shops, the windows, gay with every
variety of colour, constantly attracted Laura's inexperienced eye; and
she asked Montreville to accompany her into one where she wished to
purchase some necessary trifle. The shopman observing her attention
fixed on a box of artificial flowers, spread them before her; and tried
to invite her to purchase, by extolling the cheapness and beauty of his
goods. 'Here is a charming sprig of myrtle, ma'am; and here is a
geranium-wreath, the most becoming thing for the hair--only seven
shillings each, ma'am.' Laura owned the flowers were beautiful. 'But I
fear,' said she, looking compassionately at the man, 'you will never be
able to sell them all. There are so few people who would give seven
shillings for what is of no use whatever.' 'I am really sorry for that
poor young man,' said she to her father, when they left the shop. 'Tall,
robust, in the very flower of his age, how he must feel humbled by
being obliged to attend to such trumpery?' 'Why is your pity confined to
him?' said Montreville. 'There were several others in the same
situation.' 'Oh! but they were children, and may do something better by
and by. But the tall one, I suppose, is the son of some weak mother, who
fears to trust him to fight his country's battles. It is hard that she
should have power to compel him to such degradation; I really felt for
him when he twirled those flowers between his finger and thumb, and
looked so much in earnest about nothing.' The next thing which drew
Laura's attention was a stay-maker's sign. 'Do the gentlemen here wear
corsets?' said she to Montreville. 'Not many of them, I believe,' said
Montreville. 'What makes you inquire?' 'Because there is a _man_
opposite who makes corsets. It cannot surely be for women.'

Captain Montreville had only one female acquaintance in Edinburgh, a
lady of some fashion, and hearing that she was come to town to remain
till after the races, he that forenoon carried Laura to wait upon her.
The lady received them most graciously, inquired how long they intended
to stay in Edinburgh; and on being answered that they were to leave it
in two days, overwhelmed them with regrets, that the shortness of their
stay precluded her from the pleasure of their company for a longer
visit. Laura regretted it too; but utterly ignorant of the time which
must elapse between a fashionable invitation and the consequent visit,
she could not help wondering whether the lady was really engaged for
each of the four daily meals of two succeeding days.

These days, Captain Montreville and his daughter passed in examining
this picturesque city--its public libraries, its antique castle, its
forsaken palace, and its splendid scenery. But nothing in its singular
environs more charmed the eye of Laura than one deserted walk, where,
though the noise of multitudes stole softened on the ear, scarcely a
trace of human existence was visible, except the ruin of a little chapel
which peeped fancifully from the ledge of a rock, and reminded her of
the antick gambols of the red deer on her native hills, when, from the
brink of the precipice, they look fearless into the dell below. Captain
Montreville next conducted his daughter to the top of the fantastic
mountain that adorns the immediate neighbourhood of Edinburgh, and
triumphantly demanded whether she had ever seen such a prospect. But
Laura was by no means disposed to let Perthshire yield the palm to
Lowland scenery. Here indeed, the prospect was varied and extensive, but
the objects were too various, too distant, too gay--they glared on the
eye--the interest was lost. The serpentine corn-ridges, offensive to
agricultural skill; the school, with its well frequented Gean-tree; the
bright green clover fields, seen at intervals through the oak coppice;
the church, half hid by its venerable ash trees; the feathery birch,
trembling in the breath of evening; the smoking hamlet, its soft colours
blending with those of the rocks that sheltered it; the rill, dashing
with fairy anger in the channel which its winter fury had
furrowed--these were the simple objects which had charms for Laura, not
to be rivalled by neat enclosures and whitened villas. Yet the scenes
before her were delightful, and had not Captain Montreville's appeal
recalled the comparison, she would, in the pleasure which they excited,
have forgotten the less splendid beauties of Glenalbert.

Montreville pointed out the road that led to England. Laura sent a
longing look towards it, as it wound amid woods and villages and gentle
swells, and was lost to the eye in a country which smiled rich and
inviting from afar. She turned her eyes where the Forth is lost in the
boundless ocean, and sighed as she thought of the perils and hardships
of them who go down to the sea in ships. Montreville, unwilling to
subject her to the inconveniencies of a voyage, had proposed to continue
his journey by land, and Laura herself could not think without
reluctance of tempting the faithless deep. The scenery, too, which a
journey promised to present, glowed in her fervid imagination with more
than nature's beauty. Yet feeling the necessity of rigid economy, and
determined not to permit her too indulgent parent to consult her
accommodation at the expence of his prudence, she it was, who persuaded
Montreville to prefer a passage by sea, as the mode of conveyance best
suited to his finances.

The next day our travellers embarked for London. The weather was fine,
and Laura remained all day upon deck, amused with the novelty of her
situation. Till she left her native solitude, she had never even seen
the sea, except, when from a mountain top, it seemed far off to mingle
with the sky; and to her, the majestic Forth, as it widened into an
estuary, seemed itself a 'world of waters.' But when on one side the
land receded from the view, when the great deep lay before her, Laura
looked upon it for a moment, and shuddering, turned away. 'It is too
mournful,' said she to her father--'were there but one spot, however
small, however dimly descried, which fancy might people with beings like
ourselves, I could look with pleasure on the gulf between--but here
there is no resting place. Thus dismal, thus overpowering, methinks
eternity would have appeared, had not a haven of rest been made known to
us.' Compared with the boundless expanse of waters, the little bark in
which she was floating seemed 'diminished to a point;' and Laura raising
her eyes to the stars that were beginning to glimmer through the
twilight, thought that such a speck was the wide world itself, amid the
immeasurable space in which it rolled. This was Laura's hour of prayer,
and far less inviting circumstances can recal us to the acts of a
settled habit.

Five days they glided smoothly along the coast. On the morning of the
sixth, they entered the river, and the same evening reached London.
Laura listened with something like dismay, to the mingled discord that
now burst upon her ear. The thundering of loaded carriages, the wild
cries of the sailors, the strange dialect, the ferocious oaths of the
populace, seemed but parts of the deafening tumult. When they were
seated in the coach which was to convey them from the quay, Laura begged
her father to prevail on the driver to wait till the unusual concourse
of carts and sledges should pass, and heard with astonishment that the
delay would be in vain. At last they arrived at the inn where Captain
Montreville intended to remain till he could find lodgings; and, to
Laura's great surprise, they completed their journey without being
jostled by any carriages, or overturned by any waggoner--for ought she
knew, without running over any children.

Being shown into a front parlour, Laura seated herself at a window, to
contemplate the busy multitudes that thronged the streets; and she could
not help contrasting their number and appearance with those of the
inhabitants of Edinburgh. There the loitering step, the gay attire, the
vacant look, or the inquisitive glance, told that mere amusement was the
object of their walk, if indeed it had an object. Here, every face was
full of business--none stared, none sauntered, or had indeed the power
to saunter, the double tide carrying them resistlessly along in one
direction or the other. Among all the varieties of feature that passed
before her, Laura saw not one familiar countenance; and she
involuntarily pressed closer to her father, while she thought, that
among these myriads she should, but for him, be alone.

Captain Montreville easily found an abode suited to his humble
circumstances; and, the day after his arrival, he removed with his
daughter to the second floor above a shop in Holborn. The landlady was
a widow, a decent orderly-looking person; the apartments, though far
from elegant, were clean and commodious. They consisted of a parlour,
two bedchambers, and a small room, or rather closet, which Laura
immediately appropriated as her painting-room. Here she found amusement
in arranging the materials of her art, while Captain Montreville walked
to the west end of the town, to confer with his agent on the unfortunate
cause of his visit to London. He was absent for some hours; and Laura,
utterly ignorant of the length of his walk, and of its difficulties for
one who had not seen the metropolis for twenty years, began to be uneasy
at his stay. He returned at last, fatigued and dispirited, without
having seen Mr Baynard, who was indisposed, and could not admit him.
After a silent dinner, he threw himself upon a sofa, and dismissed his
daughter, saying that he felt inclined to sleep. Laura took this
opportunity to write to Mrs Douglas a particular account of her travels.
She mentioned with affectionate interest some of her few acquaintances
at Glenalbert, and inquired for all the individuals of Mrs Douglas's
family; but the name of Hargrave did not once occur in her letter,
though nothing could exceed her curiosity to know how the Colonel had
borne her departure, of which, afraid of his vehemence, she had, at
their last interview, purposely avoided to inform him.

Having finished her letter, Laura, that she might not appear to repress
civility, availed herself of her landlady's invitation to 'come now and
then,' as she expressed it, 'to have a chat;' and descended to the
parlour below. On perceiving that Mrs Dawkins was busily arranging the
tea equipage, with an air that showed she expected company, Laura would
have retreated, but her hostess would not suffer her to go. 'No, no,
Miss,' said she, 'I expects nobody but my daughter Kate, as is married
to Mr Jones the haberdasher; and you mustn't go, for she can tell you
all about Scotland; and it is but natural to think that you'd like to
hear about your own country, now when you're in a foreign land, as a
body may say.'

The good woman had judged well in the bribe she offered to her guest,
who immediately consented to join her party; and who, perceiving that
Mrs Dawkins was industriously spreading innumerable slices of bread and
butter, courteously offered to share her toils. Mrs Dawkins thanked her,
and accepted her services, adding, 'indeed it's very hard as I should
have all them here things to do myself, when I have a grown up daughter
in the house. But, poor thing, it a'n't her fault after all, for she
never was larnt to do nothing of use.' 'That was very unfortunate,'
said Laura. 'Yes, but it might'nt have been so misfortunate neither,
only, you see, I'll tell you how it was. My sister, Mrs Smith, had a
matter of £10,000 left her by her husband, and so she took a fancy when
July was born as she'd have her called a grand name; and I'm sure an
unlucky name it was for her; for many a fine freak it has put into her
head. Well, and so as I was saying, she took July home to herself, and
had her larnt to paint, and to make fillagree, and play on the piano,
and what not; and to be sure we thought she would never do less than
provide for her. But what do you think, why, two year's ago, she ran
away with a young ensign, as had nothing in the varsal world but his
pay; and so July came home just as she went; and what was worst of all,
she could'nt do no more in the shop nor the day she was born.'

'That was hard, indeed,' said Laura.

'Wasn't it now,--but one comfort was, I had Kate brought up in another
guess-way; for I larnt her plain work and writing, and how to cast
accounts; and never let her touch a book, except the prayer-book
a-Sundays; and see what's the upshot on't. Why, though July's all to
nothing the prettiest, nobody has never made an offer for she, and
Kate's got married to a warm man as any in his line hereabouts, and a
man as has a house not ten doors off; and besides, as snug a box in the
country as ever you seed,--so convenient you've no idear. Why, I dare
say, there's a matter of ten stage-coaches pass by the door every day.'

To all this family history, Laura listened with great patience,
wondering, however, what could induce the narrator to take so much
trouble for the information of a stranger.

The conversation, if it deserves the name, was now interrupted by the
entrance of a young woman, whom Mrs Dawkins introduced as her daughter
July. Her figure was short, inclining to embonpoint--her face, though
rather pretty, round and rosy,--and her whole appearance seemed the
antipodes of sentiment. She had, however, a book in her hand, on which,
after exchanging compliments with Laura, she cast a languishing look,
and said, 'I have been paying a watery tribute to the sorrows of my fair
name-sake.' Then pointing out the title-page to Laura, she added, 'You,
I suppose, have often done so.'

It was the tragedy of THE MINISTER, and Laura, reading the name aloud,
said, she was not acquainted with it.

'Oh,' cried Mrs Dawkins, 'that's the young woman as swears so horridly.
No, I dares to say, Miss Montreville never read no such thing. If it
an't a shame to be seen in a Christian woman hands, it is. And if she
would read it by herself, it would be nothing; but there she goes,
ranting about the house like an actress, cursing all aloud, worser nor
the drunken apple-woman at the corner of the street.'

'Pray Mamma, forbear,' said Miss Julia Dawkins, in a plaintive tone; 'it
wounds my feelings to hear you. I am sure, if Miss Montreville would
read this play, she would own that the expressions which you austerely
denominate curses, give irresistible energy to the language.'

'This kind of energy,' said Laura, with a smile, 'has at least the merit
of being very generally attainable.' This remark was not in Miss Julia's
line. She had, therefore, recourse to her book, and with great variety
of grimace, read aloud one of Casimir's impassioned, or, as Laura
thought, frantic speeches. The curious contrast of the reader's manner,
with her appearance, of the affected sentimentality of her air, with the
robust vulgarity of her figure, struck Laura as so irresistibly
ludicrous, that, though of all young ladies, she was the least addicted
to tittering, her politeness would have been fairly defeated in the
struggle, had it not been reinforced by the entrance of Mr and Mrs
Jones. The former was a little man, in a snuff-coloured coat, and a
brown wig, who seemed to be about fifty,--the latter was a good-humoured
commonplace looking woman, of about half that age. Laura was pleased
with the cordiality with which Mr Jones shook his mother-in-law by the
hand, saying, 'Well, Mother, I's brought you Kate pure and hearty again,
and the little fellow is fine and well, tho'f he be too young to come a
wisiting.'

As soon as the commotion occasioned by their entrance was over, and
Laura formally made acquainted with the lady, Mrs Dawkins began, 'I
hopes, Kate, you ha'nt forgot how to tell about your jaunt to Scotland;
for this here young lady staid tea just o'purpose to hear it.' 'Oh, that
I ha'nt,' said Mrs Jones, 'I'm sure I shall remember it the longest day
I have to live.' 'Pray Miss,' added she, turning to Laura, 'was you ever
in Glasgow?' 'Never,' said Laura; 'but I have heard that it is a fine
city.' 'Ay, but I've been there first and last eleven days; and I can
say for it, it is really a handsome town, and a mort of good white-stone
houses in it. For you see, when Mr Jones married me, he had not been
altogether satisfied with his rider, and he thoft as he'd go down to
Glasgow himself and do business; and that he'd make it do for his
wedding jaunt, and that would be killing two dogs with one stone.'
'That was certainly an excellent plan,' said Laura. 'Well,' continued
Mrs Jones, 'when we'd been about a week in Glasgow, we were had to dine
one day with Mr Mactavish, as supplies Mr Jones with ginghams; and he
talked about some grand house of one of your Scotch dukes, and said as
how we must'nt go home without seeing it. So we thought since we had
come so far, we might as well see what was to be seen.' 'Certainly,'
said Laura, at the pause which was made to take breath, and receive
approbation. 'Well, we went down along the river, which, to say truth,
is very pretty, tho'f it be not turfed, nor kept neat round the edges,
to a place they call Dumbarton; where there is a rock, for all the
world, like an ill-made sugar loaf, with a slice out o' the middle on't;
and they told us there was a castle on it, but such a castle!' 'Pray,
sister,' said Miss Julia, 'have you an accurate idea of what constitutes
a castle? of the keeps, the turrets, the winding staircases, and the
portcullis?' 'Bless you, my dear,' returned the traveller, 'ha'nt I seen
Windsor Castle, and t'other's no more like it--no more than nothing at
all. Howsoever, we slept that night at a very decent sort of an inn; and
Mr Jones thought as we were so comfortable, we had best come back to
sleep. So as the duke's house was but thirty miles off, we thought if we
set off soon in the morning, we might get back at night. So off we set,
and went two stages to breakfast, at a place with one of their
outlandish names; and to be sartain, when we got there, we were as
hungry as hounds. Well, we called for hot rolls; and, do but think,
there was'nt no such thing to be had for love or money.'

Mrs Jones paused to give Laura time for the expression of pity; but she
remained silent, and Mrs Jones resumed: 'Well, they brought us a loaf as
old as St Paul's, and some good enough butter; so thinks I, I'll make us
some good warm toast; for I loves to make the best of a bad bargain. So
I bid the waiter bring us the toast-stool; but if you had seen how he
stared,--why, the pore fellor had never heard of no such thing in his
life. Then they shewed us a huge mountain, as black as a sootbag, just
opposite the window, and said as we must go up there; but, thinks I,
catch us at that; for if we be so bad off here for breakfast, what shall
we be there for dinner. So my husband and I were of a mind upon it, to
get back to Glasgow as fast as we could; for, though to be sure it cost
us a power of money coming down, yet, thinks we, the first loss is the
best.'

'What would I have given,' cried Miss Julia, turning up the whites of
her eyes, 'to have been permitted to mingle my sighs with the mountain
breezes!' Mrs Jones was accustomed to her sister's nonsense, and she
only shrugged her shoulders. But Mrs Dawkins, provoked that her daughter
should be so much more than usually ridiculous before a stranger, said,
'Why, child, how can you be so silly,--what in the world should you do
sighing o' top of a Scotch hill? I dare to say, if you were there you
might sigh long enough before you'd find such a comfortable cup of tea,
as what you have in your hand.' Miss Julia disdained reply; but turning
to our heroine, she addressed her in a tone so amusingly sentimental,
that Laura feared to listen to the purport of her speech, lest the
manner and the matter united should prove too much for her gravity; and
rising, she apologized for retiring, by saying, that she heard her
father stir, and that she must attend him.

When two people of very different ages meet tête à tête in a room, where
they are not thoroughly domesticated,--where there are no books, no
musical instruments, nor even that grand bond of sociality, a fire,--it
requires no common invention and vivacity to pass an evening with
tolerable cheerfulness. The little appearances of discomfort, however,
which imperceptibly lower the spirits of others, had generally an
opposite effect upon those of Laura. Attentive to the comfort of every
human being who approached her, she was always the first to discover the
existence and cause of the 'petty miseries of life;'--but, accustomed to
consider them merely as calls to exertion, they made not the slightest
impression on her spirits or temper. The moment she cast her eyes on her
father, leaning on a table, where stood a pair of candles, that but
half-lighted the room; and on the chimney, where faded fennel occupied
the place of a fire, she perceived that all her efforts would be
necessary to produce any thing like comfort. She began her operations,
by enticing her father out of the large vacant room, into the small one,
where she intended to work. Here she prepared his coffee, gave him
account of the party below stairs, read to him her letter to Mrs
Douglas, and did and said every thing she could imagine to amuse him.

When the efforts to entertain are entirely on one side, it is scarcely
in human nature to continue them; and Laura was beginning to feel very
blank, when it luckily occurred to her, that she had brought her little
chess-board from Glenalbert. Away she flew, and in triumph produced this
infallible resort. The match was pretty equal. Captain Montreville had
more skill, Laura more resource; and she defended herself long and
keenly. At last she was within a move of being checkmated. But the move
was hers; and the Captain, in the heat of victory, overlooked a step by
which the fortune of the game would have been reversed. Laura saw it,
and eagerly extended her hand to the piece; but recollecting that there
is something in the pride of man's nature that abhors to be beaten at
chess by a lady, she suddenly desisted; and, sweeping her lily arm
across the board, 'Nay, now,' she cried, with a look of ineffable good
nature, 'if you were to complete my defeat after all my hair-breadth
'scapes, you could not be so unreasonable as to expect that I should
keep my temper.' 'And how dare you,' said Captain Montreville, in great
good humour with his supposed victory, 'deprive me at once of the
pleasures of novelty and of triumph?' By the help of this auxiliary, the
evening passed pleasantly away; and, before another came, Laura had
provided for it the cheap luxury of some books from a circulating
library.




CHAPTER VIII


For the first fortnight after Captain Montreville's arrival in London,
almost every forenoon was spent in unavailing attempts to see Mr
Baynard, whose illness, at the end of that time, had increased to such a
degree, as left no hope that he could soon be in a condition for
attending to business. Harassed by suspense, and weary of waiting for an
interview which seemed every day more distant, Captain Montreville
resolved to stay no longer for his agent's introduction to Mr Warren,
but to visit the young heir, and himself explain his errand. Having
procured Mr Warren's address from Mr Baynard's servants, he proceeded to
Portland Street; and knocking at the door of a handsome house, was there
informed that Mr Warren was gone to Brighton, and was not expected to
return for three weeks.

Captain Montreville had now no resource but to unfold his demands to Mr
Warren in writing. He did so, stating his claims with all the simple
energy of truth; but no answer was returned. He fatigued himself and
Laura in vain, with conjecturing the cause of this silence. He feared
that, though dictated by scrupulous politeness, his letter might have
given offence. He imagined that it might have miscarried, or that Mr
Warren might have left Brighton before it reached him. All his
conjectures were, however, wide of the truth. The letter had given no
offence, for it had never been read. It safely reached the person to
whom it was addressed, just as he was adding a finishing touch to the
graces of a huge silk handkerchief in which he had enveloped his chin,
preparatory to the exhibition of his person, and of an elegant new
curricle upon the Steine. A single glance had convinced him that the
letter was unworthy to encroach on this momentous concern--he had thrown
it aside, intending to read it when he had nothing else to do, and had
seen it no more, till on his return to London, he unrolled from it his
bottle of esprit de rose, which his valet had wrapped in its folds.

The three wearisome weeks came to an end at last, as well as a fourth,
which the attractions of Brighton prevailed on Mr Warren to add to his
stay; and Captain Montreville, making another, almost hopeless, inquiry
in Portland Street, was, to his great joy, admitted to the long desired
conference. He found the young man in his nightgown, reclining on a
sofa, intently studious of the _Sportsman's Magazine_, while he ever and
anon refreshed himself for this his literary toil, by sipping a cup of
chocolate. Being courteously invited to partake, the Captain began by
apologizing for his intrusion, but pleaded that his business was of such
a nature as to require a personal interview. At the mention of business,
the smile forsook its prescriptive station on the smooth face of Mr
Warren. 'Oh pray pardon me, Sir,' said he, 'my agent manages all my
matters--I never meddle with business--I have really no head for it.
Here, Du Moulin, give this gentleman Mr William's address.' 'Excuse me,
Sir,' said Captain Montreville. 'On this occasion I must entreat that
you will so far depart from your rule as to permit me to state my
business to you in person.' 'I assure you, Sir,' said the beau rising
from his luxurious posture, 'I know nothing about business--the very
name of it is to me the greatest bore in life;--it always reminds me of
my old dead uncle. The poor man could never talk of any thing but of
bank-stock, the price of the best archangel tar, and the scarcity of
hemp. Often did I wish the hemp had been cheap enough to make him apply
a little of it to his own use--but the old cock took wing at last
without a halter, he, he, he.'

'I shall endeavour to avoid these offensive subjects,' said Captain
Montreville, smiling. 'The affair in which I wish to interest you, is
less a case of law than of equity, and therefore I must beg permission
to state it to your personal attention, as your agent might not think
himself at liberty to do me the justice which I may expect from you.'

Mr Warren at this moment recollected an indispensable engagement, and
begged that Captain Montreville would do him the favour to call another
time--secretly resolving not to admit him. 'I shall not detain you two
minutes,' said the Captain; 'I shall in a few words state my request,
and leave you to decide upon it when you are more at leisure.' 'Well,
Sir,' replied Mr Warren, with something between a sigh and an
ill-suppressed yawn, 'if it must be so.'--

'About eighteen months ago,' resumed the Captain, 'my agent, Mr
Baynard, paid £1500 to your late uncle, as the price of an annuity on my
daughter's life. The deed is now found to be informal, and Mr Williams
has refused to make any payment. Mr Baynard's disposition has prevented
me from seeing him since my arrival in London; but I have no doubt that
he can produce a discharge for the price of the annuity; in which case,
I presume you will allow the mistake in the deed to be rectified.'

'Certainly, certainly,' said Mr Warren, who had transferred his thoughts
from the subject of the conversation to the comparative merits of
nankeen pantaloons and leather-breeches. 'But even if Mr Baynard should
have no document to produce,' continued Captain Montreville, 'may I not
hope that you will instruct Mr Williams to examine, whether there are
not in Mr Warren's books, traces of the agreement for an annuity of £80,
in the name of Laura Montreville?' 'Sir?' said Warren, whose ear caught
the tone of interrogation, though the meaning of the speaker had
entirely escaped him. The Captain repeated his request. 'Oh, certainly I
will,' said the young man, who would have promised any thing to get rid
of the subject. 'I hope the matter will be found to stand as you wish.
At all events, such a trifling sum can be of no sort of consequence.'
'Pardon me, Sir,' said Captain Montreville, warmly, 'to me it is of the
greatest--should this trifle, as you are pleased to call it, be lost to
me, my child must at my death be left to all the horrors, all the
temptations of want--temptations aggravated a thousand fold, by beauty
and inexperience.' His last words awakened something like interest in
the drowsy soul of his hearer, who said, with the returning smile of
self-complacency, 'Beauty, Sir, did you say? beauty is what I may call
my passion--a pretty girl is always sure of my sympathy and good
offices. I shall call for Mr Williams this very day.' Captain
Montreville bit his lip. 'Laura Montreville,' thought he, 'an object of
sympathy to such a thing as thou!' He bowed, however, and, said, 'I
hope, Sir, you will find, upon examination, that Miss Montreville's
claims rest upon your justice.' Then laying his address upon the table,
he took his leave, with an air perhaps a little too stately for one who
had come to ask a favour.

He returned home, however, much pleased with having at last met with
Warren, and with having, as he imagined, put in train the business on
account of which he had performed so long a journey, and suffered so
much uneasiness. He found Laura, too, in high spirits. She had just
given the finishing touches to a picture on which she had been most
busily employed ever since her arrival in London. She had studied the
composition, till her head ached with intensity of thought. She had
laboured the finishing with care unspeakable; and she now only waited
till her work could with safety be moved, to try the success of her
project for the attainment of wealth. Of this success she scarcely
entertained a doubt. She was sensible, indeed, that the picture had many
faults, but not so many as that on which Mrs Douglas's visitor had fixed
so high a price. Since painting the latter, she had improved in skill;
and never had she bestowed such pains as on her present work. The
stranger had said that the Scipio in Mrs Douglas's picture was
interesting. The Leonidas in this was much more so--she could not doubt
it, for he resembled Hargrave. She had hoped the resemblance would be
apparent to no eye but her own. Her father, however, had noticed it, and
Laura had tried to alter the head, but the Captain declared she had
spoiled it. Laura thought so herself; and, after sketching a hundred
regularly handsome countenances, could be satisfied with none that bore
not some affinity to her only standard of manly beauty.

To add to the pleasure with which Laura surveyed the completion of her
labours, she had that day received a letter from Mrs Douglas, in which
mention was made of Hargrave.

In her first letters to Laura, Mrs Douglas had entirely avoided this
subject. Almost a month Laura had waited, with sickening impatience, for
some hint from which she might gather intelligence of Hargrave's
motions--in vain. Her friend had been provokingly determined to believe
that the subject was disagreeable to her correspondent. Laura at last
ventured to add, to one of her letters, a postscript, in which, without
naming the Colonel, she inquired whether the ---- regiment was still at
Perth. She blushed as she glanced over this postscript. She thought it
had an air of contrivance and design. She was half tempted to destroy
the letter; but she could not prevail on herself to make a more direct
inquiry; and to forbear making any was almost impossible. An answer had
this day arrived; and Laura read no part of it with such interest, as
that which, with seeming carelessness, informed her that the Colonel had
been several times at the parsonage: and that Mrs Douglas understood
from report, that he was soon to visit London.

Again and again did Laura read this passage, and ponder every word of it
with care. I am playing the fool, said she to herself, and laid the
letter aside; took it up again to ascertain some particular expression,
and again read the paragraph which spoke of Hargrave, and again paused
upon his name. She was so employed when her father entered, and she made
an instinctive motion to conceal the paper; but the next moment she held
it out to him, saying, 'This is from Mrs Douglas.' 'Well, my love,' said
the Captain, 'if there are no secrets in it, read it to me. I delight in
Mrs Douglas's simple affectionate style.' Laura did as she was desired;
but when she reached the sentence which began with the name of Hargrave,
she blushed, hesitated for a moment, and then, passing over it, began
the next paragraph.

Without both caution and self-command, the most upright woman will be
guilty of subterfuges, where love is in question. Men can talk of the
object of their affections--they find pleasure in confiding, in
describing, in dwelling upon their passion--but the love of woman seeks
concealment. If she can talk of it, or even of any thing that leads to
it, the fever is imaginary, or it is past. 'It is very strange,' said
the Captain, when Laura had concluded, 'that Mrs Douglas never mentions
Hargrave, when she knows what an interest I take in him.' Laura coloured
crimson, but remained silent. 'What do you think can be her reason?'
asked the Captain. This was a question for which Laura could find no
evasion short of actual deceit; and, with an effort far more painful
than that from which her little artifice had saved her, her lovely face
and neck glowing with confusion, she said: 'She does mention--only I--I.
Please to read it yourself;' and she pointed it out to her father, who,
prepared by her hesitation to expect something very particular, was
surprised to find the passage so unimportant. 'Why, Laura,' said he,
'what was there to prevent you from reading this?' To this question
Laura could make no reply; and the Captain, after gazing on her for some
moments in vain hope of an explanation, dismissed the subject, saying,
with a shrug of his shoulders, 'Well, well--women are creatures I don't
pretend to understand.'

Laura had often and deeply reflected upon the propriety of confiding to
her father her engagement with Hargrave. Vague as it was, she thought a
parent had an indisputable right to be informed of it. Her promise too
had been conditional, and what judge so proper as her father to watch
over the fulfilment of its conditions? What judge so proper as her
father to examine the character, and to inspect the conduct, of the man
who might one day become her husband? But, amidst all the train of
delightful visions which this thought conjured up, Laura felt that
Hargrave's conduct had been such as she could not endure that her
father should remember against his future son. Captain Montreville was
now at a distance from Hargrave. Before they could possibly meet, her
arguments, or her entreaties, might have so far prevailed over the
subsiding passions of her father, as to dissuade him from a fashionable
vindication of her honour. But what was to restore her lover to his
present rank in the Captain's regard? What would blot from his
recollection the insult offered to his child? Without mention of that
insult, her tale must be almost unintelligible; and she was conscious
that, if she entered on the subject at all, her father's tenderness, or
his authority, might unlock every secret of her breast. The time when
her engagement could produce any consequence was distant. Ere it
arrived, something unforeseen might possibly remove her difficulties;
or, at the worst, she hoped that, before she permitted her father to
weigh the fault of Hargrave, she should be able to balance against it
the exemplary propriety of his after conduct. She was not just satisfied
with this reasoning; but weaker considerations can dissuade us from what
we are strongly disinclined to do; and to unveiling her own partiality,
or the unworthiness of its object, Laura's disinclination was extreme.
She determined therefore to put off the evil hour; and withdrew her
father's attention from the subject of the letter, by inquiring whether
he had seen Warren, and whether he had settled his business
satisfactorily? The Captain replied, that though it was not absolutely
settled, he hoped it was now in a fair way of being so; and informed her
of Warren's promise. 'Yet,' added he, 'any one of a thousand trifles may
make such an animal forget or neglect the most important concern.' 'What
sort of man did he seem?' inquired Laura. 'Man!' repeated the Captain,
contemptuously. 'Why, child, he is a creature entirely new to you. He
talks like a parrot, looks like a woman, dresses like a monkey, and
smells like a civet-cat. You might have lived at Glenalbert for half a
century, without seeing such a creature.' 'I hope he will visit us,'
said Laura, 'that we may not return home without seeing at least one of
the curiosities of London.'




CHAPTER IX


The next day, as Captain Montreville sat reading aloud to his daughter,
who was busy with her needle, Mr Warren was announced.

Laura, who concluded that he had business with her father, rose to
retire; but her visitor, intercepting her, took both her hands, saying,
'Pray, Ma'am, don't let me frighten you away.' With a constitutional
dislike to familiarity, Laura coolly disengaged herself, and left the
room, without uttering a syllable; but not before Warren had seen enough
of her to determine, that, if possible, he should see her again. He was
struck with her extraordinary beauty, which was heightened by the little
hectic his forwardness had called to her cheek; and he prolonged his
visit to an unfashionable length, in the hope of her return. He went
over all the topics which he judged proper for the ear of a stranger of
his own sex;--talked of the weather, the news, the emptiness of the
town, of horses, ladies, cock-fights, and boxing-matches. He informed
the Captain, that he had given directions to his agent to examine into
the state of the annuity; inquired how long Miss Montreville was to
grace London with her presence; and was told that she was to leave it
the moment her father could settle the business, on account of which
alone he had left Scotland. When it was absolutely necessary to conclude
his visit, Mr Warren begged permission to repeat it, that he might
acquaint Captain Montreville with the success of his agent; secretly
hoping, that Laura would another time be less inaccessible.

Laura meanwhile thought his visit would never have an end. Having
wandered into every room to which she had access, and found rest in none
of them, she concluded, rather rashly, that she should find more comfort
in the one from which his presence excluded her. That disease of the
mind in which by eager anticipations of the future many are unfitted
for present enjoyment, was new to the active spirit of Laura. The
happiness of her life, (and in spite of the caprices of her mother, it
had, upon the whole, been a happy one), had chiefly arisen from a
constant succession of regular, but varied pursuits. The methodical
sequence of domestic usefulness, and improving study, and healthful
exercise, afforded calm yet immediate enjoyment; and the future pleasure
which they promised was of that indefinite and progressive kind which
provokes no eager desires, no impatient expectation. Laura, therefore,
had scarcely known what it was to long for the morrow; but on this day,
the morrow was anticipated with wishful solicitude,--a solicitude which
banished from her mind even the thoughts of Hargrave. Never did youthful
bridegroom look forward to his nuptial hour with more ardour, than did
Laura to that which was to begin the realization of her prospects of
wealth and independence. The next day was to be devoted to the sale of
her picture. Her father was on that day to visit Mr Baynard at Richmond,
whither he had been removed for the benefit of a purer air; and she
hoped on his return, to surprize her beloved parent with an unlooked-for
treasure. She imagined the satisfaction with which she should spread
before him her newly acquired riches,--the pleasure with which she would
listen to his praises of her diligence;--above all, her fancy dwelt on
the delight which she should feel in relieving her father from the
pecuniary embarrassment, in which she knew him to be involved by a
residence in London so much longer than he had been prepared to expect.

That she might add to her intended gift the pleasure of surprize, she
was resolved not to mention her plan for to-morrow; and with such
subjects in contemplation, how could she rest,--of what other subject
could she speak? She tried to banish it from her mind, that she might
not be wholly unentertaining to her father, who, on her account, usually
spent his evenings at home. But the task of amusing was so laborious,
that she was glad to receive in it even the humble assistance of Miss
Julia Dawkins.

This young lady had thought it incumbent on her to assault our heroine
with a most violent friendship; a sentiment which often made her
sufficiently impertinent, though it was a little kept in check by the
calm good sense and natural reserve of Laura. The preposterous
affectation of Julia sometimes provoked the smiles, but more frequently
the pity of Laura; for her real good nature could find no pleasure in
seeing human beings make themselves ridiculous, and she applied to the
cure of Miss Dawkins's foibles, the ingenuity which many would have
employed to extract amusement from them. She soon found, however, that
she was combating a sort of Hydra, from which, if she succeeded in
lopping off one excrescence, another was instantly ready to sprout.
Having no character of her own, Julia was always, as nearly as she was
able, the heroine whom the last read novel inclined her to personate.
But as those who forsake the guidance of nature are in imminent danger
of absurdity, her copies were always caricatures. After reading Evelina,
she sat with her mouth extended in a perpetual smile, and was so very
timid, that she would not for the world have looked at a stranger. When
Camilla was the model for the day, she became insufferably rattling,
infantine, and thoughtless. After perusing the Gossip's story, she, in
imitation of the rational Louisa, suddenly waxed very wise--spoke in
sentences--despised romances--sewed shifts--and read sermons. But, in
the midst of this fit, she, in an evil hour, opened a volume of the
Nouvelle Eloise, which had before disturbed many wiser heads. The shifts
were left unfinished, the sermons thrown aside, and Miss Julia returned
with renewed _impetus_ to the sentimental. This afternoon her studies
had changed their direction, as Laura instantly guessed by the lively
air with which she entered the room, saying that she had brought her
netting, and would sit with her for an hour. 'But do, my dear,' added
she, 'first shew me the picture you have been so busy with; Mamma says
it is beautiful, for she peeped in at it the other day.'

It must be confessed, that Laura had no high opinion of Miss Dawkins's
skill in painting; but she remembered Moliere's old woman, and went with
great good will to bring her performance. 'Oh charming,' exclaimed Miss
Julia, when it was placed before her; 'the figure of the man is quite
delightful; it is the very image of that bewitching creature Tom Jones.'
'Tom Jones?' cried Laura, starting back aghast. 'Yes, my dear,'
continued Julia; 'just such must have been the graceful turn of his
limbs--just such his hair, his eyes, those lips, that when they touched
her hand, put poor Sophia into such a flutter.' The astonishment of
Laura now gave way to laughter, while she said, 'Really Miss Dawkins you
must have a strange idea of Tom Jones, or I a very extraordinary one of
Leonidas.' 'Leonce, you mean, in Delphine,' said Julia; 'Oh, he is a
delightful creature too.' 'Delphine!' repeated Laura, to whom the name
was as new as that of the Spartan was to her companion. 'No, I mean this
for the Greek general taking his last leave of his wife.' 'And I
think,' said Captain Montreville, approaching the picture, 'the
suppressed anguish of the matron is admirably expressed, and contrasts
well with the scarcely relenting ardour of the hero.' Miss Julia again
declared, that the picture was charming, and that Leontine, as she was
pleased to call him, was divinely handsome; but having newly replenished
her otherwise empty head with Fielding's novel, she could talk of
nothing else; and turning to Laura said, 'But why were you so offended,
that I compared your Leontine to Tom Jones?--Is he not a favourite of
yours?' 'Not particularly so,' said Laura. 'Oh why not?--I am sure he is
a delightful fellow--so generous--so ardent. Come, confess--should you
not like of all things to have such a lover?' 'No, indeed,' said Laura,
with most unusual energy; for her thoughts almost unconsciously turned
to one whose character she found no pleasure in associating with that of
Fielding's hero. 'And why not?' asked Miss Julia. 'Because,' answered
Laura, 'I could not admire in a lover qualities which would be odious in
a husband.' 'Oh goodness!' cried Miss Julia, 'do you think Tom Jones
would make an odious husband?' 'The term is a little strong,' replied
Laura; 'but he certainly would not make a pleasant yoke-fellow. What is
your opinion, Sir?' turning to her father. 'I confess,' said the
Captain, 'I should rather have wished him to marry Squire Western's
daughter than mine. But still the character is fitted to be popular.' 'I
think,' said Laura, 'he is indebted for much of the toleration which he
receives, to a comparison with the despicable Blifil.' 'Certainly,' said
the Captain; 'and it is unfortunate for the morality of the book, that
the reader is inclined to excuse the want of religion in the hero, by
seeing its language made ridiculous in Thwackum, and villanous in
Blifil. Even the excellent Mr Alworthy excites but feeble interest; and
it is not by the character which we respect, but by that in which we are
interested, that the moral effect on our minds is produced.' 'Oh,' said
Miss Julia, who very imperfectly comprehended the Captain's observation,
'he might make a charming husband without being religious; and then he
is so warm-hearted--so generous.' 'I shall not dispute that point with
you just now,' replied Laura, 'though my opinion differs materially from
yours; but Tom Jones's warmth of heart and generosity do not appear to
me of that kind which quality a man for adorning domestic life. His
seems a constitutional warmth, which in his case, and I believe, in most
others, is the concomitant of a warm temper,--a temper as little
favourable to gentleness in those who command, as to submission in
those who obey. If by generosity you mean the cheerful relinquishing of
something which we really value, it is an abuse of the term to apply it
to the profusion with which your favourite squanders his money.'

'If it is not generous to part with one's money,' said Miss Julia, 'I am
sure I don't know what is.'

'The quiet domestic generosity which is of daily use,' replied Laura,
'is happily not confined to those who have money to bestow;--but may
appear in any of a thousand little acts of self-denial.' Julia, whose
ideas of generosity, culled from her favourite romances, were on that
gigantic kind of scale that makes it unfit for common occasions, and
therefore in danger of total extinction, was silent for some moments,
and then said, 'I am sure you must allow that it was very noble in Jones
to bury in his own miserable bosom his passion for Sophia, after he knew
that she felt a mutual flame.' 'If I recollect right,' said Laura,
smiling at the oddity of Julia's phrases, 'he broke that resolution; and
I fancy the merely _resolving_ to do right, is a degree of virtue, to
which even the most profligate attain many times in their lives.'

Miss Dawkins, by this time more than half-suspected her companion of
being a Methodist. 'You have such strict notions,' said she, 'that I see
Tom Jones would never have done for you.' 'No,' said Captain
Montreville, 'Sir Charles Grandison would have suited Laura infinitely
better.' 'Oh no, papa,' said Laura, laughing; 'if two such formal
personages as Sir Charles and I had met, I am afraid we should never
have had the honour of each other's acquaintance.'

'Then, of all the gentlemen who are mentioned in novels,' said Miss
Julia, 'tell me who is your favourite?--Is it Lord Orville, or Delville,
or Valancourt, or Edward, or Mortimer, or Peregrine Pickle, or'--and she
ran on till she was quite out of breath, repeating what sounded like a
page of the catalogue of a circulating library.

'Really,' said Laura, when a pause permitted her to speak, 'my
acquaintance with these accomplished persons is so limited that I can
scarcely venture to decide; but, I believe, I prefer the hero of Miss
Porter's new publication--Thaddeus of Warsaw. Truly generous, and
inflexibly upright, his very tenderness has in it something manly and
respectable; and the whole combination has an air of nature that
interests one as for a real friend.' Miss Dawkins had never read the
book, and Laura applied to her father for a confirmation of her opinion.
'Yes, my dear,' said the Captain, 'your favourite has the same
resemblance to a human character which the Belvidere Appollo has to a
human form. It is so like man that one cannot absolutely call it divine,
yet so perfect, that it is difficult to believe it human.'

At this moment Miss Julia was seized with an uncontrollable desire to
read the book, which, she declared, she should not sleep till she had
done; and she went to dispatch a servant in quest of it.

Laura followed her down stairs, to ask from Mrs Dawkins a direction to a
picture-dealer, to whom she might dispose of her performance. Mrs
Dawkins said she knew of no such person; but directed Laura to a
printshop, the master of which was her acquaintance, where she might get
the intelligence she wanted.

On the following morning, as soon as Captain Montreville had set out for
Richmond, his daughter, sending for a hackney coach, departed on the
most interesting business she had ever undertaken. Her heart fluttered
with expectation--her step was buoyant with hope, and she sprung into
the carriage with the lightness of a sylph. Stopping at the shop which
her landlady recommended, she was there directed to several of the
professional people for whom she was enquiring, and she proceeded to the
habitation of the nearest. As she entered the house, Laura changed
colour, and her breath came quick. She stopped a moment to recover
herself, and then followed her conductor into the presence of the
connoisseur. Struck with the sight of so elegant a woman, he rose, bowed
very low, and supposing that she came to make some addition to her
cabinet, threw open the door of his picture-room, and obsequiously hoped
that she might find something there worthy of her attention. Laura
modestly undeceived him, saying, that she had brought in the carriage
which waited for her, a picture which she wished to dispose of. This
statement instantly put to flight the servility of her hearer; who, with
completely recovered consequence, inquired the name of the artist; and
being answered, that the picture was not the work of a professional man,
wrinkled his nose into an expression of ineffable contempt, and said--'I
make it a rule never to buy any of these things--they are generally such
vile daubs. However to oblige so pretty a lady,' added he, (softening
his contumelious aspect into a leer), 'I may look at the thing, and if
it is at all tolerable'--'There is no occasion to give you that
trouble,' said Laura, turning away with an air which again half
convinced the man that she must be a person of consequence. He muttered
something of 'thinking it no trouble;' to which she gave no attention,
but hastened to her carriage, and ordered the coachman to drive to the
show-room of an Italian.

Laura did not give him time to fall into the mistake of the other, but
instantly opened her business; and Mr Sonini was obligingly running
himself to lift the picture from the carriage, when it was brought in by
Mrs Dawkins' maid, whom Laura had requested to attend her. Having placed
the picture, the Italian retreated a few paces to examine the effect,
and then said--'Ah! I do see--dis is leetle after de manner of
Correggio--very pretty--very pretty, indeed.' The hopes of Laura rose
high at these encouraging words; but suffered instantaneous depression,
when he continued, with a shake of his head, 'but 'tis too new--quite
moderne--painted in dis contri.--Painter no name--de picture may be all
so good as it vil--it never vil sell. Me sorry,' added he, reading
Laura's look of disappointment, 'me sorry displease such bell angela;
but cannot buy.' 'I am sorry for it,' said Laura, and sighing heavily,
she courtesied and withdrew.

Her next attempt was upon a little pert-looking man, in a foreign dress,
and spectacles. 'Hum,' said he, 'a picture to sell--well, let us
see't.--There, that's the light. Hum--a poor thing enough--no
keeping--no costûme. Well, Ma'am, what do you please to ask for this?'
'I should be glad, Sir, that you would fix a price on it.'
'Hum--well--let me think--I suppose five guineas will be very fair.' At
this proposal, the blood mounted to the cheeks of Laura; and she raised
her eyes to examine whether the proposer really had the confidence to
look her in the face. But finding his eye steadily fixed on her, she
transferred her suspicions from the honesty of the bidder to the merits
of her piece, and mildly answering, 'I shall not, I think, be disposed
to part with it at that price,' she motioned to the servant to carry it
back to the coach.

One trial still remained; and Laura ordered her carriage to an obscure
street in the city. She was very politely received by Mr Collins,--a
young man who had himself been an artist; but whom bad health had
obliged to relinquish a profession which he loved. 'This piece has
certainly great merit,' said he, after examining it, 'and most gladly
would I have made the purchase; but my little room is at present
overstocked, and, to own the truth to you, the picture is worth more
than my wife and four little ones can afford to venture upon
speculation, and such is the purchase of the work, however meritorious,
of an unknown artist. But if you were to place it in the exhibition, I
have no doubt that it would speedily find a purchaser.' The prospect
which the Exhibition held forth, was far too distant to meet the present
exigency; for Laura well knew that her father would find almost
immediate occasion for the price of her labours; and with a heavy sigh
she returned to her carriage.

What now remained but to return home with the subject of so much
fruitless toil. Still, however, she determined to make one effort more,
and returned to inquire of the printseller, whether he knew any other
person to whom she could apply? He had before given his whole list, and
could make no addition to it. But observing the expression of blank
disappointment which overcast her face, he offered, if she would trust
him with the picture, to place it where it would be seen by his
customers, and expressed a belief that some of them might purchase it.
Laura thankfully accepted the offer, and after depositing with him her
treasure, which had lost much of its value in her eyes, and naming the
price she expected, she returned home; making on her way as many
sombrous reflections on the vanity and uncertainty of all sublunary
pursuits, as ever were made by any young lady in her eighteenth year.

She sat down in her now solitary parlour--suffered dinner to be placed
before her and removed, without knowing of what it consisted; and when
the servant who brought it disappeared, began, like a true heroine, to
vent her disappointment in tears. But soon recollecting that, though she
had no joyful surprize awaiting her father, she might yet gladden it
with a smiling welcome, she started up from her melancholy
posture--bathed her eyes--placed the tea equipage--ordered the first
fire of the season to displace the faded fennel in the chimney--arranged
the apartment in the nicest order--and had just given to everything the
greatest possible appearance of comfort, when her father arrived. She
had need, however, of all her firmness, and of all the elation of
conscious self-control, to resist the contagious depression of
countenance and manner with which Captain Montreville accosted her. He
had good reason for his melancholy. Mr Baynard, his early acquaintance,
almost the only person known to him in this vast city, had that morning
breathed his last. All access to his papers was of course at present
impossible; and until a person could be chosen to arrange his affairs,
it would be impracticable for Captain Montreville to ascertain whether
there existed any voucher for the payment of the price of the annuity.
Harassed by his repeated disappointments, and unendowed by nature with
the unbending spirit that rises in disaster, he now declared to Laura
his resolution to remain in London only till a person was fixed upon for
the management of Mr Baynard's affairs--to lay before him the
circumstances of his case--and then to return to Scotland, and trust to
a correspondence for concluding the business.

At this moment nothing could have been further from Laura's wish than to
quit London. She was unwilling to forfeit her remaining hope that her
picture might find a purchaser, and a still stronger interest bound her
to the place which was so soon to be the residence of Hargrave. But she
saw the prudence of her father's determination--she felt the necessity
of relinquishing a mode of life so unsuitable to his scanty income, and
she cheerfully acquiesced in his proposal of returning home. Still some
time must elapse, before their departure; and she indulged a hope, that
ere that time expired, the produce of her labours might lighten their
pecuniary difficulties.

Captain Montreville retired early; and Laura, wearied out with the toils
and the disappointments of the day, gladly resigned herself to the sleep
of innocence.

Laura was indebted partly to nature, but more to her own exertion, for
that happy elasticity of spirit which easily casts off lighter evil,
while it readily seizes, and fully enjoys, pleasure of moderate
intensity, and of frequent attainment. Few of the lesser sorrows of
youth can resist the cheering influence of early morn; and the petty
miseries which, in the shades of evening, assume portentous size and
colour, diminish wonderfully in the light of the new-risen sun. With
recovered spirits, and reviving hopes, Laura awoke to joys which the
worldly know not,--the joys of pious gratitude--of devout
contemplation--of useful employment; and so far was her persevering
spirit from failing under the disappointments of the preceding day, that
she determined to begin a new picture from the moment she was settled at
Glenalbert, to compose it with more care, and finish it with greater
accuracy, than the former; and to try its fate at the exhibition. She
did not think the season of her father's depression a fit one for
relating her mortifying adventures, and she found means to amuse him
with other topics till he left her, with an intention to call in
Portland Street.

He had not been gone long, when Mr Warren's curricle stopped at the
door, and the young gentleman, on being informed that the Captain was
abroad, inquired for Miss Montreville. After paying his compliments like
one secure of a good reception, he began--'How could you be so cruel as
to refuse me the pleasure of seeing you the other day--do you know I
waited here a devilish long time just on purpose, though I had promised
to take the Countess of Bellamer out an airing, and she was off with
Jack Villars before I came.' 'I am sorry,' said Laura, 'that I deprived
her Ladyship of your company.' 'I should not have minded it much, if you
had but come at last--though the Countess is the prettiest creature in
London--curse me if she isn't--the present company always excepted.' 'Do
you mean the exception for me, or for yourself?' said Laura. 'Oh now,
how can you ask such a question?--I am sure you know that you are
confoundedly handsome.' Laura gravely surveyed her own face in an
opposite looking-glass, and then, with the nonchalance of one who talks
of the most indifferent thing in nature, replied,--'Yes, I think my
features are uncommonly regular.' Warren was a little embarrassed by so
unusual an answer to what he intended for a compliment. 'The girl,'
thought he, 'must be quite a fool to own that she thinks herself so
handsome.' However, after some consideration, he said,--'It is not so
much the features, as a certain _je ne sçai quoi_--a certain charm--one
does not know well what to call it, that makes you look so divine.' 'I
should suppose,' said Laura, 'from the subject you have chosen to amuse
me, that the charm, whatever it is, has no great connection with
intellect.' Warren hesitated; for he began to have some suspicions that
she was laughing at him, in spite of the immoveable gravity of her
countenance. 'It--it isn't--Demme, it isn't so much to amuse you; but
when I see a pretty woman, I never can help telling her of it--curse me
if I can.' 'And do you often find that your intelligence has the
advantage of novelty?' said Laura; an arch smile beginning to dimple her
cheek. 'No, 'pon honour,' replied the beau, 'the women are getting so
insufferably conceited, they leave one nothing new to tell them.' 'But
some gentlemen,' said Laura, 'have the happy talent of saying old things
so well, that the want of novelty is not felt.' The moment the words had
passed her lips, she perceived, by the gracious smile which they
produced, that Mr Warren had applied them to himself; and the thought of
being guilty of such egregious flattery, brought the colour to her face.
Any explanation, however, would have been actual rudeness; and while the
consciousness of her involuntary duplicity kept her silent, her
companion enjoyed her confusion; which, together with the compliment, he
interpreted in a way most satisfactory to his vanity, and thankfully
repaid with a torrent of praises in his very best style.

So little value did Laura affix to his commendations, that she was
beginning to find extreme difficulty in suppressing a yawn, when it
occurred to her that it might save her father a journey to Portland
Street, if she could detain Mr Warren till he arrived. Having made an
observation, which has been more frequently made than profited by, that
most people prefer talking to listening, she engaged her companion in a
description of some of the fashionable places of public resort, none of
which she had seen; in which he acquitted himself so much to his own
satisfaction, that, before they separated, he was convinced that Laura
was one of the most penetrating judicious women of his acquaintance; and
having before remarked, that, with the help of a little rouge, and a
fashionable riding-habit, she would look better in a curricle than any
woman in London, he resolved, that if it depended on him, her residence
in town should not be a short one. In this laudable resolution, he was
confirmed by a consideration of the insolence and extravagance of a
certain female, to whose place in his establishment he had some vague
idea of advancing Miss Laura, though there was a stateliness about both
her and her father, which he suspected might somewhat interfere with his
designs in her favour. Soon after the Captain arrived, he took his
leave, having no new intelligence to communicate, nor indeed any other
purpose in his visit, except that which had been served by his interview
with Laura.

As soon as he was gone, Laura went down stairs to beg that Miss Dawkins
would accompany her after dinner to the print-shop, to inquire what had
been the fate of her picture. More than one person, she was told, had
admired it, and expressed a desire to become the owner; but the price
had been a formidable obstacle, and it remained unsold.

Almost every evening did Laura, with Mrs Dawkins or her daughter for an
escort, direct her steps to the print-shop, and return from her
fruitless walk with fainter and fainter hope.




CHAPTER X


Montague de Courcy had dined tête-à-tête with an old uncle from whom he
had no expectations, and was returning home to sup quietly with his
mother and sister, when his progress was arrested by a group occupying
the whole breadth of the pavement, and he heard a female voice which,
though unusually musical, had in it less of entreaty than of command,
say, 'Pray, Sir, allow us to pass.' 'Not till I have seen the face that
belongs to such a figure,' answered one of a party of young men who were
rudely obstructing the passage of the lady who had spoken. With this
condition, however, she seemed not to intend compliance, for she had
doubled her veil, and pertinaciously resisted the attempts of her
persecutors to raise it.

De Courcy had a rooted antipathy to all manner of violence and
oppression, especially when exercised against the more defenceless part
of the creation; and he no sooner ascertained these circumstances, than,
with one thrust of his muscular arm, (which, to say the truth, was more
than a match for half a dozen of the puny fry of sloth and
intemperance), he opened a passage for the lady and her companion;
steadily detained her tormentors till she made good her retreat; and
then, leaving the gentlemen to answer, as they best could, to their own
interrogatories of 'What do you mean?' and 'Who the d--l are you?' he
followed the rescued damsel, with whose appearance, considering the
place and the hour, he was extremely surprised.

Her height, which certainly rose about the beautiful, perhaps even
exceeded the majestic; her figure, though slender, was admirably
proportioned, and had all the appropriate roundness of the feminine
form; her dress, though simple, and of matronly decency, was not
unfashionable; while the dignity of her gait, and the composure of her
motion, suited well with the majesty of her stature and mien.

While De Courcy was making these observations, he had offered the lady
his arm, which she accepted, and his escort home, which she declined,
saying, that she would take refuge in a shop, till a coach could be
procured. Nor was he less attentive to her companion, although the
latter was a little, elderly, vulgar-looking woman, imperfections which
would have utterly disqualified her for the civility of many a polite
gentleman.

This person had no sooner recovered the breath of which her supposed
danger, and the speed of her rescue from it had deprived her, than she
began, with extreme volubility, to comment on her adventure. 'Well,' she
cried, 'if that was not the forwardest thing ever I seed. I am sure I
have comed home afore now of an evening a matter of five hunder times,
and never met with no such thing in my life. But its all along of my
being so saving of your money; for I might have took a coach as you'd
have had me: but its no longer ago nor last week, as I comed from my
tea, at that very Mr Wilkins's, later nor this, and nobody so much as
spoke to me; but catch me penny wise again. Howsoever, it's partlins
your own doings; for if you hadn't staid so long a-looking at the
pictures in the shop we shouldn't have met with them there men.
Howsoever, Miss Montreville, you did right enough not to let that there
jackanapes see your face, otherwise we mightn't have got off from them
fellors tonight.'

The curiosity of De Courcy thus directed, overcame his habitual dislike
to staring, and rivetted his eyes on a face, which, once seen, was
destined never to be forgotten. Her luxuriant hair, (which De Courcy at
first thought black, though he afterwards corrected this opinion), was
carelessly divided on a forehead, whose spotless whiteness was varied
only by the blue of a vein that shone through the transparent skin. As
she raised her mild religious dark grey eyes, their silken lashes rested
on the well-defined but delicate eye-brow; or, when her glance fell
before the gaze of admiration, threw a long shade on a cheek of
unequalled beauty, both for form and colour. The contour of her
features, inclining to the Roman, might perhaps have been called
masculine, had it not been softened to the sweetest model of maiden
loveliness, by the delicacy of its size and colouring. The glowing
scarlet of the lips, formed a contrast with a complexion
constitutionally pale, but varying every moment; while round her easily
but firmly closing mouth, lurked not a trace of the sensual or the vain,
but all was calm benevolence, and saintly purity. In the contemplation
of a countenance, the perfect symmetry of which was its meanest charm,
De Courcy, who was a physiognomist, suffered the stream of time, as well
as that of Mrs Dawkins's eloquence, to flow on without notice, and first
became sensible that he had profited by neither, when the shop-boy
announced that the carriage was at the door. While handing the ladies
into the carriage, De Courcy again offered his attendance, which Laura,
gracefully thanking him for his attentions, again declined; and they
drove off just as he was about to inquire where they chose to be set
down.

Now, whether it was that Laura was offended at De Courcy's inspection of
her face, or whether she saw any thing disagreeable in his; whether it
was that her pride disdained lodgings in Holborn, or that she desired
not to be recognized by one who had met with her in such a situation,
certain it is, that she chose the moment when that gentleman was placing
her voluble companion in the coach, to give the coachman her directions,
in sounds that escaped the ears of De Courcy. As he had no means of
remedying this misfortune, he walked home, and philosophically
endeavoured to forget it in a game at chess with his mother. The
fidelity of a historian, however, obliges us to confess, that he this
evening played in a manner that would have disgraced a school-boy. After
mistaking his antagonist's men for his own, playing into check, throwing
away his pieces, and making false moves, he answered his mother's
question of 'Montague, what are you doing?', by pushing back his chair,
and exclaiming, 'Mother, you never beheld such a woman.'

'Woman!' repeated Mrs De Courcy, settling her spectacles, and looking
him full in the face. 'Woman!' said his sister, laying down Bruyere,
'Who is she?'

'I know not,' answered De Courcy, 'but had Lavater seen her, he could
scarcely have believed her human.'

'What is her name?'

'The woman who attended her called her Montreville.'

'Where did you meet her?'

'In the street.'

'In the street!' cried Harriet, laughing. 'Oh, Montague, that is not
half sentimental enough for you. You should have found her all in a
shady bower, playing on a harp that came there nobody knows how; or, all
elegant in India muslin, dandling a beggar's brat in a dirty cottage.
But let us hear the whole adventure.'

'I have already told you all I know,' answered De Courcy. 'Now, Madam,
will you give me my revenge.' 'No, no,' said Mrs De Courcy, 'I will play
no more; I should have no glory in conquering such a defenceless enemy.'
'Well, then,' said Montague, good-humouredly, 'give me leave to read to
you, for I would rather amuse you and Harriet in any other way than by
sitting quietly to be laughed at.'

After the ladies had retired for the night, De Courcy meditated for full
five minutes on the descent from Laura Montreville's forehead to her
nose, and bestowed a proportionable degree of consideration upon other
lines in her physiognomy; but it must be confessed, that by the time he
arrived at the dimple in her left cheek, he had forgotten both Lavater
and his opinions, and that his recollection of her mouth was somewhat
confused by that of her parting smile, which he more than once declared
aloud to himself was 'heavenly.' We are credibly informed, that he
repeated the same expression three times in his sleep; and whether it
was that his dreams reminded him of Mrs Dawkins's eloquence, or whether
his memory was refreshed by his slumbers, he had not been long awake
before he recollected that he had heard that lady mention a Mr Wilkins,
and hint that he kept a print-shop. By a proper application to the
London directory, he easily discovered the print-seller's abode, and
thither he that very day repaired.

Mr Wilkins was not in the shop when De Courcy entered it, but the
shop-boy said his master would be there in a minute. This minute
appearing to De Courcy of unusual length, he, to while it away, began to
examine the prints which hung around. His eye was presently attracted by
the only oil picture in the shop; and his attention was fixed by
observing, that it presented a striking resemblance of his old
school-fellow Hargrave. He turned to make some inquiry of the shop-boy,
when Mr Wilkins came in, and his interest reverted to a different
object. The question, however, which he had come to ask, and which to
ask would have three minutes before appeared the simplest thing in the
world, now faltered on his tongue; and it was not without something like
hesitation, that he inquired whether Mr Wilkins knew a Miss Montreville.
Desirous to oblige a person of De Courcy's appearance, Wilkins
immediately related all that he knew of Laura, either from his own
observation, or from the report of her loquacious landlady; and
perceiving that he was listened to with attention, he proceeded further
to detail his conjectures. 'This picture is painted by her,' said he,
'and I rather think the old Captain can't be very rich, she seemed so
anxious to have it sold.' De Courcy again turned to the picture, which
he had before examined, and on this second inspection, was so fortunate
as to discover that it bore the stamp of great genius,--an opinion in
which, we believe, he would have been joined by any man of
four-and-twenty who had seen the artist. 'So,' thought he, 'this lovely
creature's genius is equal to her beauty, and her worth perhaps
surpasses both; for she has the courage to rise superior to the silly
customs of the world, and can dare to be useful to herself and to
others. I knew by the noble arching of her forehead, that she was above
all vulgar prejudice:' and he admired Laura the more for being a
favourable instance of his own penetration,--a feeling so natural, that
it lessens even our enmity to the wicked, when we ourselves have
predicted their vices. It must be owned, that De Courcy was a little
hasty in his judgment of Laura's worth; but the sight of such a face as
hers, gives great speed to a young man's decision upon female character.
He instantly purchased the picture, and recollecting that it is highly
proper to patronize genius and industry, he desired Mr Wilkins to beg
that a companion might be painted. He then returned home, leaving orders
that his purchase should follow him immediately.

Though nature, a private education, and studious habits, made De Courcy
rather reserved to strangers, he was, in his domestic circle, one of the
most communicative persons in the world; and the moment he saw his
mother, he began to inform her of the discoveries he had made that
morning. 'Montreville!' said Mrs De Courcy, when he had ended, 'can that
be William Montreville who was in the ---- regiment when your father was
the major of it?' 'Most likely he is,' said Montague, eagerly. 'Many a
time did he hold you upon his horse, and many a paper kite did he make
for you.' 'It must be the same,' said Montague; 'the name is not a
common one; it certainly must be the same.' 'I can hardly believe it,'
said Mrs De Courcy; 'William Montreville married that strange imprudent
woman, Lady Harriet Bircham. Poor Montreville!--he deserved a better
wife.' 'It cannot be he,' said De Courcy, sorrowfully; 'no such woman
could be the mother of Miss Montreville.' 'He settled in Scotland
immediately after his marriage,' continued Mrs De Courcy, 'and since
that time I have never heard of him.' 'It is the same then,' said
Montague, his countenance lightening with pleasure, 'for Miss
Montreville is a Scotch woman. I remember his kindness. I think I almost
recollect his face. He used to set me on his knee and sing to me; and
when he sung the Babes in the Woods, I pretended to go to sleep on his
bosom, for I thought it not manly to cry; but when I looked up, I saw
the tears standing in his own eyes. I will go and see my old friend this
very hour.' 'You have forgotten,' said Mrs De Courcy, 'that you promised
to escort Harriet to the park, and she will be disappointed if you
engage yourself elsewhere.' De Courcy, who would have postponed any
personal gratification rather than disappoint the meanest servant in his
household, instantly agreed to defer his visit; and as it had never
occurred to him that the claims of relationship were incompatible with
those of politeness, he did not once during their walk insinuate to his
sister that he would have preferred another engagement.

Never had he, either as a physiognomist or as a man, admired any woman
so much as he did Laura; yet her charms were no longer his only, or even
his chief, magnet of attraction towards the Montrevilles. Never before
had any assemblage of features possessed such power of him, but De
Courcy's was not a heart on which mere beauty could make any very
permanent impression; and, to the eternal disgrace of his gallantry, it
must be confessed, that he scarcely longed more for a second interview
with Laura, than he did for an opportunity of paying some grateful
civilities to the man who, twenty years before, had good-naturedly
forgone the society of his equals in age, to sing ballads and make
paper-kites for little Montague. Whatever member of his family occupied
most of his thoughts, certain it is, that he spoke much more that
evening of Captain Montreville than of his daughter, until the arrival
of the painting afforded him occasion to enlarge on her genius,
industry, and freedom from vulgar prejudice. On these he continued to
descant, till Mrs De Courcy smiled, and Harriet laughed openly; a
liberty at which Montague testified his displeasure, by carefully
avoiding the subject for the rest of the evening.

Meanwhile the ungrateful Laura had never, from the hour in which they
met, bestowed one thought upon her champion. The blackness of his eyes,
and the whiteness of his teeth, had entirely escaped her observation;
and, even if she had been asked, whether he was tall or short, she could
scarcely have given a satisfactory reply. For this extraordinary
stupidity, the only excuse is, that her heart was already occupied, the
reader knows how, and that her thoughts were engrossed by an intention
which her father had mentioned, of borrowing money upon his half-pay.

Though Laura had never known affluence, she was equally a stranger to
all the shames, the distresses, and embarrassments of a debtor; and the
thoughts of borrowing what she could not hope by any economy to repay,
gave to her upright mind the most cutting uneasiness. But no resource
remained; for, even if Captain Montreville could have quitted London
within the hour, he had not the means of defraying the expence of the
journey. Warren's promises had hitherto produced nothing but hope, and
there was no immediate prospect that the payment of the annuity would
relieve the difficulty.

Laura turned a despairing wish towards her picture, lamenting that she
had ever formed her presumptuous scheme, and hating herself for having,
by her presence, increased the perplexities of her father. She prevailed
upon him, however, to defer borrowing the money till the following day;
and once more, accompanied by Julia, bent her almost hopeless steps
towards the print-shop.

Silent and melancholy she passed on, equally regardless of the
admiration which she occasionally extorted, and of the animadversions,
called forth by the appearance of so elegant a woman on foot, in the
streets of the city. As she entered the shop, she cast a half-despairing
look towards the place where her picture had hung, and her heart leapt
when she perceived that it was gone. 'Well, Ma'am,' said Wilkins,
approaching her, 'it is sold at last, and here is the money;' and he put
into her hands by far the largest sum they had ever contained. 'You may
have as much more whenever you please,' continued he, 'for the gentleman
who bought it wants a companion painted.'

Laura spoke not,--she had not indeed the power to speak;--but she raised
her eyes with a look that intelligibly said, 'Blessed Father! thy tender
mercies are over all thy works.' Recollecting herself, she thanked
Wilkins, liberally rewarded him for his trouble, and taking her
companion by the arm, she hastened homewards.

The sight of Laura's wealth powerfully affected the mind of Miss
Dawkins, and she formed an immediate resolution, to grow rich by similar
means. One little objection to this scheme occurred to her, namely, that
she had learnt to draw only flowers, and that even this humble branch of
the art she had discontinued since she left school. But she thought that
a little practice would repair what she had lost, and that though
perhaps flowers might not be so productive as historical pieces, she
might better her fortune by her works; at the least, they would furnish
her with clothes and pocket-money. Upon this judicious plan, she
harangued with great volubility to Laura, who, buried in her own
reflections, walked silently on, unconscious even of the presence of her
loquacious companion. As she approached her home, she began to frame a
little speech, with which she meant to present her treasure to her
father; and, on entering the house, she flew with a beating heart to
find him. She laid her wealth upon his knee. 'My dearest father,' she
began, 'the picture'--and she fell upon his neck and burst into tears.
Sympathetic tears stood in the eyes of Montreville. He had been
surprized at the stoicism with which his daughter appeared to him to
support her disappointment, and he was not prepared to expect from her
so much sensibility to success. But though Laura had learnt from
frequent experience, how to check the feelings of disappointment, to
pleasure such as she now felt she was new, and she could not controul
its emotions. So far was she, however, from thinking that sensibility
was bestowed merely for an ornament, (an opinion which many fair ladies
appear to entertain), that the expression of it was always with her an
occasion of shame. Unable at this moment to contain herself, she burst
from her father's embrace, and hiding herself in her chamber, poured
forth a fervent thanksgiving to Him who 'feedeth the ravens when they
cry to him.'

'This money is yours my love,' said Captain Montreville to her when she
returned to the parlour. 'I cannot bear to rob you of it. Take it, and
you can supply me when I am in want of it.' The face and neck of Laura
flushed crimson. Her whole soul revolted at the thought of her father's
feeling himself a pensioner on her bounty. 'No indeed, Sir,' she replied
with energy, 'it is yours--it always was intended for you. But for you,
I could never have acquired it.' 'I will not disappoint your generosity,
my dearest,' said Montreville, 'part I will receive from you, but the
rest you must keep. I know you must have many little wants.' 'No, Papa,'
said Laura, 'so liberal has your kindness been to me, that I cannot at
this moment name a single want.' 'Wishes, then, you surely have,' said
the Captain, still pressing the money upon her; 'and let the
first-fruits of your industry supply them.' 'I have no wishes,' said
Laura; 'none at least which money can gratify:--and when I have,' added
she, with an affectionate smile, 'let their gratification come from you,
that its pleasure may be doubled to me.'

No creature could less value money for its own sake than did Laura. All
her wealth, the fruit of so much labour and anxiety, would not have
purchased the attire of a fashionable lady for one evening. She, who
had been accustomed to wander in happy freedom among her native hills,
was imprisoned amidst the smoke and dust of a city. Without a companion,
almost without an acquaintance to invigorate her spirits for the task,
it was her province to revive the fainting hopes, and beguile the tedium
of her father, who was depressed by disappointments in his pursuits, and
disconcerted by the absence of his accustomed employments. She was at a
distance from the object, not only of a tender affection, but of a
romantic passion,--a passion, ardent in proportion as its object was
indebted to her imagination for his power. Scarce three months had
elapsed since the depravity of this idolized being had burst on her in
thunder, the thought of it was still daggers to her heart, and it was
very doubtful whether he could ever give such proofs of reformation as
would make it safe for her to restore him to his place in her regard.
Yet be it known to all who, from similar circumstances, feel entitled to
fancy themselves miserable, and thus (if they live with beings of common
humanity) make others really so, that no woman ever passed an evening in
more heartfelt content, than Laura did that which our history is now
recording. She did, indeed, possess that which, next to the overflowings
of a pious heart, confers the purest happiness on this side Heaven. She
felt that she was USEFUL. Nay, in one respect the consciousness of a
successful discharge of duty has the advantage over the fervours of
devotion; for Providence, wise in its bounty, has decreed, that while
these foretastes of heavenly rapture are transient lest their delights
should detach us from the business of life, we are invited to a
religious practice by the permanence of its joys.




CHAPTER XI


Captain Montreville and his daughter were engaged in a friendly contest
on the subject of a companion for the picture, when De Courcy made his
visit. Though, as he entered the room, something unfashionably like a
blush visited his face, his manner was free from rustic embarrassment.
'I believe,' said he, advancing towards Captain Montreville, 'I must
apologize for the intrusion of a stranger. My person must have outgrown
your recollection. My name, I hope, has been more fortunate. It is De
Courcy.' 'The son I presume of Major De Courcy,' said Montreville,
cordially extending his hand to him. 'Yes,' replied Montague, heartily
taking the offered hand; 'the same whose childhood was indebted to you
for so many of its pleasures.' 'My old friend Montague!' cried the
Captain, 'though your present form is new to me, I remember my lovely
little noble-spirited play-fellow with an interest which I have never
felt in any other child except this girl.' 'And who knows,' said De
Courcy, turning to Laura with a smile, 'who knows what cause I may find
to rue that Miss Montreville is past the age when I might have repaid
her father's kindness by assiduities to her doll?' 'That return,' said
Laura, colouring, as she recollected her late champion, 'would not have
been quite so arduous as the one you have already made. I hope you have
had no further trouble with those rude people?' 'No, Madam,' answered De
Courcy, 'nor did I expect it; the spirits that are so insolent where
they dare, are submissive enough where they must.' Laura now explained
to her father her obligation to De Courcy; and the Captain having
thanked him for his interference, the co

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