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.