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.