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.