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.