The picture at last was finished, and Laura herself accompanied it to
the print-shop. Wilkins immediately delivered to her the price, which,
he said, had been for some time in his hands. It now occurred to Laura
to ask who had been the purchaser of her work. 'Why, Ma'am,' said
Wilkins, 'the gentleman desired me not to mention his name.' 'Indeed!'
said Laura surprised. 'These were his orders. Ma'am, but I shouldn't
think there could be any great harm in telling it just to you Ma'am.' 'I
have no wish to hear it,' said Laura, with a look which compelled the
confident to unwilling discretion; and again thanking him for the
trouble he had taken, she returned home. The truth was, that De Courcy
had foreseen the probability of Laura's question; and averse to be known
to her under a character that savoured of patronage and protection, had
forbidden the shopkeeper to mention who had purchased the pictures.
Again did Laura, delighted, present to her father the produce of her
labours, her warm heart glowing with the joys of usefulness. But not as
formerly did he with pleasure receive the gift. With the fretfulness of
disease, he refused to share in her satisfaction. Through the gloom of
melancholy, every object appeared distorted; and Captain Montreville saw
in his daughter's well-earned treasure only the wages of degrading toil.
'It is hard, very hard,' said he with a deep sigh, 'that you, my lovely
child, should be dependent on your daily labour for your support.' 'Oh
call it not hard, my dear father,' cried Laura. 'Thanks, a thousand
thanks to your kind foresight, which, in teaching me this blessed art,
secured to me the only real independence, by making me independent of
all but my own exertions.' 'Child,' said Montreville, fretfully, 'there
is an enthusiasm about you that will draw you into ten thousand
errors--you are quite mistaken in fancying yourself independent. Your
boasted art depends upon the taste, the very caprice of the public for
its reward; and you, of course, upon the very same caprice for your very
existence.' 'It is true,' answered Laura mildly, 'that my success
depends upon taste, and that the public taste is capricious; but some, I
should hope, would never be wanting, who could value and reward the
labours of industry--you observe,' added she with a smile, 'that I rest
nothing upon genius.' 'Be that as it may,' returned Captain Montreville,
with increasing querulousness, 'I cannot endure to see you degraded into
an artist, and, therefore, I desire there may be no more of this
traffic.'
This was the first time that Montreville had ever resorted to the method
well known and approved by those persons of both sexes, who, being more
accustomed to the exercise of authority than of argument, choose to
wield the weapon in the use of which practice has made them the most
expert. Laura looked at him with affectionate concern--'Alas!' thought
she, 'if bodily disease is pitiable, how far more deplorable are its
ravages on the mind.' But even if her father had been in perfect health,
she would not have chosen the moment of irritation for reply. Deeply
mortified at this unexpected prohibition, she yet endeavoured to
consider it as only one of the transient caprices of illness, and to
find pleasure in the thought, that the hour was come, when De Courcy's
daily visit would restore her father to some degree of cheerfulness.
But De Courcy's visit made no one cheerful. He was himself melancholy
and absent. He said he had only a few minutes to spare, yet lingered
above an hour; often rose to go, yet irresolutely resumed his seat. At
last, starting up, he said, 'the longer I remain here, the more
unwilling I am to go; and yet I _must_ go, without even knowing when I
may return.' 'Are _you_ going to leave us?' said Montreville, in a tone
of despondency, 'then we shall be solitary indeed.' 'I fear,' said
Laura, looking with kind solicitude in De Courcy's face, 'that something
distressing calls you away.' 'Distressing indeed,' said De Courcy. 'My
excellent old friend Mr Wentworth has lost his only son, and I must bear
the news to the parents.' 'Is there no one but you to do this painful
office?' asked Montreville. 'None,' answered De Courcy, 'on whom it
could with such propriety fall. Wentworth was one of my earliest
friends, he was my father's early friend. I owe him a thousand
obligations; and I would fain, if it be possible, soften this heavy
blow. Besides,' added he, endeavouring to speak more cheerfully, 'I have
a selfish purpose to serve,--I want to see how a Christian bears
misfortune.' 'And can you fix no time for your return?' asked the
Captain, mournfully. De Courcy shook his head. 'You will not return
while your presence is necessary to Mr Wentworth,' said Laura, less
anxious to regain De Courcy's society, than that he support the
character of benevolence with which her imagination had justly vested
him. Grieved by the prospect of losing his companion, fretted by an
indefinite idea that he was wrong in his ungracious rejection of his
daughter's efforts to serve him, ashamed of his distempered selfishness,
yet unable to conquer it, Captain Montreville naturally became more
peevish; for the consciousness of having acted wrong, without the
resolution to repair the fault, is what no temper can stand. 'Your
charity is mighty excursive Laura,' said he. 'If Mr De Courcy delays his
return long, I shall probably not live to profit by it.' Laura, whose
sweetness no captious expressions could ruffle, would have spoken to
turn her father's view to brighter prospects; but the rising sob choked
her voice, and courtesying hastily to De Courcy, she left the room. De
Courcy now no longer found it difficult to depart. He soon bade the
Captain farewell, promising to return as soon as it was possible, though
he had no great faith in Montreville's dismal prediction, uttered in the
true spirit of hypochondriasis, that he would come but to lay his head
in his grave.
As he was descending the stairs, Laura, who never forgot in selfish
feeling to provide for the comfort of others, followed him, to beg that
when he had leisure, he would write to her father. Laura blushed and
hesitated as she made this request, not because she had in making it any
selfish motive whatever, but purely because she was unused to ask
favours. Flattered by the request, but much more by her confusion, De
Courcy glowed with pleasure. 'Certainly I shall write,' said he with
great animation, 'if you--I mean if Captain Montreville wish it.' These
words, and the tone in which they were uttered, made Laura direct a look
of inquiry to the speaker's face, where his thoughts were distinctly
legible; and she no sooner read then, than, stately and displeased, she
drew back. 'I believe it will give my father pleasure to hear from you,
sir,' said she, and coldly turned away. 'Is there no man,' thought she,
'exempt from this despicable vanity--from the insignificant Warren to
the respectable De Courcy?' Poor Montague would fain have besought her
forgiveness for his presumption in supposing it possible that she could
have any pleasure in hearing of him; but the look with which she turned
from him, left him no courage to speak to her again, and he mournfully
pursued his way to Audley Street.
He was scarcely gone when Warren called, and Laura, very little
displeased for his company, took shelter in her own room. Her father,
however, suffered no inconvenience from being left alone to the task of
entertaining his visitor, for Warren found means to make the
conversation sufficiently interesting.
He began by lamenting the Captain's long detention from his home, and
condoled with him upon the effects which London air had produced upon
his health. He regretted that Mr Williams's absence from town had
retarded the final settlement of Montreville's business; informed him
that Mr Baynard's executors had appointed an agent to inspect his
papers; and finally, surprised him by an unconditional offer to sign a
new bond for the annuity. He could not bear, he said, to think of the
Captain's being detained in London to the prejudice of his health,
especially as it was evident that Miss Montreville's suffered from the
same cause. He begged that a regular bond might be drawn up, which he
would sign at a moment's notice, and which he would trust to the
Captain's honour to destroy, if it should be found that the £1500,
mentioned as the price of the annuity, had never been paid.
At this generous proposal, surprise and joy almost deprived Montreville
of the power of utterance; gratefully clasping Warren's hand, 'Oh, sir,'
he exclaimed, 'you have, I hope, secured an independence for my child. I
thank you--with what fervour, you can never know till you are yourself a
father.' Seemingly anxious to escape from his thanks, Warren again
promised that he would be ready to sign the bond on the following day,
or as soon as it was ready for signature. Captain Montreville again
began to make acknowledgements, but Warren, who appeared rather
distressed than gratified by them, took his leave, and left the Captain
to the joyful task of communicating the news to Laura.
She listened with grateful pleasure. 'How much have I been to blame,'
said she, 'for allowing myself to believe that a little vanity
necessarily excluded every kind and generous feeling. What a pity it is
that this man should condescend to such an effeminate attention to
trifles!' Lost to the expectation, almost to the desire of seeing
Hargrave, she had now no tie to London, but one which was soon to be
broken, for Mrs and Miss De Courcy were about to return to Norwood. With
almost unmixed satisfaction, therefore, she heard her father declare,
that in less than a week he should be on his way to Scotland. With
pleasure she looked forward to revisiting her dear Glenalbert, and
anticipated the effects of its quiet shades and healthful air upon her
father. Already she beheld her home, peaceful and inviting, as when,
from the hill that sheltered it, she last looked back upon its simple
beauties. She heard the ripple of its waters; she trod the well-known
path; met the kind familiar face, and listened to the cordial welcome,
with such joy as they feel who return from the land of strangers.
Nor was Montreville less pleased with the prospect of returning to his
accustomed comforts and employments--of feeling himself once more among
objects which he could call his own. His own! There was magic in the
word, that transformed the cottage at Glenalbert into a fairy
palace--the garden and the farm into a little world. To leave London
interfered indeed with his hopes of De Courcy as a lover for his
daughter; but he doubted not that the impression was already made, and
that Montague would follow Laura to Scotland.
His mind suddenly relieved from anxiety, his spirits rose, all his
constitutional good nature returned, and he caressed his daughter with a
fondness that seemed intended to atone for the captious behaviour of the
morning. At dinner he called for wine, a luxury in which he rarely
indulged, drank to their safe arrival at Glenalbert, and obliged Laura
to pledge him to the health of Warren. To witness her father's
cheerfulness was a pleasure which Laura had of late tasted so sparingly,
that it had the most exhilarating effect upon her spirits; and neither
De Courcy nor Hargrave would have been much gratified, could they have
seen the gaiety with which she supported the absence of the one, and the
neglect of the other.
She was beginning to enjoy one of those cheerful domestic evenings which
had always been her delight, when Miss Dawkins came to propose that she
should accompany her and her mother on a visit to Mrs Jones. Laura would
have excused herself, by saying, that she could not leave her father
alone; but the Captain insisted upon her going, and declared that he
would himself be of the party. She had therefore no apology, and,
deprived of the amusement which she would have preferred, contentedly
betook herself to that which was within her reach. She did not sit in
silent contemplation of her own superiority, or of the vulgarity of her
companions; nor did she introduce topics of conversation calculated to
illustrate either; but having observed that even the most ignorant have
some subject on which they can talk with ease and pleasure, and even be
heard with advantage, she suffered others to lead the discourse, rightly
conjecturing that they would guide it to the channel which they judged
most favourable to their own powers. She was soon engaged with Mrs
Dawkins in a dissertation on various branches of household economy, and
to the eternal degradation of her character as a heroine, actually
listened with interest to the means of improving the cleanliness,
beauty, and comfort of her dwelling.
Mrs Jones was highly flattered by the Captain's visit, and exerted
herself to entertain him, her husband being inclined to taciturnity by a
reason which Bishop Butler has pronounced to be a good one. Perceiving
that Montreville was an Englishman, she concluded that nothing but dire
necessity could have exiled him to Scotland. She inquired what town he
lived in; and being answered that his residence was many miles distant
from any town, she held up her hands in pity and amazement. But when she
heard that Montreville had been obliged to learn the language of the
Highlands, and that it was Laura's vernacular tongue, she burst into an
exclamation of wonder. 'Mercy upon me,' cried she, 'can you make that
outlandish spluttering so as them savages can know what you says? Well,
if I had been among them a thousand years, I should never have made out
a word of their gibberish.'
'The sound of it is very uncouth to a stranger,' said Captain
Montreville, 'but now I have learnt to like it.' 'And do them there wild
men make you wear them little red and green petticoats?' asked Mrs
Jones, in a tone of compassionate inquiry. 'Oh no,' said Captain
Montreville, 'they never interfered with my dress. But you seem quite
acquainted with the Highlands. May I ask if you have been there?' 'Aye,
that I have, to my sorrow,' said Mrs Jones; and forthwith proceeded to
recount her adventures, pretty nearly in the same terms as she had
formerly done to Laura. 'And what was the name of this unfortunate
place,' inquired the captain, when, having narrated the deficiency of
hot rolls, Mrs Jones made the pause in which her auditors were
accustomed to express their astonishment and horror. 'That was what I
asked the waiter often and often,' replied she, 'but I could never make
head or tail of what he said. Sometimes it sounded like _A rookery_;
sometimes like one thing, sometimes like another. So I takes the
roadbook, and looks it out, and it looked something like A rasher, only
not right spelt. So, thinks I, they'll call it _A rasher_, because there
is good bacon here; and I asked the man if they were famous for pigs;
and he said, no, they got all their pigs from the manufactory in
Glasgow, and that they weren't famous for any thing but fresh herrings,
as are catched in that black Loch-Lomond, where they wanted me to go.'
'Kate,' said Mr Jones, setting down his tea-cup, and settling his hands
upon his knees, 'you know I think you're wrong about them herrings.' 'Mr
Jones,' returned the lady, with a look that shewed that the herrings had
been the subject of former altercation, 'for certain the waiter told me
that they came out of the loch, and to what purpose should he tell lies
about it.' 'I tells you, Kate, that herrings come out of the sea,' said
Mr Jones. 'Well, that loch is a great fresh water sea,' said Mrs Jones.
'Out of the salt sea,' insisted Mr Jones. 'Aye,' said Mrs Jones, 'them
salt herrings as we gets here, but it stands to reason, Mr Jones, that
the fresh herrings should come out of fresh water.' 'I say, cod is
fresh, and does'n't it come out of the sea? answer me that, Mrs Jones.'
'It is no wonder the cod is fresh,' returned the lady, 'when the
fishmongers keep fresh water running on it day and night.' 'Kate, it's
of no use argufying, I say herrings come out of the sea. What say you,
Sir?' turning to Captain Montreville. The Captain softened his verdict
in the gentleman's favour, by saying, that Mrs Jones was right in her
account of the waiter's report, though the man, in speaking of 'the
loch,' meant not Loch-Lomond, but an arm of the sea. 'I know'd it,' said
Mr Jones triumphantly, 'for haven't I read it in the newspaper as
Government offers a reward to any body that'll put most salt upon them
Scotch herrings, and is'n't that what makes the salt so dear?' So having
settled this knotty point to his own satisfaction, Mr Jones again
applied himself to his tea.
'Did you return to Glasgow by the way of Loch-Lomond?' inquired Captain
Montreville. 'Ay,' cried Mrs Jones, 'that was what the people of the inn
wanted us to do; but then I looked out, and seed a matter of forty of
them there savages, with the little petticoats and red and white
stockings, loitering and lolling about the inn-door, doing nothing in
the varsal world, except wait till it was dark to rob and murder us all,
bless us! So, thinks I, let me once get out from among you in a whole
skin, and catch me in the Highlands again; so as soon as the chaise
could be got, we just went the way we came.' 'Did you find good
accommodation in Glasgow,' said the Captain. 'Yes,' replied Mrs Jones;
'but after all, Captain, there's no country like our own;--do you know,
I never got so much as a buttered muffin all the while I was in
Scotland?'
The conversation was here interrupted by an exclamation from Mrs
Dawkins, who, knowing that she had nothing new to expect in her
daughter's memoirs of her Scotish excursion, had continued to talk with
Laura apart. 'Goodness me!' she cried, 'why Kate, as sure as eggs,
here's Miss never seed a play in all her life!' 'Never saw a play! Never
saw a play!' exclaimed the landlord and landlady at once. 'Well, that's
so odd; but to be sure, poor soul, how should she, among them there
hills.' 'Suppose,' said Mrs Jones, 'we should make a party, and go
tonight.--We shall be just in time.' Laura was desirous to go: her
father made no objection; and Mr Jones, with that feeling of
good-natured self-complacency which most people have experienced,
arising from the discovery that another is new to a pleasure with which
he himself is familiar, offered, as he expressed it, 'to do the genteel
thing, and treat her himself.'
The party was speedily arranged, and Laura soon found herself seated in
the pit of the theatre. The scene was quite new to her; for her
ignorance of public places was even greater than her companions had
discovered it to be. She was dazzled with the glare of the lights, and
the brilliancy of the company, and confused with the murmur of
innumerable voices; but the curtain rose, and her attention was soon
confined to the stage. The play was the Gamester, the most domestic of
our tragedies; and, in the inimitable representation of Mrs Beverly,
Laura found an illusion strong enough to absorb for the time every
faculty of her soul. Of the actress she thought not; but she loved and
pitied Mrs Beverly with a fervour that made her insensible to the
amusement which she afforded to her companions. Meanwhile her
countenance, as beautiful, almost as expressive, followed every change
in that of Mrs Siddons. She wept with her; listened, started, rejoiced
with her; and when Mrs Beverly repulsed the villain Stukely, Laura's
eyes too flashed with 'heaven's own lightnings.' By the time the
representation was ended, she was so much exhausted by the strength and
rapidity of her emotions, that she was scarcely able to answer to the
questions of 'How have you been amused?' and 'How did you like it?' with
which her companions all at once assailed her. 'Well,' said Miss Julia,
when they were arrived at home, 'I think nothing is so delightful as a
play. I should like to go every night--shouldn't you?' 'No,' answered
Laura. 'Once or twice in a year would be quite sufficient for me. It
occupies my thoughts too much for a mere amusement.'
In the course of the two following days, Laura had sketched more than
twenty heads of Mrs Siddons, besides completing the preparations for her
journey to Scotland. On the third, the Captain, who could now smile at
his own imaginary debility, prepared to carry the bond to receive Mr
Warren's signature. The fourth was to be spent with Mrs De Courcy; and
on the morning of the fifth, the travellers intended to depart.
On the appointed morning, Captain Montreville set out on an early visit
to Portland Street, gaily telling his daughter at parting that he would
return in an hour or two, with her dowery in his pocket. When he knocked
at Mr Warren's door, the servant informed him that his master had gone
out, but that expecting the Captain to call, he had left a message to
beg that Montreville would wait till he returned, which would be very
soon.
The Captain was then shewn into a back parlour, where he endeavoured to
amuse himself with some books that were scattered round the room. They
consisted of amatory poems and loose novels, and one by one he threw
them aside in disgust, lamenting that one who was capable of a kind and
generous action should seek pleasure in such debasing studies. The room
was hung with prints and pictures, but they partook of the same
licentious character; and Montreville shuddered, as the momentary
thought darted across his mind, that it was strange that the charms of
Laura had made no impression on one whose libertinism in regard to her
sex was so apparent. It was but momentary. 'No!' thought he, 'her purity
would awe the most licentious; and I am uncandid, ungrateful, to harbour
even for a moment such an idea of the man who has acted towards her and
me with the most disinterested benevolence.'
He waited long, but Warren did not appear; and he began to blame himself
for having neglected to fix the exact time of his visit. To remedy this
omission, he rang for writing materials, and telling the servant that he
could stay no longer, left a note to inform Mr Warren that he would wait
upon him at twelve o'clock next day. The servant, who was Mr Warren's
own valet, seemed unwilling to allow the Captain to depart, and assured
him that he expected his master every minute; but Montreville, who knew
that there was no depending upon the motions of a mere man of pleasure,
would be detained no longer.
He returned home, and finding the parlour empty, was leaving it to seek
Laura in her painting-room, when he observed a letter lying on the
table addressed to himself. The hand-writing was new to him. He opened
it--the signature was equally so. The contents were as follows:--
'Sir,
The writer of this letter is even by name a stranger to you. If
this circumstance should induce you to discredit my
information, I offer no proof of my veracity but this simple
one, that obviously no selfish end can be served by my present
interference. Of the force of my motive you cannot judge,
unless you have yourself lured to destruction the heart that
trusted you,--seen it refuse all comfort,--reject all
reparation,--and sink at last in untimely decay. From a fate
like this, though not softened like this by anxious tenderness,
nor mourned like this by remorseless pity, but aggravated by
being endured for one incapable of any tender or generous
feeling, it is my purpose, Sir, to save your daughter. I was
last night one of a party where her name was mentioned;--where
she was described as lovely, innocent, and respectable; yet the
person who so described her, scrupled not to boast of a plan
for her destruction. In the hope (why should I pretend a better
motive) of softening the pangs of late but bitter
self-reproach, by saving one fellow-creature from perhaps
reluctant ruin, one family from domestic shame, I drew from him
your address, and learnt that to ingratiate himself with you,
and with his intended victim, he has pretended to offer as a
gift, what he knew that he could not long withhold. He means to
take the earliest opportunity of inveigling her from your care,
secure, as he boasts, of her pardon in her attachment. Ill,
indeed, does her character, even as described by him, accord
with such a boast; yet even indifference might prove no guard
against fraud, which, thus warned, you may defy. A fear that my
intention should be frustrated by the merited contempt attached
to anonymous information, inclines me to add my name, though
aware that it can claim no authority with a stranger.
'I am, SIR,
'Your obedient Servant,
'PHILIP WILMOT.'
Captain Montreville read this letter more than once. It bore marks of
such sincerity that he knew not how to doubt of the intelligence it
gave; and he perceived with dismay, that the business which he had
considered as closed, was as far as ever from a conclusion; for how
could he accept a favour which he had been warned to consider as the
wages of dishonour. For Laura he had indeed no fear. She was no less
safe in her own virtue and discretion, than in the contemptuous pity
with which she regarded Warren. This letter would put her upon her guard
against leaving the house with him, which Captain Montreville now
recollected that he had often solicited her to do, upon pretence of
taking the air in his curricle.
But must he still linger in London; still be cheated with vain hopes;
still fear for the future subsistence of his child; still approach the
very verge of poverty; perhaps be obliged to defend his rights by a
tedious law-suit? His heart sank at the prospect, and he threw himself
on a seat, disconsolate and cheerless.
He had long been in the habit of seeking relief from every painful
feeling in the tenderness of Laura,--of finding in her enduring spirit a
support to the weakness of his own; and he now sought her in the
conviction that she would either discover some advantage to be drawn
from this disappointment, or lighten it to him by her affectionate
sympathy. He knocked at the door.--She did not answer. He called
her.--All was silent. He rang the bell, and inquired whether she was
below, and was answered that she had gone out with Mr Warren in his
curricle two hours before. The unfortunate father heard no more. Wildly
striking his hand upon his breast, 'She is lost!' he cried, and sunk to
the ground. The blood burst violently from his mouth and nostrils, and
he became insensible.
The family were soon assembled round him; and a surgeon being procured,
he declared that Montreville had burst a blood vessel, and that nothing
but the utmost care and quiet could save his life. Mrs Dawkins, with
great humanity, attended him herself, venting in whispers to the surgeon
her compassion for Montreville, and her indignation against the
unnatural desertion of Laura, whom she abused as a methodistical
hypocrite, against whom her wrath was the stronger because she could
never have suspected her.
Montreville no sooner returned to recollection, than he declared his
resolution instantly to set off in search of his child. In vain did the
surgeon expostulate, and assure him that his life would be the forfeit:
his only answer was, 'Why should I live? She is lost.' In pursuance of
his design, he tried to rise from the bed on which he had been laid; but
exhausted nature refused to second him, and again he sunk back
insensible.
When Montreville called in Portland Street, the servant had deceived him
in saying that Warren was not at home. He was not only in the house,
but expected the Captain's visit, and prepared to take advantage of it,
for the accomplishment of the honourable scheme of which he had boasted
to his associates. As soon, therefore, as the servant had disposed of
Montreville, Warren mounted his curricle, which was in waiting at a
little distance, and driving to Mrs Dawkins's, informed Laura that he
had been sent to her by her father, who proposed carrying her to see the
British Museum, and for that purpose was waiting her arrival in Portland
Street. Entirely unsuspicious of any design, Laura accompanied him
without hesitation; and though Portland Street appeared to her greatly
more distant than she had imagined it, it was not till having taken
innumerable turns, she found herself in an open road, that she began to
suspect her conductor of having deceived her.
'Whither have you taken me, Mr Warren?' she inquired: 'This road does
not lead to Portland Street.' 'Oh yes, it does,' answered Warren, 'only
the road is a little circuitous.' 'Let us immediately return to the
straight one then,' said Laura. 'My father will be alarmed, and conclude
that some accident has happened to us.' 'Surely, my charming Miss
Montreville,' said Warren, still continuing to drive on, 'you do not
fear to trust yourself with me.' 'Fear _you_!' repeated Laura, with
involuntary disdain. 'No, but I am at a loss to guess what has
encouraged you to make me the companion of so silly a frolic. I suppose
you mean this for an ingenious joke upon my father.' 'No, 'pon my soul,'
said the beau, a little alarmed by the sternness of her manner, 'I meant
nothing but to have an opportunity of telling you that I am quite in
love with you,--dying for you,--faith I am.' 'You should first have
ascertained,' answered Laura, 'whether I was likely to think the secret
worth a hearing. I desire you will instantly return.'
The perfect composure of Laura's look and manner (for feeling no alarm
she shewed none) made Warren conclude that she was not averse to being
detained; and he thought it only necessary that he should continue to
make love, to induce her quietly to submit to go on for another half
mile, which would bring them to a place where he thought she would be
secure. He began, therefore, to act the lover with all the energy he
could muster; but Laura interrupted him. 'It is a pity,' said she, with
a smile of calm contempt, 'to put a stop to such well-timed gallantry,
which is indeed just such as I should have expected from Mr Warren's
sense and delicacy. But I would not for the sake of Mr Warren's
raptures, nor all else that he has to offer, give my father the most
momentary pain, and therefore if you do not suffer me to alight this
instant, I shall be obliged to claim the assistance of passengers on an
occasion very little worthy of their notice.' Her contumelious manner
entirely undeceived her companion in regard to her sentiments; but it
had no other effect upon him, except that of adding revenge to the
number of his incitements; and perceiving that they were now at a short
distance from the house whither he intended to convey her, he continued
to pursue his way.
Laura now rose from her seat, and seizing the reins with a force that
made the horses rear, she coolly chose that moment to spring from the
curricle; and walked back towards the town, leaving her inammorato in
the utmost astonishment at her self-possession, as well as rage at her
disdainful treatment.
She proceeded till she came to a decent-looking shop, where she entered;
and, begging permission to sit down, dispatched one of the shop-boys in
search of a hackney-coach. A carriage was soon procured, and Laura,
concluding that her father, tired of waiting for her, must have left
Portland Street, desired to be driven directly home.
As she entered the house, she was met by Mrs Dawkins. 'So Miss,' cried
she, 'you have made a fine spot of work on't. You have murdered your
father.' 'Good heavens!' cried Laura, turning as pale as death, 'what is
it you mean? where is my father?' 'Your father is on his deathbed Miss,
and you may thank your morning rides for it. Thinking you were off, he
burst a blood-vessel in the fright, and the doctor says, the least stir
in the world will finish him.'
Laura turned sick to death. Cold drops stood upon her forehead; and she
shook in every limb. She made an instinctive attempt to ascend the
stair; but her strength failed her, and she sunk upon the steps. The
sight of her agony changed in a moment Mrs Dawkins's indignation to
pity. 'Don't take on so, Miss,' said she, 'to be sure you didn't mean
it. If he is kept quiet, he may mend still, and now that you're come
back too.--By the bye, I may as well run up and tell him.' 'Oh stop!'
cried Laura, reviving at once in the sudden dread that such incautious
news would destroy her father, 'Stay,' said she, pressing with one hand
her bursting forehead, while with the other she detained Mrs
Dawkins.--'Let me think, that we may not agitate him. Oh no! I cannot
think;' and leaning her head on Mrs Dawkins' shoulder, she burst into an
agony of tears.
These salutary tears restored her recollection, and she inquired
whether the surgeon, of whom Mrs Dawkins had spoken, was still in the
house. Being answered, that he was in Montreville's apartment, she sent
to beg that he would speak with her. He came, and she entreated him to
inform her father, with the caution which his situation required, that
she was returned and safe. She followed him to the door of Montreville's
apartment, and stood listening in trembling expectation to every thing
that stirred within. At last she received the wished-for summons. She
entered; she sprang towards the bed. 'My child!' cried Montreville, and
he clasped her to his bosom, and sobbed aloud. When he was able to
speak, 'Oh Laura,' said he, 'tell me again that you are safe, and say by
what miracle, by what unheard-of mercy, you have escaped.' 'Compose
yourself, my dearest father, for Heaven's sake,' cried Laura. 'I am
indeed safe, and never have been in danger. When Warren found that I
refused to join in his frolic, he did not attempt to prevent me from
returning home.' She then briefly related the affair as it had appeared
to her, suppressing Warren's rhapsodies, from the fear of irritating her
father; and he, perceiving that she considered the whole as a frolic,
frivolous in its intention, though dreadful in its effects, suffered her
to remain in that persuasion. She passed the night by his bed-side,
devoting every moment of his disturbed repose to fervent prayers for his
recovery.