From feverish and interrupted sleep, Montreville awoke unrefreshed; and
the surgeon, when he repeated his visit, again alarmed Laura with
representations of her father's danger, and assurances that nothing but
the most vigilant attention to his quiet could preserve his life. The
anguish with which Laura listened to this sentence she suppressed, lest
it should injure her father. She never approached him but to bring
comfort; she spoke to him cheerfully, while the tears forced themselves
to her eyes; and smiled upon him while her heart was breaking. She felt
what he must suffer, should the thought occur to him that he was about
to leave her to the world, unfriended and alone; and she never mentioned
his illness to him unless with the voice of hope. But of the danger
which she strove to disguise, Montreville was fully sensible; and though
he forbore to shock her by avowing it explicitly, he could not, like
her, suppress his fears. He would sometimes fervently wish that he could
see his child safe in the protection of Mrs Douglas; and sometimes, when
Laura was bending over him in the tenderest sympathy, he would clasp her
neck, and cry, with an agony that shook his whole frame, 'What--Oh what
will become of thee!'
He seemed anxious to know how long Mrs De Courcy was to remain in town,
and inquired every hour whether Montague was not returned. Full well did
Laura guess the mournful meaning of these questions. Full well did they
remind her, that when the De Courcy family left London, she with her
dying father would amidst this populous wilderness be alone. She
anticipated the last scene of this sad tragedy; when, amidst busy
thousands, a senseless corpse would be her sole companion. She looked
forward to its close, when even this sad society would be withdrawn.
Human fortitude could not support the prospect; and she would rush from
her father's presence, to give vent to agonies of sorrow.
But the piety of Laura could half-invest misfortune with the character
of blessing; as the mists that rise to darken the evening sun are
themselves tinged with his glory. She called to mind the gracious
assurance which marks the afflicted who suffer not by their own guilt or
folly as the favoured of Heaven; and the more her earthly connections
seemed dissolving, the more did she strive to acquaint herself with Him,
from whose care no accident can sever. To this care she fervently
committed her father; praying that no selfish indulgence of her grief
might embitter his departure; and resolving by her fortitude to convince
him that she was able to struggle with the storm from which he was no
longer to shelter her.
The day succeeding that on which Montreville was taken ill had been set
apart for a farewell visit to Mrs De Courcy; and Laura's note of
mournful apology, was answered by a kind visit from Harriet. Unconscious
of the chief cause of her father's impatience for Montague's return,
Laura wishing to be the bearer of intelligence which she knew would
cheer him, inquired anxiously when Miss De Courcy expected her brother.
But De Courcy's motions depended upon the spirits of his venerable
friend, and Harriet knew not when he might be able to leave Mr
Wentworth. It was even uncertain whether for the present he would return
to town at all, as in another week Mrs De Courcy meant to set out for
Norwood. Laura softened this unpleasing news to her father; she did not
name the particular time of Mrs De Courcy's departure, and she suffered
him still confidently to expect the return of his favourite.
The next day brought a letter from De Courcy himself, full of
affectionate solicitude for the Captain's health and spirits; but
evidently written in ignorance of the fatal change that had taken place
since his departure. In this letter the name of Laura was not mentioned,
not even in a common compliment, and Montreville remarked to her this
omission. 'He has forgotten it,' answered Laura,--'his warm heart is
full of his friend's distress and yours, and has not room for more
ceremony.' 'I hope,' said Montreville, emphatically, 'that is not the
reason.' 'What is then the reason?' inquired Laura; but Montreville did
not speak, and she thought no more of De Courcy's little omission.
Her father, indeed, for the present, occupied almost all her earthly
thoughts, and even her prayers rose more frequently for him than for
herself. Except during the visits of Montreville's surgeon, she was
Montreville's sole attendant; and, regardless of fatigue, she passed
every night by his bed-side, every day in ministering to his comfort.
If, worn out with watching, she dropt asleep, she started again at his
slightest motion, and obstinately refused to seek in her own chamber a
less interrupted repose. 'No,' thought she, 'let my strength serve me
while I have duties to perform, while my father lives to need my
efforts; then may I be permitted to sink to early rest, and the weary
labourer, while yet it is but mornings be called to receive his hire.'
The desertion of Hargrave, whom she had loved with all the ardour of a
warm heart and a fervid imagination, the death of her father so fast
approaching, her separation from every living being with whom she could
claim friendship or kindred, seemed signals for her to withdraw her
affections from a world where she would soon have nothing left to love
or to cherish. 'And be it so,' thought she,--'let me no longer grovel
here in search of objects which earth has not to offer--objects fitted
for unbounded and unchangeable regard. Nor let me peevishly reject what
this world really has to give, the opportunity to prepare for a better.
This it bestows even on me; and a few childish baubles are all else that
it reserves for those who worship it with all their soul, and strength,
and mind.'
No mortal can exist without forming some wish or hope. Laura _hoped_
that she should live while she could be useful to her father; and she
_wished_ that she might not survive him. One only other wish she had,
and that was for De Courcy's return; for Montreville, whose spirits more
than shared his bodily languor, now seldom spoke, but to express his
longing for the presence of his favourite. Laura continued to cheer him
with a hope which she herself no longer felt; for now three days only
remained ere Mrs De Courcy was to quit London. The departure of their
friends Laura resolved to conceal from her father, that, believing them
to be near, he might feel himself the less forlorn; and this she thought
might be practicable, as he had never since his illness expressed any
wish to quit his bed, or to see Miss De Courcy when she came.
In Montreville's darkened apartment, without occupation but in her cares
for him, almost without rest, had Laura passed a week, when she was one
morning summoned from her melancholy charge, to attend a visitor. She
entered the parlour. 'Mr De Courcy!' she exclaimed, springing joyfully
to meet him, 'thank Heaven you are come!' But not with equal warmth did
De Courcy accost her. The repulsive look she had given him at parting
was still fresh in his recollection; and, with a respectful distant bow,
he expressed his sorrow for Captain Montreville's illness. 'Oh he is
ill, indeed!' said Laura, the faint hectic of pleasure fading suddenly
from her cheek. 'Earnestly has he longed for your return; and we
feared,' said she, with a violent effort suppressing her tears, 'we
feared that you might not have come till--till all was over.' 'Surely
Miss Montreville,' said De Courcy, extremely shocked, 'surely you are
causelessly alarmed.' 'Oh no,' cried Laura, 'he cannot live!' and no
longer able to contain her emotion, she burst into a passion of tears.
Forced entirely from his guard by her grief, Montague threw himself on
the seat beside her. 'Dearest of human beings,' he exclaimed, 'Oh that I
could shield thee from every sorrow!' But absorbed in her distress,
Laura heeded him not; and the next moment, sensible of his imprudence,
he started from her side, and retreated to a distant part of the room.
As soon as she was again able to command herself, she went to inform her
father of De Courcy's arrival. Though told with the gentlest caution,
Montreville heard the news with extreme emotion. He grasped Laura's
hand; and, with tears of joy streaming down his pale cheeks,
said,--'Heaven be praised! I shall not leave thee quite desolate.' Laura
herself felt less desolate and she rejoiced even for herself, when she
once more saw De Courcy seated beside her father.
It was only the morning before, that a letter from Harriet had informed
her brother of Montreville's illness and of Laura's distress. To hear of
that distress, and to remain at a distance was impossible; and Montague
had left Mr Wentworth's within the hour. He had travelled all night;
and, without even seeing his mother and sister, had come directly to
Captain Montreville's lodgings. He was shocked at the death-like looks
of Montreville, and still more at those of Laura. Her eyes were sunk,
her lips colourless, and her whole appearance indicated that she was
worn out with fatigue and wretchedness. Yet De Courcy felt, that never
in the bloom of health and beauty, had she been so dear to him, and
scarcely could he forbear from addressing her in the accents of
compassion and love. Montreville wishing to speak with him alone, begged
of Laura to leave him for a while to De Courcy's care, and endeavour to
take some rest. She objected that Montague had himself need of rest,
having travelled all night; but when he assured her, that even if she
drove him away he would not attempt to sleep, she consented to retire,
and seek the repose of which she was so much in want.
When they were alone, Montreville shewed De Courcy the warning letter;
and related to him the baseness of Warren and Laura's escape. Montague
listened to him with intense interest. He often changed colour, and his
lips quivered with emotion; and, when her father described the manner in
which she had accomplished her escape, he exclaimed with enthusiasm,
'Yes, she is superior to every weakness, as she is alive to every gentle
feeling.' Montreville then dwelt upon her unremitting care of him--on
the fortitude with which she suppressed her sorrow, even while its
violence was perceptibly injuring her health. 'And is it to be wondered
at,' said he, 'that I look forward with horror to leaving this lovely
excellent creature in such a world, alone and friendless?' 'She shall
never be friendless,' cried De Courcy. 'My mother, my sister, shall be
her friends, and I will'--He stopped abruptly, and a heavy sigh burst
from him.
Recovering himself, he resumed, 'You must not talk so despondingly. You
will live long, I trust, to enjoy the blessing of such a child.'
Montreville shook his head, and remained silent. He was persuaded that
De Courcy loved his daughter, and would fain have heard an explicit
avowal that he did. To have secured to her the protection of Montague
would have destroyed the bitterness of death. Had Laura been the heiress
of millions, he would have rejoiced to bestow her and them upon De
Courcy. But he scorned to force him to a declaration, and respected her
too much to make an approach towards offering her to any man's
acceptance.
He was at a loss to imagine what reason withheld De Courcy from avowing
an attachment which he was convinced that he felt. When he considered
his favourite's grave reflecting character, he was rather inclined to
believe that he was cautiously ascertaining the temper and habits of the
woman with whom he meant to spend his life. But the warmth of
approbation with which he mentioned Laura, seemed to indicate that his
opinion of her was already fixed. It was possible, too, that De Courcy
wished to secure an interest in her regard before he ventured formally
to petition for it. Whatever was the cause of Montague's silence, the
Captain anticipated the happiest consequences from his renewed
intercourse with Laura; and he resolved that he would not, by any
indelicate interference, compel him to precipitate his declaration. He
therefore changed the conversation, by inquiring when Mrs De Courcy was
to leave town. Montague answered, that as he had not seen his mother
since his return, he did not exactly know what time was fixed for her
departure: 'but,' said he, 'whenever she goes, I shall only attend her
to Norwood, and return on the instant; nor will I quit you again, till
you are much, much better, or till you will no longer suffer me to
stay.' Montreville received this promise with gratitude and joy; and De
Courcy persuaded himself, that in making it, he was actuated chiefly by
motives of friendship and humanity. He remained with Montreville till
the day was far advanced, and then went to take a late dinner in Audley
Street.
Next morning, and for several succeeding days, he returned, and spent
the greatest part of his time in attending, comforting, and amusing the
invalid. He prevailed on his mother to delay her departure, that he
might not be obliged immediately to leave his charge. He soothed the
little impatiences of disease; contrived means to mitigate the
oppressiveness of debility; knew how to exhilarate the hour of ease; and
watched the moment, well known to the sickly, when amusement becomes
fatigue.
Laura repaid these attentions to her father with gratitude unutterable.
Often did she wish to thank De Courcy as he deserved; but she felt that
her acknowledgements must fall far short of her feelings and of his
deserts, if they were not made with a warmth, which to a man, and to a
young man, she revolted from expressing. She imagined, too, that to one
who sought for friendship, mere gratitude might be mortifying; and that
it might wound the generous nature of Montague to be thanked as a
benefactor, where he wished to be loved as an equal. She therefore did
not speak of, or but slightly mentioned, her own and her father's
obligations to him; but she strove to repay them in the way that would
have been most acceptable to herself, by every mark of confidence and
good will. Here no timidity restrained her; for no feeling that could
excite timidity at all mingled with her regard for De Courcy. But,
confined to her own breast, her gratitude became the stronger; and if
she had now had a heart to give, to Montague it would have been freely
given.
Meanwhile the spirits of Montreville lightened of a heavy load, by the
assurance that, even in case of his death, his daughter would have a
friend to comfort and protect her, his health began to improve. He was
able to rise; and one day, with the assistance of Montague's arm,
surprised Laura with a visit in the parlour. The heart of Laura swelled
with transport when she saw him once more occupy his accustomed seat in
the family-room, and received him as one returned from the grave. She
sat by him, holding his hand between her own, but did not try to speak.
'If it would not make you jealous, Laura,' said Montreville, 'I should
tell you that Mr De Courcy is a better nurse than you are. I have
recruited wonderfully since he undertook the care of me. More indeed
than I thought I should ever have done.' Laura answered only by glancing
upon De Courcy a look of heartfelt benevolence and pleasure. 'And yet,'
said Montague, 'it is alleged that no attentions from our own sex are so
effectual as those which we receive from the other. How cheaply would
bodily suffering purchase the sympathy, the endearments of'--the name of
Laura rose to his lips, but he suppressed it, and changed the expression
to 'an amiable woman.' 'Is it indeed so?' cried Laura, raising her eyes
full of grateful tears to his face. 'Oh then, if sickness or sorrow must
be your portion, may your kindness here be repaid by some spirit of
peace in woman's form--some gentleness yet more feminine than De
Courcy's!'
The enthusiasm and gratitude had hurried Laura into a warmth which the
next moment covered her with confusion; and she withdrew her eyes from
De Courcy's face before she had time to remark the effect of these, the
first words of emotion that ever she had addressed to him. The transport
excited by the ardour of her expressions, and the cordial approbation
which they implied, instantly gave way to extreme mortification. 'She
wishes,' thought he, 'that some _woman_ may repay me. She would then,
not only with indifference, but with pleasure, see me united to another;
resign me without a pang to some mere common-place insipid piece of
sweetness; and give her noble self to one who could better feel her
value.'
De Courcy had never declared his preference for Laura; he was even
determined not to declare it. Yet to find that she had not even a wish
to secure it for herself, gave him such acute vexation, that he was
unable to remain in her presence. He abruptly rose and took his leave.
He soon however reproached himself with the unreasonableness of his
feelings; and returned to his oft-repeated resolution to cultivate the
friendship without aspiring to the love of Laura. He even persuaded
himself that he rejoiced in her freedom from a passion which could not
be gratified without a sacrifice of the most important duties. He had a
sister for whom no provision had been made; a mother, worthy of his
warmest affection, whose increasing infirmities required increased
indulgence. Mrs De Courcy's jointure was a very small one; and though
she consented for the present to share the comforts of his
establishment, Montague knew her too well to imagine that she would
accept of any addition to her income, deducted from the necessary
expences of his wife and family. His generous nature revolted from
suffering his sister to feel herself a mere pensioner on his bounty, or
to seek dear-bought independence in a marriage of convenience, a sort of
bargain upon which he looked with double aversion, since he had himself
felt the power of an exclusive attachment.
Here even his sense of justice was concerned; for he knew that, if his
father had lived, it was his intention to have saved from his income a
provision for Harriet. From the time that the estate devolved to
Montague, he had begun to execute his father's intention; and he had
resolved, that no selfish purpose should interfere with its fulfilment.
The destined sum, however, was as yet little more than half collected,
and it was now likely to accumulate still more slowly; for, as Mrs De
Courcy had almost entirely lost the use of her limbs, a carriage was to
her an absolute necessary of life.
Most joyfully would Montague have sacrificed every luxury, undergone
every privation, to secure the possession of Laura; but he would not
sacrifice his mother's health nor his sister's independence to any
selfish gratification; nor would he subject the woman of his choice to
the endless embarrassments of a revenue too small for its purposes.
These reasons had determined him against addressing Laura. At their
first interview he had been struck with her as the most lovely woman he
had ever beheld; but he was in no fear that his affections should be
entangled. They had escaped from a hundred lovely women, who had done
their utmost to ensnare them, while she was evidently void of any such
design. Besides, Montreville was his old friend, and it was quite
necessary that he should visit him. Laura's manners had charmed De
Courcy as much as her person. Still might not a man be pleased and
entertained, without being in love? Further acquaintance gradually laid
open to him the great and amiable qualities of her mind, and was it not
natural and proper to love virtue? but this was not being in love.
Symptoms at last grew so strong upon poor De Courcy, that he could no
longer disguise them from himself; but it was pleasing to love
excellence. He would never reveal his passion. It should be the secret
joy of his heart; and why cast away a treasure which he might enjoy
without injury to any? Laura's love indeed he could not seek; but her
friendship he might cherish; and who would exchange the friendship of
such a woman for the silly fondness of a thousand vulgar minds?
In this pursuit he had all the success that he could desire; for Laura
treated him with undisguised regard; and with that regard he assured
himself that he should be satisfied. At last this 'secret joy,' this
'treasure of his heart' began to mingle pain with its pleasures; and,
when called away on his mournful errand to Mr Wentworth, De Courcy
confessed, that it was wise to wean himself a little from one whose
presence was becoming necessary to his happiness, and to put some
restraint upon a passion, which from his toy was become his master.
Short absence, however, had only increased his malady; and Laura in
sorrow, Laura grateful, confiding, at times almost tender, seized at
once upon every avenue to the heart of De Courcy: he revered her as the
best, he admired her as the loveliest, he loved her as the most amiable
of human beings. Still he resolved that, whatever it might cost him, he
would refrain from all attempt to gain her love; and he began to draw
nice distinctions between the _very tender_ friendship with which he
hoped to inspire her, and the tormenting passion which he must silently
endure. Happily for the success of De Courcy's self-deceit, there was no
rival at hand, with whose progress in Laura's regard he could measure
his own, and he never thought of asking himself what would be his
sensations if her _very tender_ friendship for him should not exclude
love for another.
A doubt would sometimes occur to him, as to the prudence of exposing
himself to the unremitting influence of her charms, but it was quickly
banished as an unwelcome intruder, or silenced with the plea, that, to
withdraw himself from Montreville on a sick-bed, would outrage
friendship and humanity. He had, too, somewhat inadvertently, given his
friend a promise that he would not leave him till his health was a
little re-established; and this promise now served as the excuse for an
indulgence which he had not resolution to forego. After escorting Mrs De
Courcy to Norwood, he pleaded this promise to himself when he returned
to London without an hour's delay; and it excused him in his own eyes
for going every morning to the abode of Montreville, from whence, till
the return of night drove him away, he had seldom the resolution to
depart.
Meanwhile, with the health of her father, the spirits of Laura revived;
and considering it as an act of the highest self-denial in a domestic
man to quit his home--a literary man to suspend his studies--a young man
to become stationary in the apartment of an invalid, she exerted herself
to the utmost to cheer De Courcy's voluntary task. She sometimes
relieved him in reading aloud, an accomplishment in which she excelled.
Her pronunciation was correct, her voice varied, powerful, and
melodious, her conception rapid and accurate, while the expression of
her countenance was an animated comment upon the author.
De Courcy delighted to hear her sing the wild airs of her native
mountains, which she did with inimitable pathos, though without skill.
Her conversation, sometimes literary, sometimes gay, was always simply
intended to please. Yet, though void of all design to dazzle, it
happened, she knew not how, that in De Courcy's company she was always
more lively, more acute, than at other times. His remarks seemed to
unlock new stores in her mind; and the train of thought which he
introduced, she could always follow with peculiar ease and pleasure.
Safe in her preference for another, she treated him with the most
cordial frankness. Utterly unconscious of the sentiment she inspired,
she yet had an animating confidence in De Courcy's good will; and
sometimes pleased herself with thinking, that, next to his mother and
sister, she stood highest of women in his regard. No arts of the most
refined coquetry could have rivetted more closely the chains of the
ill-fated De Courcy; and the gratitude of the unconscious Laura, pointed
the shaft that gave the death wound to his peace.
How was it possible for her to imagine, that the same sentiment could
produce a demeanour so opposite as De Courcy's was from that of
Hargrave. Hargrave had been accustomed to speak of her personal charms
with rapture. De Courcy had never made them the subject of direct
compliment; he had even of late wholly discontinued those little
gallantries which every pretty woman is accustomed to receive. Hargrave
omitted no opportunity to plead his passion; and though the presence of
a third person of necessity precluded this topic, it restrained him not
from gazing upon Laura with an eagerness from which she shrunk abashed.
De Courcy had never mentioned love; and Laura observed that, when his
glance met her's, he would sometimes withdraw his eye with (as she
thought) almost womanly modesty. In her private interviews with
Hargrave, he had ever approached her with as much vehemence and freedom
of speech and manner, as her calm dignity would permit. Privacy made no
change in De Courcy's manner, except to render him a little more
silent--a little more distant; and to personal familiarity, he seemed to
be if possible more averse than herself; for if she accidentally touched
him, he coloured and drew back.
Some of these circumstances Montreville had remarked, and had drawn from
them inferences very different from those of his daughter. He was
convinced that the preference of De Courcy for Laura had risen into a
passion, which, for some unknown reason, he wished to conceal; and he
perceived, by the ease of her behaviour, that Montague's secret was
unsuspected by her. Most anxiously did he wish to know the cause of his
favourite's silence, and to discover whether it was likely to operate
long. In Laura's absence, he sometimes led the conversation towards the
subject; but De Courcy never improved the offered opportunity. Partly in
the hope of inviting equal frankness, Montreville talked of his own
situation, and mentioned the motive of his journey to London. Montague
inquired into every particular of the business, and rested not till he
had found Mr Baynard's executor, and received from him an
acknowledgement, that he had in his possession a voucher for the payment
of Montreville's fifteen hundred pounds to Warren.
He next, without mentioned the matter to the Captain, called upon
Warren, with an intention finally to conclude the business; thinking it
impossible that, since the payment of the money was ascertained, he
could refuse either to pay the annuity, or refund the price of it. But
the disdain of Laura yet rankled in the mind of Warren, and he
positively refused to bring the affair to any conclusion, declaring,
that he would litigate it to the last sixpence he was worth; to which
declaration he added an excellent joke concerning the union of Scotch
pride with Scotch poverty. At this effrontery the honest blood of De
Courcy boiled with indignation, and he was on the point of vowing, that
he too would beggar himself, rather than permit such infamous
oppression; but his mother, his sister, and Laura herself, rose to his
mind, and he contented himself with threatening to expose Warren to the
disgrace that he merited.
Warren now began to suspect that De Courcy was the cause of Laura's
contemptuous reception of his addresses, and, enraged at his
interference, yet overawed by his manly appearance and decided manner,
became sullen, and refused to answer Montague's expostulations. Nothing
remained to be done, and De Courcy was obliged to communicate to
Montreville the ill success of his negotiations.
Bereft of all hope of obtaining justice, which he had not the means to
enforce, Montreville became more anxiously desirous to regain such a
degree of health as might enable him to return home. In his present
state, such a journey was impracticable, and he was convinced, that
while he remained pent up in the polluted air of the city, his recovery
could advance but slowly. Some weeks must at all events elapse before he
could be in a condition to travel; and to accommodate his funds to this
prolonged demand upon them, he saw that he must have recourse to some
scheme of economy yet more humble than that which he had adopted.
He hoped, if he could recover strength sufficient for the search, to
find in the suburbs some abode of purer air, and still more moderate
expense than his present habitation. The former only of these motives he
mentioned to De Courcy; for though Montreville did not affect to be
rich, he never spoke of his poverty. Various circumstances, however, had
led De Courcy to guess at his friend's pecuniary embarrassment; and he
too had a motive which he did not avow, in the offer which he made to
secure a more healthful residence for Montreville.
Unwilling to describe the humble accommodation with which he meant to
content himself, or the limited price which he could afford to offer for
it, Montreville at first refused De Courcy's services; but they were
pressed upon him with such warmth, that he was obliged to submit, and
Montague lost no time in fulfilling his commission.
He soon discovered a situation that promised comfort. It was in the
outskirts of the town, a small flower-garden belonged to the house, the
apartments were airy and commodious, the furniture was handsome, and the
whole most finically neat. The rent, however, exceeded that of
Montreville's present lodgings; and De Courcy knew that this objection
would be insurmountable. That Laura should submit to the inelegancies of
a mean habitation, was what he could not bear to think of; and he
determined, by a friendly little artifice, to reconcile Montreville's
comfort with his economy. The surgeon had named two or three weeks as
the time likely to elapse before Montreville could commence his journey.
De Courcy paid in advance above half the rent of the apartments for a
month, charging the landlady to keep the real rent a secret from her
lodgers.
As far as the author of these memoirs has been able to learn, this was
the only artifice that ever Montague De Courcy practised in his life;
and it led, as artifices are wont to do, to consequences which the
contriver neither wished nor foresaw.
Much to his satisfaction, Montreville was soon settled in his new abode,
where De Courcy continued to be his daily visitor. A certain delicacy
prevented Laura from endeavouring to procure a reversal of her father's
decree, issued in a moment of peevishness, that she should paint no more
with a view to pecuniary reward. She felt that he had been wrong, and
she shrunk from reminding him of it, till her labours should again
become necessary. But, desirous to convey to Mrs De Courcy some token of
her remembrance and gratitude, she employed some of the hours which
Montague spent with her father, in labouring a picture which she
intended to send to Norwood. The subject was the choice of Hercules; and
to make her gift the more acceptable, she presented in the hero a
picture of De Courcy, while the form and countenance of Virtue, were
copied from the simple majesty of her own. The figure of Pleasure was a
fancied one, and it cost the fair artist unspeakable labour. She could
not pourtray what she would have shrunk from beholding--a female
voluptuary. Her draperies were always designed with the most chastened
decency; and, after all her toil, even the form of Pleasure came sober
and matronly from the hand of Laura.
Designing a little surprise for her friends, she had never mentioned
this picture to De Courcy; and as she daily stole some of the hours of
his visits to bestow upon it, it advanced rapidly. Montague bore these
absences with impatience; but Montreville, who knew how Laura was
employed, took no notice of them, and De Courcy durst not complain.
Three weeks had glided away since Montreville's removal to his new
lodgings, and he remained as much as ever anxious, and as much as ever
unable to guess the reason which induced De Courcy to conceal a passion
which evidently increased every day. He recollected that Montague had of
late never met Laura but in his presence, and he thought it natural that
the lover should wish to make his first application to his mistress
herself. He had an idea, that the picture might be made to assist the
denouement which he so ardently desired; and with this view he privately
gave orders that when next Mr De Courcy came he should be ushered into
the painting-room, which he knew would be empty, as Laura never quitted
him till De Courcy arrived to take her place.
Next morning accordingly Montague was shewn into the room which he had
himself destined for Laura, and, for that reason, supplied with many
little luxuries which belonged not to its original furniture. He looked
round with delight on the marks of her recent presence. There lay her
book open as she had quitted it, and the pencil with which she had
marked the margin. It was one which he himself had recommended, and he
thought it should ever be dear to him. On a table lay her port-folio and
drawing materials: in a corner stood her easel with the picture, over
which was thrown a shawl which he had seen her wear.
Not conceiving that she could have any desire to conceal her work, he
approached it, and, raising the cover, stood for a moment motionless
with surprise. The next, a thousand sensations, vague but delightful,
darted through his mind; but before he could give a shape or
distinctness to any one of them, the step approached that ever aroused
De Courcy to eager expectation, and letting drop the shawl, he flew
towards the door to receive Laura.
With rapture in his eyes, but confusion on his tongue, De Courcy paid
his compliments, and again turned towards the picture. Laura sprung
forward to prevent him from raising the covering. 'Is this forbidden,
then?' said he. 'Oh yes, indeed,' said Laura, blushing, 'you must not
look at it.' 'Can you be so mischievous,' cried De Courcy, a delighted
smile playing on his countenance, 'as to refuse me such a pleasure?' 'I
am sure,' said Laura, blushing again, and still more deeply, 'it could
give you no pleasure in its present state.' 'And I am sure,' said De
Courcy, ardently, 'it would give me more than I have language to
express.'
De Courcy's eagerness, and the consciousness of her own confusion, made
Laura now more unwilling that Montague should discover the cause of both
to be his own portrait, and actually trembling with emotion, she said,
putting her hand on the shawl to prevent him from raising it, 'Indeed I
cannot shew you this. There is my port-folio--look at any thing but
this.' 'And what inference may I draw as to the subject of a picture
that Miss Montreville will not shew to the most partial--the most
devoted of her friends?' 'Any inference,' replied Laura, still holding
the shawl, 'that friendship or charity will permit.' 'And must I not
remove this perverse little hand?' said De Courcy, laying his upon it;
for all prudence was forgotten in his present emotion. Laura, a little
offended at his perseverance, gravely withdrew her hand, and turned
away, saying, 'Since my wishes have no power, I shall make no other
trial of strength.' 'No power!' cried De Courcy, following her, 'they
have more force than a thousand arms.' 'Well,' said Laura, a little
surprised by his manner, but turning upon him a smile of gracious
reconciliation, 'your forbearance may hereafter be rewarded by a sight
of this important picture; but lest you should forfeit your recompense,
had we not better remove from temptation?'
She then led the way to the parlour, and De Courcy followed her in a
state of agitation that could not be concealed. He was absent and
restless. He often changed colour, seemed scarce sensible of what was
addressed to him, or began to reply, and the unfinished sentence died
upon his lips. At last, starting up, he pleaded sudden indisposition,
and was hurrying away. 'Do not go away ill and alone,' said Laura,
kindly detaining him. 'Walk round the garden--the fresh air will relieve
you.' 'No air will relieve me!' said De Courcy, in a voice of
wretchedness. 'What then can we do for you?' said Laura, with
affectionate earnestness. 'What can _you_ do for me!' cried De Courcy,
'Oh nothing, nothing but suffer me to go, while yet I have the power.'
He then wrung Montreville's hand, and uttering something which his
emotion made inarticulate, without venturing a glance towards Laura, he
quitted the house, and returned home in a state bordering on
distraction.
He shut himself up in his chamber to consider of his situation, if that
can be called consideration, which was but a conflict of tumultuous
feeling. That Laura should have painted his portrait in a group where it
held such a relation to her own; that she should keep it concealed in an
apartment exclusively appropriated to herself; her alarm lest he should
examine it; her confusion, which had at last risen to the most
distressing height, from the idea of what De Courcy might infer, should
he discover that his own portrait was the cause of so many blushes; the
confiding affectionate matter in which she treated him,--all conspired
to mislead De Courcy. He felt a conviction that he was beloved, and, in
spite of himself, the thought was rapture.
But what availed this discovery? Could he forget the justice of his
sister's claims, sacrifice to his selfish wishes the comfort of his
mother, or wed his half-worshipped Laura to the distresses of an
embarrassed fortune? 'Oh no,' he cried, 'let not my passions involve in
disaster all that I love.'
Or could he lay open to Laura his feelings and his situation, and sue
for her love, even while their union must be delayed. Her attachment, he
thought, was yet in its infancy, born of gratitude, fostered by
separation from other society, and, for the present, pleasing in its
sensations, and transient in its nature. But he thought her capable of a
love as fervent--as deep-rooted as that which she inspired; and should
he wilfully awaken in her peaceful breast the cravings of such a passion
as tortured his own; see her spirits, her vigour of mind, her
usefulness, perhaps her health, give way to the sickness of 'hope
deferred!' No,--rather let her return to the indifference in which he
found her. Or, should he shackle her with a promise, of which honour
might extort a reluctant fulfilment, after the affection that prompted
it was perhaps withdrawn from him? Or, should he linger on from day to
day in vain endeavours to conceal his affection, dishonourably sporting
with the tenderness of the woman he loved, his ill-suppressed feelings
every hour offering a hope which must every hour be disappointed? No!
the generous heart of De Courcy would sooner have suffered a thousand
deaths.
But could he return--could he see again this creature, now more than
ever dear to him, and stifle the fondness--the anguish that would rend
his bosom at parting? Impossible! He would see her no more. He would
tear at once from his heart every hope--every joy--and dare at once all
the wretchedness that awaited him. In an agony of desperation, he rang
for his servant, ordered his horses, and in an hour was on his way to
Norwood, with feelings which the criminal on the rack need not have
envied.