The next morning, while Montreville and his daughter were expecting,
with some anxiety the arrival of their daily visitor, a note was brought
which De Courcy had left in Audley Street, to be delivered after his
departure. Though nearly illegible, from the agitation in which it was
written, it contained nothing but the simple information, that he had
been suddenly obliged to leave London. It assigned no reason for his
journey--it fixed no period for his absence; and Montreville endeavoured
to hope that his return would not be distant. But day after day passed
heavily on, and De Courcy came not. Montreville again began to feel
himself a solitary deserted being; again became dejected; again became
the victim of real debility and fancied disease.
All Laura's endeavours failed to animate him to cheerfulness, or rouse
him to employment. If he permitted her to remain by him, he seemed
rather to endure than to enjoy her presence, repressed with a languid
monosyllable her attempts at conversation, or passed whole hours in
listless silence. Laura, who forboded the worst consequences from the
indulgence of this depression, endeavoured to persuade him that he might
now safely attempt a voyage to Scotland, and predicted beneficial
effects from the sea air. But Montreville answered her with displeasure,
that such an exertion would certainly destroy him, and that those who
were themselves in high health and spirits, could not judge of the
feelings, nor sympathize with the weakness of disease. The reproach had
no more justice than is usual with the upbraidings of the sickly; for
Laura's spirits shared every turn of her father's, though her stronger
mind could support with grace the burden that weighed him to the earth.
She desisted, however, from a subject which she saw that, for the
present, he would not bear, and confined her endeavours to persuading
him to undertake some light occupation, or to walk in the little garden
that belonged to the house. But, even in these attempts she was commonly
defeated; for Montreville would make no exertion, and the winter wind,
now keen and biting, pierced through his wasted form.
None but they who have made the melancholy experiment, can tell how
cheerless is the labour of supporting the spirit that will make no
effort to sustain itself, of soliciting the languid smile, offering the
rejected amusement, or striving, with vain ingenuity, to enliven the
oft-repulsed conversation. They only know who have tried it, what it is
to resist contagious depression--to struggle against the effects of the
complaining voice, the languid motion, the hopeless aspect; what it is
to suppress the sympathetic sigh, and restrain the little sally of
impatience, so natural to those whose labours are incessant, yet
unavailing. Such were the tasks that Laura voluntarily prescribed to
herself. Incited by affection, and by strong sense of duty, she soothed
the fretful humour, prompted the reluctant exertion, fanned the expiring
hope, and seized the most favourable moment to soften by feminine
tenderness, or exhilarate by youthful gaiety.
Many motives may lead to one great effort of virtue. The hope of reward,
the desire of approbation, a sense of right, the natural benevolence
which still affords a faint trait of the image in which man was made,
all, or any of these, may produce single, or even oft-repeated acts
deserving of praise; but one principle alone can lead to virtuous
exertions persevering and unremitting though without success. That
principle was Laura's; and even while her endeavours seemed unavailing,
she was content to employ all her powers in the task selected for her by
the bestower of them.
Montreville often reproached himself for the untimely burden which he
was laying on the young heart of his daughter; but he could make no
effort to lighten it, and self-reproach served only to embitter the
spirit which it failed of stimulating to exertion. Fretful and
impatient, yet conscious of his injustice, and unwilling that Laura
should observe it, he would often dismiss her from her attendance, and
spend whole hours in solitary gloom. These hours Laura devoted to her
picture, stealing between whiles, on tiptoe, to the door of her father's
apartment, to listen whether he was stirring; and sometimes venturing to
knock gently for admittance.
The picture, which was far advanced when De Courcy left town, soon
received the finishing touches; and Laura lost no time in transmitting
it to Norwood. She wrote an affectionate letter to Harriet; in which,
after thanking her for all her kindness, she offered her gift, and
added, that to give her work a value which it would not otherwise have
possessed, she had introduced the portrait of De Courcy; and that, glad
of an opportunity of associating the remembrance of herself with an
object of interest, she had admitted her own resemblance into the group.
She apologized for the appearance of conceit which might attend her
exhibiting her own form under the character of Virtue, by relating, with
characteristic simplicity, that she had determined on her subject,
chosen and half-finished her Hercules, before she designed the figures
of his companions; that she had afterwards thought that her memorial
would be more effectual if it contained the portrait of the giver. 'And
you know,' added she, 'it would have been impossible to mould my solemn
countenance into the lineaments of Pleasure.'
In the singleness of her heart, it never occurred to Laura, that any
thing in the mutual relation of the figures of her piece stood in need
of explanation. Had Hargrave furnished the model for her hero, she would
probably have been a little more quick-sighted. As it was, she felt
impatient to shew the De Courcy family, not excepting Montague himself,
that she was not forgetful of their kindness; and she chose a day, when
the influence of bright sunshine a little revived the spirits of
Montreville, to leave him for an hour, and accompany the picture to the
shop of the obliging print-seller, that it might be packed more
skilfully than by herself.
After seeing it safely put up, she gave the address to Wilkins, who
immediately exclaimed, 'So, Ma'am, you have found out the secret that
you would not let me tell you?' 'What secret?' inquired Laura. 'The name
of the gentleman, Ma'am, that bought your pictures.' 'Was it De Courcy,
then?' 'Yes, Ma'am;--though to be sure it might'n't be the same. But I
suppose you'll know him, Ma'am. A tall pleasant-looking gentleman,
Ma'am. The pictures were sent home to Audley Street.' Laura's
countenance brightened with satisfaction, and she suffered her informer
to proceed. 'I am sure,' continued he, 'I managed that business to the
very best of my power, and, as one might say, very dexterously.' 'Was
there any occasion for management?' inquired Laura. 'Oh yes, Ma'am; for
when he seemed very much taken with the first one, then I told him all
about you just as I had it all from Mrs Dawkins, and how you were so
anxious to have it sold; and then he said he'd have it, and paid the
money into my hands; and then I told him how you looked the first day
you brought it here, and that you were just ready to cry about it; and
he said he must have a companion to it.'
The flush, both of pride and vexation, for once stained the transparent
skin of Laura. Yet it was but for a moment; and her next feeling was
pleasure at the confirmation of the benevolent character with which her
imagination had invested De Courcy. He had purchased her work when she
was quite unknown to him, only, as she thought, from a wish to reward
industry; and because he had been led to believe that the price was an
object to the artist. Had another been the purchaser, she might have
allowed something for the merit of the piece, but Laura was not yet
cured of first imagining characters, and then bending facts to suit her
theory. Sooner than bate one iota from De Courcy's benevolence, she
would have assigned to her picture the rank of a sign-post.
She now remembered, that in her visits to Audley Street she had never
seen her works; and in her approbation of the delicacy which prompted De
Courcy to conceal that she was known to him as an artist, she forgot the
little prejudice which this concealment implied. De Courcy, indeed, was
himself unconscious that he entertained any such prejudice. He applauded
Laura's exertions; he approved of the spirit that led a young woman of
family to dare, in spite of custom, to be useful. Yet he could not help
acting as if she had shared the opinion of the world, and been herself
ashamed of her labours. But this was a shame that Laura knew not. She
wished not indeed to intrude on the world's notice. Her choice was
peaceful obscurity. But if she must be known, she would have far
preferred the distinction earned by ingenious industry, to the notoriety
which wealth and luxury can purchase.
On her return home, she found her father reading a letter which he had
just received from De Courcy. It seemed written in an hour of
melancholy. The writer made no mention of returning to town; on the
contrary, he expressed a hope that Montreville might now be able to
undertake a journey to Scotland. He besought the Captain to remember
him, to speak of him often, and to write to him sometimes; and ended
with these words--'Farewell, my friend; the dearest of my earthly hopes
is, that we may one day meet again, though years, long years, must first
intervene.'
'So ends my last hope,' said Montreville, letting his head sink
mournfully on his breast; 'De Courcy comes not, and thou must be left
alone and unprotected.' 'The protection of so young a man,' said Laura,
avoiding to answer to a foreboding which she considered merely as a
symptom of her father's disease, 'might not perhaps have appeared
advantageous to me in the eyes of those who are unacquainted with Mr De
Courcy.' 'It would have given comfort to my dying hour,' said
Montreville, 'to consign thee to such a guardian--such a husband.' 'A
husband!' cried Laura, starting, and turning pale. 'Heaven be praised,
that Mr De Courcy never harboured such a thought!' Montreville looked up
in extreme surprise; and inquired the reason of her thankfulness. 'Oh
Sir,' she replied, 'we owe so much to Mr De Courcy's friendship, that I
should have hated myself for being unable to return his affection;--and
pity would it have been that the love of so amiable a being should have
been bestowed in vain.'
Montreville fixed his eyes upon her, as if to seek for further
explanation, and continued to gaze on her face, when his thoughts had
wandered from the examination of it. After some minutes of silence, he
said--'Laura, you once rejected an alliance, splendid beyond my hopes,
almost beyond my wishes, and that with a man formed to be the darling of
your sex; and now you speak as if even Montague De Courcy would have
failed to gain you. Tell me, then, have you any secret attachment? Speak
candidly, Laura;--you will not always have a father to confide in.'
Deep crimson dyed the cheeks of Laura; but, with the hesitation of a
moment, she replied--'No, Sir, I have no wish to marry. I pretend not to
lay open my whole heart to you; but I may with truth assure you, that
there is not at this moment a man in being with whom I would unite
myself. I know you would not be gratified by extorted confidence.'
'No, Laura,' said Montreville, 'I ask no more than you willingly avow. I
confide, as I have always done, in your prudence and integrity. Soon,
alas! you will have no other guides. But it was my heart's wish to see
you united to a man who could value and protect your worth--of late,
more especially, when I feel that I so soon must leave you.'
'My dearest father,' said Laura, throwing her arm affectionately round
his neck, 'do not give way to such gloomy forebodings. Your spirits are
oppressed by confinement--let us but see Glenalbert again, and all will
be well.'
'I shall never see Glenalbert,' said Montreville;--'and left alone in
such a place as this, without money, without friends, without a
home;--where shall my child find safety or shelter?'
'Indeed, Sir,' said Laura, though a cold shuddering seized her, 'your
fears have no foundation. Only yesterday Dr Flint told me that your
complaints were without danger, and that a little exercise would make
you quite strong again.'
Montreville shook his head. 'Dr Flint deceives you, Laura,' said
he;--'you deceive yourself.' 'No, indeed,' said Laura, though she
trembled; 'you look much better,--you are much better. It is only these
melancholy thoughts that retard your recovery. Trust yourself--trust me
to the Providence that has hitherto watched over us.'
'I could die without alarm,' said Montreville; 'but to leave thee alone
and in want--Oh! I cannot bear it.' 'Should the worst befal,' said
Laura, turning pale as alabaster, 'think that I shall not be alone, I
shall not want, for'--her voice failed, but she raised her eyes with an
expression that filled up the ennobling sentiment. 'I believe it, my
love,' said Montreville, 'but you feel these consolations more strongly
than I do. Leave me for the present, I am fatigued, and wish to be
alone.'
Laura retired to her own room, and endeavoured herself to practise the
trust which she recommended to her father. Her meditations were
interrupted by the entrance of her landlady, Mrs Stubbs, who, with many
courtesies and apologies, said that she was come to present her account.
Laura, who always had pleasure in cancelling a debt the moment it was
incurred, and who conceived no apology to be necessary from those who
came to demand only their own, received her landlady very graciously,
and begged her to be seated, while she went to bring her father's purse.
Mrs Stubbs spread her bills upon the table; and Laura, after examining
them, was obliged to ask an explanation.
'Why, ma'am,' returned the landlady, 'there are fourteen guineas for
lodgings for six weeks, and £10, 15s. for victuals and other articles
that I have furnished. I am sure I have kept an exact account.'
'I understood,' said Laura, 'that we were to have the lodgings for a
guinea and a half a-week, and'--'A guinea and a half!' cried the
landlady, colouring with wrath at this disparagement of her property.
'Sure, Miss, you did not think to have lodgings such as these for a
guinea and a half a-week. No, no--these lodgings have never been let for
less than four guineas, and never shall, as long as my name is
Bridget.'
Laura mildly pleaded her ignorance of those matters, and urged De
Courcy's information as an excuse for her mistake. 'To be sure, Ma'am,'
said the now pacified Mrs Stubbs, 'nobody that know'd any thing of the
matter, would expect to have such rooms for less than four guineas; and
that was what the gentleman said when he took them; so he paid me two
guineas and a half advance for four weeks; and charged me not to let you
know of it; but I can't abide them secret doings; and, besides, if I
take only a guinea and a half from you, where was I to look for the rest
of my rent for the last fortnight--for the young gentleman seems to have
taken himself off.'
Laura suffered her loquacious hostess to proceed without interruption,
for her thoughts were fully occupied. She had incurred a debt greater,
by five guineas, than she had been prepared to expect; and this sum was,
in her present circumstances, of great importance. Yet her predominant
feeling was grateful approbation of De Courcy's benevolence; nor did her
heart at all upbraid him with the consequences of his well-meant
deception. 'Kind, considerate De Courcy,' thought she; 'he had hoped
that, ere now, we should have ceased to need his generosity, and even
have been removed from the possibility of discovering it.'
Recollecting herself, she paid the landlady her full demand; and,
dismissing her, sat down to examine what remained of her finances. All
that she possessed, she found amounted to no more than one guinea and a
few shillings; and, dropping the money into her lap, she sat gazing on
it in blank dismay.
The poverty, whose approach she had so long contemplated with a fearful
eye, had now suddenly overtaken her. Husbanded with whatever care, the
sum before her could minister only to the wants of a few hours. In her
present habitation, it would scarcely purchase shelter for another night
from the storm which a keen winter-wind was beginning to drive against
her window. An immediate supply then was necessary; but where could that
supply be found? It was too late to resort to the earnings of her own
genius. Painting was a work of time and labour. No hasty production was
likely to find favour amidst the competition of studied excellence. Even
the highest effort of her art might long wait a purchaser; and tears
fell from the eyes of Laura while she reflected that, even if she could
again produce a Leonidas, she might never again find a De Courcy.
To borrow money on the Captain's half-pay, was an expedient which Laura
had always rejected, as calculated to load their scanty income with a
burden which it could neither shake off nor bear. But even to this
expedient she could now no longer have recourse; for Montreville had
assured her that, in his present state of health, it would be impossible
to mortgage his annuity for a single guinea.
She might raise a small supply by stripping her beloved Glenalbert of
some of its little luxuries and comforts; but, long before this
revolting business could be transacted, she must be absolutely
pennyless. Nor did she dare, without consulting her father, to give
orders for dismantling his home. And how should she inform him of the
necessity for such a sacrifice? Weakened both in body and in mind, how
would he endure the privations that attend on real penury? His naturally
feeble spirits already crushed to the earth, his kindly temper already,
by anxiety and disappointment, turned to gall, his anxieties for his
child alarmed even to anguish, how could he bear to learn that real want
had reached him--had reached that dear child, whom the dread of leaving
to poverty was poisoning the springs of life within him! 'He thinks he
is about to leave me,' cried she, 'and shall I tell him that I must owe
to charity even the sod that covers him from me? No; I will perish
first,' and, starting from her seat, she paced the room in distressful
meditation on the means of concealing from her father the extent of
their calamity.
She determined to take upon herself the care of their little fund, under
pretence that the trouble was too great for Montreville. He had of late
shewn such listless indifference to all domestic concerns, that she
hoped he might never inquire into the extent of his landlady's demand,
or that his inquiries might be eluded. It seemed a light thing in
Laura's eyes to suffer alone; or rather she thought not of her own
sufferings, could she but spare her father the anguish of knowing
himself and his child utterly destitute. She judged of his feelings by
her own; felt, by sympathy, all the pangs with which he would witness
wants which he could not supply; and she inwardly vowed to conceal from
him every privation that she might endure,--every labour that she might
undergo.
But, void of every resource, far from every friend, destitute amid
boundless wealth, alone amid countless multitudes, whither should she
turn for aid, or even for counsel? 'Whither,' cried she, dropping on her
knees, 'except to Him who hath supplied me in yet more urgent want, who
hath counselled me in yet more fearful difficulty, who hath fed my soul
with angel's food, and guided it with light from heaven?' Laura rose
from her devotions, more confiding in the care of Providence, more able
to consider calmly of improving the means which still remained within
her own power.
Before she could finish and dispose of a picture, weeks must elapse for
which she could make no provision. To painting, therefore, she could not
have immediate recourse. But sketches in chalk could be finished with
expedition; the printseller might undertake the sale of them; and the
lowness of the price might invite purchasers. Could she but hope to
obtain a subsistence for her father, she would labour night and day,
deprive herself of recreation, of rest, even of daily food, rather than
wound his heart, by an acquaintance with poverty. 'And since his pride
is hurt by the labours of his child,' said she, 'even his pride shall be
sacred. He shall never know my labours.' And, so frail are even the
best, that an emotion of pride swelled the bosom of Laura at the thought
that the merit of her toils was enhanced by their secrecy.
The resolutions of Laura were ever the immediate prelude to action; and
here was no time for delay. She again looked mournfully upon her little
treasure, hopelessly re-examined the purse that contained it; again,
with dismay, remembered that it was her all; then, hastily putting it
into her pocket, she drew her portfolio towards her, and began to
prepare for the work with the hurry of one to whom every moment seems
precious. Invention was at present impossible; but she tried to
recollect one of her former designs, and busied herself in sketching it
till the hour of dinner arrived. She then went to summon her father from
his chamber to the eating-room. 'This day,' thought she, 'I must share
his precarious sustenance--another I shall be more provident. And is
this then, perhaps, our last social meal?' and she turned for a moment
from the door, to suppress the emotion that would have choked her
utterance. 'Come in, my dear,' cried Montreville, who had heard her
footstep; and Laura entered with a smile. She offered her arm to assist
him in descending to the parlour. 'Why will you always urge me to go
down stairs, Laura,' said he; 'you see I am unequal to the fatigue.' 'I
shall not urge you to-morrow,' answered Laura: and Montreville thought
the tears which stood in her eyes, were the consequence of the impatient
tone in which he had spoken.
During the evening, Laura avoided all mention of restoring the purse to
her father, and he appeared to have forgotten its existence. But, by no
effort could she beguile those cheerless hours. Her utmost exertions
were necessary to maintain the appearance of composure; and De Courcy's
letter seemed to have consummated Montreville's feelings of solitude and
desolation. Wilfully, and without effort, he suffered his spirits to
expire. His whole train of thinking had become habitually gloomy. He was
wretched, even without reference to his situation, and the original
cause of his melancholy was rather the excuse than the reason of his
depression. But this only rendered more hopeless all attempts to cheer
him; for the woes of the imagination have this dire pre-eminence over
those which spring from real evils, that, while these can warm at times
in benevolent joy, or even brighten for a moment to the flash of
innocent gaiety, the selfishness of the former, chequered by no kindly
feeling, reflects not the sunny smile; as the dark and noisome fog
drinks in vain the beam of Heaven.
Montreville, when in health, had been always and justly considered a
kind-hearted, good-natured man. He had been a most indulgent husband, an
easy master, and a fond father. He was honourable, generous, and
friendly. Those who had witnessed his patient endurance of Lady
Harriet's caprice had given his philosophy a credit which was better due
to his indolence: for the grand defect of Montreville's character was a
total want of fortitude and self-command; and of these failings he was
now paying the penalty. His health was injured by his voluntary
inaction, his fancy aggravated his real disorder, and multiplied to
infinity his imaginary ailments. He had habituated his mind to images of
disaster, till it had become incapable of receiving any but comfortless
and doleful impressions.
After spending a few silent hours without effort towards employment or
recreation, he retired for the night; and Laura experienced a sensation
of relief, as, shutting herself away into her apartment, she prepared to
resume her labours. After every other member of the family had retired
to rest, she continued to work till her candle expired in the socket;
and then threw herself on her bed to rise again with the first blush of
dawn.
Montreville had been accustomed to breakfast in his own room; Laura
therefore found no difficulty in beginning her system of abstemiousness.
Hastily swallowing a few mouthfuls of dry bread, she continued her
drawing, till her father rang for his chocolate. She was fully resolved
to adhere to this plan, to labour with unceasing industry, and to deny
herself whatever was not essential to her existence.
But neither hard fare, nor labour, nor confinement, could occasion to
Laura such pain as she suffered from another of the necessities of her
situation. Amidst her mournful reflections, it had occurred to her, that
unless she would incur a debt which she could not hope to discharge, it
would be necessary to dismiss the surgeon who attended her father. All
her ideas of honour and integrity revolted from suffering a man to
expend his time and trouble, in expectation of a return which she was
unable to make. She was besides convinced that in Montreville's case
medicine could be of no avail. But she feared to hint the subject to her
father, lest she should lead to a discovery of their present
circumstances; and such was her conviction of the feebleness of his
spirits, and such her dread of the consequences of their increased
depression, that all earthly evils seemed light compared with that of
adding to his distress. Laura perhaps judged wrong; for one real evil
sometimes ameliorates the condition, by putting to flight a host of
imaginary calamities, and by compelling that exertion which makes any
situation tolerable. But she trembled for the effects of the slightest
additional suffering upon the life or the reason of her father; and she
would have thought it little less than parricide to add a new bruise to
the wounded spirit. On the other hand, she dreaded that Montreville, if
kept in ignorance of its real cause, might consider the desertion of his
medical attendant as an intimation that his case was hopeless, and
perhaps become the victim of his imaginary danger.
She knew not on what to resolve. Her distress and perplexity were
extreme; and if any thing could have vanquished the stubborn integrity
of Laura, the present temptation would have prevailed. But no wilful
fraud could be the issue of her deliberations, who was steadily
convinced that inflexible justice looks on to blast with a curse even
the successful schemes of villany, and to shed a blessing on the sorrows
of the upright. She would not even for her father incur a debt which she
could never hope to pay; and nothing remained but to consider of the
best means of executing her painful determination.
Here a new difficulty occurred, for she could not decline the surgeon's
further attendance without offering to discharge what she already owed.
In the present state of her funds, this was utterly impossible; for
though, at her instigation, his bill had been lately paid, she was sure
that the new one must already amount to more than all she possessed. How
to procure the necessary supply she knew not; for even if she could have
secured the immediate sale of her drawings, the price of her daily and
nightly toil would scarcely suffice to pay for the expensive habitation
which she durst not propose to leave, and to bribe the fastidious
appetite of Montreville with dainties of which he could neither bear the
want nor feel the enjoyment.
Once only, and it was but for a moment, she thought of appealing to the
humanity of Dr Flint, of unfolding to him her situation, and begging
his attendance upon the chance of future remuneration. But Laura was
destined once more to pay the penalty of her hasty judgments of
character. On Montreville's first illness, Dr Flint had informed Laura,
with (as she thought) great want of feeling, of her father's danger. He
was a gaunt, atrabilious, stern-looking man, with a rough voice, and
cold repulsive manners. He had, moreover, an uninviting name; and though
Laura was ashamed to confess to herself that such trifles could
influence her judgment, these disadvantages were the real cause why she
always met Dr Flint with a sensation resembling that with which one
encounters a cold, damp, north-east wind. To make any claim upon the
benevolence of a stranger--and such a stranger! It was not to be thought
of. Yet Laura's opinion, or rather her feelings, wronged Dr Flint. His
exterior, it is true, was far from prepossessing. It is also true, that,
considering Montreville's first illness as the effect of a very
unpardonable levity on the part of Laura, he had spoken to her on that
occasion with even more than his usual frigidity. Nor did he either
possess or lay claim to any great share of sensibility; but he was not
destitute of humanity; and had Laura explained to him her situation, he
would willingly have attended her father without prospect of recompense.
But Laura did not put his benevolence to the test. She suffered him to
make his morning visit and depart; while she was considering of a plan
which appeared little less revolting.
Laura knew that one of the most elegant houses in Grosvenor Street was
inhabited by a Lady Pelham, the daughter of Lady Harriet Montreville's
mother by a former marriage. She knew that, for many years, little
intercourse had subsisted between the sisters; and that her father was
even wholly unknown to Lady Pelham. But she was ignorant, that the
imprudence of her mother's marriage served as the excuse for a coldness,
which had really existed before it had any such pretext.
With all her Scotish prejudice in favour of the claims of kindred (and
Laura in this and many other respects was entirely a Scotch woman), she
could not, without the utmost repugnance, think of applying to her
relation. To introduce herself to a stranger whom she had never seen--to
appear not only as an inferior, but as a supplicant--a beggar! Laura had
long and successfully combated the innate pride of human nature; but her
humility almost failed under this trial. Her illustrious ancestry--the
dignity of a gentlewoman--the independence of one who can bear to labour
and endure to want, all rose successively to her mind; for pride can
wear many specious forms. But she had nearer claims than the honour of
her ancestry--dearer concerns than her personal importance; and when she
thought of her father, she felt that she was no longer independent.
Severe was her struggle, and bitter were the tears which she shed over
the conviction that it was right that she should become a petitioner for
the bounty of a stranger. In vain did she repeat to herself, that she
was a debtor to the care of Providence for her daily bread, and was not
entitled to choose the means by which it was supplied. She could not
conquer her reluctance. But she could act right in defiance of it. She
could sacrifice her own feelings to the comfort of her father--to a
sense of duty. Nay, upon reflection, she could rejoice that
circumstances compelled her to quell that proud spirit with which, as a
Christian, she maintained a constant and vigorous combat.
While these thoughts were passing in her mind, she had finished her
drawing; and, impatient to know how far this sort of labour was likely
to be profitable, she furnished her father with a book to amuse him in
her absence; and, for the first time since they had occupied their
present lodgings, expressed a wish to take a walk for amusement. Had
Montreville observed the blushes that accompanied this little
subterfuge, he would certainly have suspected that the amusement which
this walk promised was of no common kind; but he was in one of his
reveries, hanging over the mantle-piece, with his forehead resting on
his arm, and did not even look up while he desired her not to be long
absent.
She resolved to go first to Lady Pelham, that coming early she might
find her disengaged, and afterwards to proceed to the print-shop.
The wind blew keen across the snow as Laura began her reluctant
pilgrimage. Her summer attire, to which her finances could afford no
addition, ill defended her from the blast. Through the streets of London
she was to explore her way unattended. Accustomed to find both beauty
and pleasure in the solitude of her walks, she was to mix in the throngs
of a rude rabble, without protection from insult. But no outward
circumstances could add to the feelings of comfortless dismay with which
she looked forward to the moment, when, ushered through stately
apartments into the presence of self-important greatness, she should
announce herself a beggar. Her courage failed--she paused, and made one
step back towards her home. But she recalled her former thoughts. 'I
have need to be humbled,' said she; and again proceeded on her way.
As she left the little garden that surrounded her lodgings, she
perceived an old man who had taken shelter by one of the pillars of the
gate. He shivered in the cold, which found easy entrance through the
rags that covered him, and famine glared from his hollow eye. His gray
hair streamed on the wind, as he held out the tattered remains of a hat,
and said, 'Please to help me, Lady.--I am very poor.' He spoke in the
dialect of her native land, and the accents went to Laura's heart;--for
Laura was in the land of strangers. She had never been deaf to the
petitions of the poor; for all the poor of Glenalbert were known to her;
and she knew that what she spared from her own comforts, was not made
the minister of vice. Her purse was already in her hand, ere she
remembered that to give was become a crime.
As the thought crossed her, she started like one who had escaped from
sudden danger. 'No, I must not give you money,' said she, and returned
the purse into her pocket, with a pang that taught her the true
bitterness of poverty. 'I am cold and hungry,' said the man still
pleading, and taking encouragement from Laura's relenting eye. 'Hungry!'
repeated Laura, 'then come with me, and I will give you bread;' and she
returned to the house to bestow on the old man the humble fare which she
had before destined to supply her own wants for the day, glad to
purchase by a longer fast the right to feed the hungry.
'In what respect am I better than this poor creature,' said she to
herself, as she returned with the beggar to the gate, 'that I should
offer to him with ease, and even with pleasure, what I myself cannot ask
without pain. Surely I do not rightly believe that we are of the same
dust! The same frail, sinful, perishable, dust!'
But it was in vain that Laura continued to argue with herself. In this
instance she could only do her duty; she could not love it. Her heart
filled, and the tears rose to her eyes. She dashed them away--but they
rose again.
When she found herself in Grosvenor Street, she paused for a moment.
'What if Lady Pelham should deny my request? dismiss me as a bold
intruder? Why, then,' said Laura, raising her head, and again advancing
with a firmer step, 'I shall owe no obligation to a stranger.'
She approached the house--she ascended the steps. Almost breathless she
laid her hand upon the knocker. At that moment she imagined her entrance
through files of insolent domestics into a room filled with gay company.
She anticipated the inquisitive glances--shrunk in fancy from the
supercilious examination; and she again drew back her hand. 'I shall
never have courage to face all this,' thought she. While we hesitate, a
trifle turns the scale. Laura perceived that she had drawn the attention
of a young man on the pavement, who stood gazing on her with familiar
curiosity; and she knocked, almost before she was sensible that she
intended it.
The time appeared immeasurable till the door was opened by a
maid-servant. 'Is Lady Pelham at home?' inquired Laura, taking
encouragement from the sight of one of her own sex. 'No, Ma'am,'
answered the maid, 'my lady is gone to keep Christmas in ----shire, and
will not return for a fortnight.' Laura drew a long breath, as if a
weight had been lifted from her breast; and, suppressing an ejaculation
of 'thank Heaven,' sprung in the lightness of her heart at one skip from
the door to the pavement.