Laura's exultation was of short continuance. She had gone but a few
steps ere she reflected that the wants which she had undertaken so
painful a visit to supply were as clamant as ever, and now further than
ever from a chance of relief. Mournfully she pursued her way towards the
print-shop, hopelessly comparing her urgent and probably prolonged
necessities with her confined resources.
The utmost price which she could hope to receive for the drawing she
carried, would be far from sufficient to discharge her debt to the
surgeon; and there seemed now no alternative but to confess her
inability to pay, and to throw herself upon his mercy. To this measure,
however, she was too averse to adopt it without reconsidering every
other possible expedient. She thought of appealing to the friendship of
Mrs Douglas, and of suffering Dr Flint to continue his visits till an
answer from her friend should enable her to close the connection. But
Mrs Douglas's scanty income was taxed to the uttermost by the
maintenance and education of a numerous family, by the liberal charities
of its owners, and by the hospitable spirit, which, banished by
ostentation from more splendid abodes, still lingers by the fireside of
a Scotch clergyman. Laura was sure that Mrs Douglas would supply her
wants at whatever inconvenience to herself; and this very consideration
withheld her from making application to her friend.
Laura had heard and read that ladies in distress had found subsistence
by the sale of their ornaments. But by their example she could not
profit; for her ornaments were few in number and of no value. She wore
indeed a locket, which she had once received from her mother, with a
strong injunction neither to lose nor give it away; but Laura, in her
profound ignorance of the value of trinkets, attached no estimation to
this one, except as the only unnecessary gift which she had ever
received from her mother. 'It contains almost as much gold as a guinea,'
said she, putting her hand to it, 'and a guinea will soon be a great
treasure to me.' Still she determined that nothing short of extremity
should induce her to part with it; but desirous to ascertain the extent
of this last resort, she entered the shop of a jeweller, and presenting
the locket, begged to know its value.
After examining it, the jeweller replied that he believed it might be
worth about five guineas, 'for though,' said he, 'the setting is
antiquated, these emeralds are worth something.'
At the mention of this sum, all Laura's difficulties seemed to vanish.
Besides enabling her to pay the surgeon, it would make an addition to
her little fund. With rigorous abstinence on her part, this little fund,
together with the price of her incessant labour, would pay for her
lodgings, and support her father in happy ignorance of his poverty, till
he was able to remove to Glenalbert. Then, when he was quite well and
quite able to bear it, she would tell him how she had toiled for him,
and he would see that he had not lavished his fondness on a thankless
child.
These thoughts occupied far less time than the recital; and yet, ere
they were passed, Laura had untied the locket from her neck, and put it
into the hands of the jeweller. It was not till she saw it in the hands
of another, that she felt all the pain of parting with it. She asked to
see it once more; as she gazed on it for the last time, tears trickled
from her eyes; but speedily wiping them away, and averting her head, she
restored the locket to its new owner, and taking up the money, departed.
She soon arrived at the print-shop, and finding Wilkins disengaged,
produced her drawing, and asked him to purchase it. Wilkins looked at
it, and inquired what price she had put upon it. 'I am quite
unacquainted with its real value,' answered she, 'but the rapid sale of
my work is at present such an object to me, that I shall willingly make
it as cheap as possible, or allow you to fix your own price.' 'Have you
any more to dispose of, Ma'am?' asked Wilkins. 'I have none finished,
but I could promise you six more in a week if you are inclined to take
them.' 'I think,' said Wilkins, 'after some consideration, I might
venture to take them if you could afford them for half a guinea each.'
'You shall have them,' said Laura, with a sigh; 'but I think
half-a-guinea rather a low--a high, I believe, I mean.--'
Laura did not at this moment exactly know what she meant; for her eyes
had just rested on a gentleman, who, with his back towards her, was
busied in examining a book of caricatures. She thought she could not be
mistaken in the person. Only one form upon earth was endowed with such
symmetry and grace; and that form was Hargrave's. He slightly turned his
head, and Laura was certain.
Though Laura neither screamed nor fainted, this recognition was not made
without extreme emotion. She trembled violently, and a mist spread
before her eyes; but she remembered the apparently wilful desertion of
her lover; and, determined neither to claim his compassion nor gratify
his vanity by any of the airs of a forsaken damsel, she quietly turned
away from him, and leant against the counter to recover strength and
composure.
She was resolved to quit the shop the instant that she was able; and
yet, perhaps she would have become sooner sensible of her recovered
powers of motion, had it not been for a latent hope that the caricatures
would not long continue so very interesting. No one however, accosted
her; and next came the idea that Hargrave had already observed her,
without wishing to claim her acquaintance. Before the mortifying thought
could take a distinct form, Laura was already on her way towards the
door.
'You have left your half-guinea, Ma'am,' said Wilkins, calling after
her; and Laura, half angry at being detained, turned back to fetch it.
At this moment Hargrave's eye fell upon her half averted face. Surprise
and joy illuminating his fine countenance, 'Laura!' he exclaimed, 'is it
possible! have I at last found you?' and springing forward, he clasped
her to his breast, regardless of the inquisitive looks and significant
smiles of the spectators of his transports. But to the scrutiny of
strangers, to the caresses of Hargrave, even to the indecorum of her
situation, poor Laura was insensible. Weakened by the fatigue and
emotion of the two preceding days, overcome by the sudden conviction
that she had not been wilfully neglected, her head sunk upon the
shoulder of Hargrave, and she lost all consciousness.
When Laura recovered, she found herself in a little parlour adjoining to
the shop, with no attendant but Hargrave, who still supported her in his
arms. Her first thought was vexation at her own ill-timed sensibility;
her next, a resolution to make no further forfeiture of her
respectability, but rather, by the most stoical composure, to regain
what she had lost. For this purpose, she soon disengaged herself from
her perilous support, and unwilling to speak till secure of maintaining
her firmness, she averted her head, and returned all Hargrave's
raptures of love and joy with provoking silence.
As soon as she had completely recovered her self-possession, she rose,
and apologizing for the trouble she had occasioned him, said she would
return home. Hargrave eagerly begged permission to accompany her, saying
that his carriage was in waiting, and would convey them. Laura, with
cold politeness, declined his offer. Though a little piqued by her
manner, Hargrave triumphed in the idea that he retained all his former
influence. 'My bewitching Laura,' said he, taking her hand, 'I beseech
you to lay aside this ill-timed coquetry. After so sweet, so interesting
a proof, that you still allow me some power over your feelings, must I
accuse you of an affectation of coldness?' 'No, sir,' said Laura
indignantly, 'rather of a momentary weakness, for which I despise
myself.'
The lover could not indeed have chosen a more unfavourable moment to
express his exultation; for Laura's feelings of humiliation and
self-reproach were just then raised to their height, by her perceiving
the faces of two of the shop-boys peeping through the glass door with an
aspect of roguish curiosity. Conscious of her inability to walk home,
and feeling her situation quite intolerable, she called to one of the
little spies, and begged that he would instantly procure her a hackney
coach.
Hargrave vehemently remonstrated against this disorder. 'Why this unkind
haste?' said he. 'Surely after so tedious, so tormenting an absence, you
need not grudge me a few short moments.' Laura thought he was probably
himself to blame for the absence of which he complained, and coldly
answering, 'I have already been detained too long,' was about to quit
the room, when Hargrave, impatiently seizing her hand, exclaimed,
'Unfeeling Laura! does that relentless pride never slumber? Have I
followed you from Scotland, and sought you for three anxious months, to
be met without one kind word, one pitying look!'
'Followed me!' repeated Laura with surprise.
'Yes, upon my life, my journey hither had no other object. After you so
cruelly left me, without warning or farewell, how could I endure to
exist in the place which you once made delightful to me. Indeed I could
not bear it. I resolved to pursue you wherever you went, to breathe at
least the same air with you, sometimes to feast my fond eyes with that
form, beyond imagination lovely--perhaps to win that beguiling smile
which no heart can withstand. The barbarous caution of Mrs Douglas in
refusing me your address, has caused the disappointment of all my
hopes.'
Hargrave had egregiously mistaken the road to Laura's favour when he
threw a reflection upon her friend. 'Mrs Douglas certainly acted right,'
said she. 'I have equal confidence in her prudence and in her
friendship.' 'Probably then,' said Hargrave, reddening with vexation,
'this system of torture originated with you. It was at your desire that
your friend withstood all my entreaties.' 'No,' answered Laura, 'I
cannot claim the merit of so much forethought. I certainly did not
expect the honour that you are pleased to say you have done me,
especially when you were doubtful both of my abode and of your own
reception.'
'Insulting girl,' cried Hargrave, 'you know too well, that, however
received, still I must follow you. And, but for a series of the most
tormenting accidents, I should have defeated the caution of your
cold-hearted favourite. At the Perth post-office I discovered that your
letters were addressed to the care of Mr Baynard; and the very hour that
I reached London, I flew to make inquiries after you. I found that Mr
Baynard's house was shut up, and that he was gone in bad health to
Richmond. I followed him, and was told that he was too ill to be spoken
with, that none of the servants knew your abode, as the footman who used
to carry messages to you had been dismissed, and that your letters were
now left at Mr Baynard's chambers in town. Thither I went, and learnt
that, ever since your removal to Richmond, you had yourself sent for
your letters, and that, of course, the clerks were entirely ignorant of
your residence. Imagine my disappointment. The people, however, promised
to make inquiries of your messenger, and to let me know where you might
be found; and day after day did I haunt them, the sport of vain hope and
bitter disappointment. No other letter ever came for you, nor did you
ever inquire for any.'
'After Mr Baynard's removal to Richmond,' said Laura, 'I directed Mrs
Douglas to address her letters to our lodgings.'
'Ah Laura, think what anxieties, what wretchedness I have suffered in my
fruitless search! Yet you meet me only to drive me coldly from your
presence. Once you said that you pardoned the folly--the madness that
offended you; but too well I see that you deceived yourself or me--that
no attachment, no devotion can purchase your forgiveness.' 'Indeed,'
said Laura, melted by the proof which she had received of her lover's
affection, yet fearful of forfeiting her caution, 'I am incapable of
harbouring enmity against the worst of human beings, and--'
'Enmity!' interrupted Hargrave, 'Heavens, what a word!' 'I mean,' said
Laura, faltering, 'that I am not insensible to the regard--'
'Madam, the coach is at the door,' said the shop-boy, again peeping
slily into the room; and Laura, hastily bidding Hargrave good morning,
walked towards the carriage. Having herself given the coachman his
directions, she suffered Hargrave to hand her in, giving him a slight
bow in token of dismissal. He continued, however, to stand for some
moments with his foot upon the step, waiting for a look of permission to
accompany her; but, receiving none, he sprung into the seat by her side,
and called to the man to drive on. Laura offended at his boldness, gave
him a very ungracious look, and drew back in silence, 'I see you think
me presumptuous,' said he, 'but, just found, how can I consent to leave
you? Oh Laura, if you knew what I have suffered from an absence that
seemed endless! Not for worlds would I endure such another.'
'The stipulated two years are still far from a close,' said Laura
coldly; 'and, till they are ended, our intercourse cannot be too
slight.'
'Surely,' cried Hargrave, 'when you fixed this lingering probation, you
did not mean to banish me from your presence for two years!' Laura could
not with truth aver that such a banishment had been her intention. 'I
believe,' said she, suppressing a sigh, 'that would have been my wisest
meaning.' 'I would sooner die,' cried Hargrave, vehemently. 'Oh, had I
sooner found you,' added he, a dark expression which Laura could not
define clouding his countenance, 'what wretchedness would have been
spared! But now that we have at last met,' continued he, his eyes again
sparkling with love and hope, 'I will haunt you, cling to you,
supplicate you, till I melt you to a passion as fervent as my own,'
While he spoke he dropped upon his knee by her side, and drew his arm
passionately round her. Time had been, that Laura, trembling with
irrepressible emotion, would have withdrawn from the embrace,
reproaching herself for sensations from which she imagined that the more
spotless heart of her lover was free, and hating herself for being
unable to receive as a sister, the caresses of a fondness pure as a
brother's love. But Hargrave had himself torn the veil from her eyes;
and shrinking from him as if a serpent had crossed her path, she cast on
him a look that struck like an ice-bolt on the glowing heart of
Hargrave. 'Just Heaven!' he cried, starting up with a convulsive
shudder, 'this is abhorrence! Why, why have you deceived me with a
false show of sensibility? Speak it at once,' said he, wildly grasping
her arm; 'say that you detest me, and tell me too who has dared to
supplant me in a heart once wholly mine.'
'Be calm, I implore you,' said Laura, terrified at his violence, 'no one
has supplanted you. I am, I ever shall be, whatever you deserve to find
me.'
Laura's soothing voice, her insinuating look, retained all their wonted
power to calm the fierce passions of her lover. 'Oh I shall never
deserve you,' said he in a tone of wretchedness, while his face was
again crossed by an expression of anguish, which the unsuspecting Laura
attributed to remorse for his former treatment of herself.
The carriage at this moment stopped, and anxious to calm his spirits at
parting, Laura smiled kindly upon him, and said, 'Be ever thus humble in
your opinion of your own merits, ever thus partial in your estimate of
mine, and then,' added she, the tears trembling in her lovely eyes, 'we
shall meet again in happier circumstances.' 'You must not, shall not
leave me thus,' cried Hargrave impatiently, 'I will not quit this spot,
till you have consented to see me again.' 'Do not ask it,' replied
Laura. 'A long, long time must elapse, much virtuous exertion must be
undergone, ere I dare receive you with other than this coldness, which
appears to be so painful to you. Why then sport with your own feelings
and with mine?' 'Ah Laura,' said Hargrave in a voice of supplication,
'use me as you will, only suffer me to see you.' Moved with the
imploring tone of her lover, Laura turned towards him that she might
soften by her manner the meditated refusal; but, in an evil hour for her
resolution, she met the fine eyes of Hargrave suffused with tears, and,
wholly unable to utter what she intended, she remained silent. Hargrave
was instantly sensible of his advantage, and willing to assist her
acquiescence by putting his request into a less exceptionable form, he
said, 'I ask not even for your notice, suffer me but to visit your
father.' 'My father has been very ill,' returned Laura, who, unknown to
herself, rejoiced to find an excuse for her concession, 'and it may give
_him_ pleasure to see you; but I can claim no share in the honour of
your visits.' Hargrave, delighted with his success, rapturously thanked
her for her condescension; and springing from the carriage, led her, but
half satisfied with her own conduct, into the house.
She ushered him into the parlour, and before he had time to detain her,
glided away to acquaint her father with his visit. She found the Captain
wrapt in the same listless melancholy in which she had left him; the
book which she had meant to entertain him, used only as a rest for his
arm. Laura was now beset with her old difficulty. She had not yet learnt
to speak of Hargrave without sensible confusion; and to utter his name
while any eye was fixed upon her face, required an effort which no
common circumstances could have tempted her to make. She therefore took
refuge behind her father's chair, before she began her partial relation
of her morning's adventure.
'And is he now in the house,' cried Montreville, with an animation which
he had long laid aside. 'I rejoice to hear it. Return to him
immediately, my love. I will see him in a few minutes.' 'As soon as you
choose to receive him,' said Laura; 'I shall carry your commands. I
shall remain in the dressing-room.' 'For shame, Laura!' returned
Montreville. 'I thought you had been above these silly airs of conquest.
Colonel Hargrave's rejected passion gives you no right to refuse him the
politeness due to all your father's guests.' 'Certainly not, Sir,
but'--she stopped, hesitating--'however,' added she, 'since _you_ wish
it, I will go.'
It was not without embarrassment that Laura returned to her lover; to
offer him another tête à tête seemed so like soliciting a renewal of his
ardours. In this idea she was stopping at the parlour door, collecting
her courage, and meditating a speech decorously repulsive, when
Hargrave, who had been listening for her approach, impatiently stepped
out to look for her, and in a moment spoiled all her concerted oratory,
by taking her hand and leading her into the room.
Though Hargrave could at any time take Laura's feelings by surprise, an
instant was sufficient to restore her self-possession; and withdrawing
her hand, she said, 'In a few minutes, Sir, my father will be glad to
see you, and at his desire I attend you till he can have that honour.'
'Bless him for the delay!' cried Hargrave, 'I have a thousand things to
say to you.' 'And I, Sir,' said Laura, solemnly, 'have one thing to say
to you, of more importance to me, probably, than all the thousand.'
Hargrave bit his lip; and Laura proceeded, her colour, as painful
recollection rose, fading from the crimson that had newly flushed it, to
the paleness of anguish. 'Six months ago,' said she, speaking with an
effort that rendered her words scarcely articulate--'Six months ago you
made me a promise. Judge of my anxiety that you should keep it, when to
secure its fulfilment I can call up a subject so revolting--so
dreadful.' She paused--a cold shudder running through her limbs: but
Hargrave, abashed and disconcerted, gave her no interruption, and
ventured not even to raise his eyes from the ground. 'My father,' she
continued, 'is no longer able to avenge his child;--the bare mention of
her wrongs would destroy him. If then you value my peace--if you dread
my detestation--let no circumstance seduce, no accident surprise from
you this hateful secret.'
While she spoke, the blushes which had deserted her cheek were
transferred to that of Hargrave; for though, to his own conscience, he
had palliated his former outrage till it appeared a very venial
trespass, he was not proof against the unaffected horror with which it
had inspired the virtuous Laura. Throwing himself at her feet, and
hiding his face in her gown, he bitterly, and for the moment sincerely,
bewailed his offence, and vowed to devote his life to its expiation.
Then, starting up, he struck his hand wildly upon his forehead, and
exclaimed, 'Madman that I have been! Oh, Laura, thy heavenly purity
makes me the veriest wretch. No--thou canst never pardon me!'
The innocent Laura, who little suspected all his causes of
self-reproach, wept tears of joy over his repentance, and, in a voice
full of tenderness, said, 'Indeed I have myself too many faults to be
unrelenting. Contrition and amendment are all that Heaven requires--why
should I ask more?' Hargrave saw that she attributed all his agitation
to remorse for his conduct towards herself; but the effects of her
mistake were too delightful to suffer him to undeceive her; and
perceiving at once that he had found the master-spring of all her
tenderness, he overpowered her with such vows, protestations, and
entreaties, that, before their conference was interrupted, he had,
amidst tremors, blushes, and hesitation, which spoke a thousand times
more than her words, wrung from her a confession that she felt a more
than friendly interest in the issue of his probation.
Indeed Montreville was in no haste to break in upon their dialogue. That
any woman should have refused the hand of the handsome--the
insinuating--the gallant Colonel Hargrave, had always appeared to him
little less than miraculous. He had been told, that ladies sometimes
rejected what they did not mean to relinquish; and though he could
scarcely believe his daughter capable of such childish coquetry, he was
not without faith in a maxim, which, it must be confessed, receives
sanction from experience, namely, that in all cases of feminine
obduracy, perseverance is an infallible recipé. This recipé, he had no
doubt, was now to be tried upon Laura; and he fervently wished that it
might be with success. Though he was too affectionate a father to form
on this subject a wish at variance with his daughter's happiness, he had
never been insensible to the desire of seeing her brow graced by a
coronet. But now more important considerations made him truly anxious to
consign her to the guardianship of a man of honour.
The unfortunate transaction of the annuity would, in the event of his
death, leave her utterly destitute. That event, he imagined, was fast
approaching; and with many a bitter pang he remembered that he had
neither friend nor relative with whom he could entrust his orphan child.
His parents had long been dead; his only surviving brother, a
fox-hunting squire of small fortune, shared his table and bed with a
person who had stooped to these degrading honours from the more
reputable situation of an innocent dairy-maid. With Lady Harriet's
relations (for friends she had none), Montreville had never maintained
any intercourse. They had affected to resent his intrusion into the
family, and he had not been industrious to conciliate their favour.
Except himself, therefore, Laura had no natural protector; and this
circumstance made him tenfold more anxious that she should recal her
decision in regard to Hargrave.
He had no doubt that the present visit was intended for Laura; and he
suffered as long a time to elapse before he claimed any share in it, as
common politeness would allow. He had meant to receive the Colonel in
his own apartment, but an inclination to observe the conduct of the
lovers, induced him to make an effort to join them in the parlour, where
he with pleasure discovered by the countenances of both, that their
conversation had been mutually interesting. Hargrave instantly recovered
himself, and paid his compliments with his accustomed grace; but Laura,
by no means prepared to stand inspection, disappeared the moment her
father entered the room.
This was the first time that the gentlemen had met, since the day when
Montreville had granted his fruitless sanction to the Colonel's suit.
Delicacy prevented the father from touching upon the subject, and it was
equally avoided by Hargrave, who had not yet determined in what light to
represent his repulse. However, as it completely occupied the minds of
both, the conversation, which turned on topics merely indifferent, was
carried on with little spirit on either side, and was soon closed by
Hargrave's taking leave, after begging permission to repeat his visit.
Colonel Hargrave had promised to spend that evening with the most
beautiful woman in London; but the unexpected rencounter of the
morning, left him in no humour to fulfil his engagement. He had found
his Laura,--his lovely, his innocent Laura,--the object of his only
serious passion,--the only woman whose empire reached beyond his senses.
He had found her cautious, reserved, severe; yet feeling, constant, and
tender. He remembered the overwhelming joy which made her sink fainting
on his bosom; called to mind her ill-suppressed tears--her smothered
sighs--her unbidden blushes; and a thousand times assured himself that
he was passionately beloved. He triumphed the more in the proofs of her
affection, because they were not only involuntary but reluctant; and,
seen through the flattering medium of gratified pride, her charms
appeared more than ever enchanting. On these charms he had formerly
suffered his imagination to dwell, till to appropriate them seemed to
him almost the chief end of existence; and, though in absence his frenzy
had a little intermitted, his interview with Laura roused it again to
double violence.
No passion of Hargrave's soul (and all his passions were of intense
force), had ever known restraint, or control, or even delay of
gratification, excepting only this, the strongest that had ever governed
him. And must he now pine for eighteen lingering months, ere he attained
the object of such ardent wishes? Must he submit, for a time that seemed
endless, to the tyranny of this intolerable passion,--see the woman on
whom he doated receive his protestations with distrust, and spite of her
affection, shrink from his caresses with horror? No!--he vowed that if
there were persuasion in man, or frailty in woman, he would shorten the
period of his trial,--that he would employ for this purpose all the
power which he possessed over Laura's heart, and, if that failed, that
he would even have recourse to the authority of the father.
But he had yet a stronger motive than the impetuosity of his passions
for striving to obtain immediate possession of his treasure. He was
conscious that there was a tale to tell, which, once known, (and it
could not long be concealed), would shake his hopes to the foundation.
But on this subject he could not now dwell without disgust, and he
turned from it to the more inviting contemplation of Laura's beauty and
Laura's love; and with his head and his heart, every nerve, every pulse
full of Laura, he retired to pursue in his dreams, the fair visions that
had occupied his waking thoughts.
While he was thus wilfully surrendering himself to the dominion of his
frenzy, Laura, the self-denied Laura, was endeavouring, though it must
be owned without distinguished success, to silence the pleadings of a
heart as warm, though better regulated, by attending to the humble
duties of the hour.
When she quitted Hargrave, she had retired to offer up her fervent
thanks to Heaven, that he was become sensible of the enormity of his
former conduct. Earnestly did she pray, that, though earth should never
witness their union, they might be permitted together to join a nobler
society--animated by yet purer love--bound by yet holier ties. She next
reconsidered her own behaviour towards Hargrave; and, though vexed at
the momentary desertion of her self-command, saw, upon the whole, little
cause to reproach herself, since her weakness had been merely that of
body, to which the will gave no consent. She resolved to be guardedly
cautious in her future demeanour towards him; and since the issue of his
probation was doubtful, since its close was at all events distant, to
forfeit the enjoyment of her lover's company, rather than, by remaining
in the room during his visits, appear to consider them as meant for
herself.
As soon as Hargrave was gone, Montreville returned to his chamber; and
there Laura ordered his small but delicate repast to be served, excusing
herself from partaking of it, by saying that she could dine more
conveniently in the parlour. Having in the morning bestowed on the
beggar the meagre fare that should have supplied her own wants, she
employed the time of her father's meal, in the labour which was to
purchase him another; pondering meanwhile on the probability that he
would again enter on the discussion of Hargrave's pretensions. To this
subject she felt unconquerable repugnance; and though she knew that it
must at last be canvassed, and that she must at last assign a reason for
her conduct, she would fain have put off the evil hour.
She delayed her evening visit to her father, till he grew impatient for
it, and sent for her to his apartment. The moment she entered the room,
he began, as she had anticipated, to inquire into the particulars of her
interview with Hargrave. The language of Laura's reply was not very
perspicuous; the manner of it was more intelligible: and Montreville,
instantly comprehended the nature of her conference with the Colonel.
'He has then given you an opportunity of repairing your former
rashness,' said Montreville, with eagerness,--'and your answer?'
'Colonel Hargrave had his answer long ago, Sir', replied Laura,
trembling at this exordium. Montreville sighed heavily, and, fixing his
eyes mournfully upon her, remained silent. At last, affectionately
taking her hand, he said, 'My dear child, the time has been, when even
your caprices on this subject were sacred with your father. While I had
a shelter, however humble--an independence, however small, to offer you,
your bare inclination determined mine. But now your situation is
changed--fatally changed; and no trivial reasons would excuse me for
permitting your rejection of an alliance so unexceptionable, so
splendid. Tell me, then, explicitly, what are your objections to Colonel
Hargrave?'
Laura remained silent, for she knew not how to frame her reply. 'Is it
possible that he can be personally disagreeable to you?' continued
Montreville. 'Disagreeable!' exclaimed Laura, thrown off her guard by
astonishment. 'Colonel Hargrave is one whom any woman might--whom no
woman could know without--' 'Without what?' said Montreville, with a
delighted smile. But Laura, shocked at the extent of her own admission,
covered her face with her hands, and almost in tears, made no reply.
'Well, my love,' said Montreville, more cheerfully than he had spoken
for many a day. 'I can interpret all this, and will not persecute you.
But you must still suffer me to ask what strange reasons could induce
you to reject wealth and title, offered by a man not absolutely
_disagreeable_?' Laura strove to recollect herself, and deep crimson
dying her beautiful face and neck, she said without venturing to lift
her eyes, 'You yourself have told me, Sir, that Colonel Hargrave is a
man of gallantry, and, believe me, with such a man I should be most
miserable.'
'Come, come, Laura,' said Montreville, putting his arm around her,
'confess, that some little fit of jealousy made you answer Hargrave
unkindly at first, and that now a little female pride, or the obstinacy
of which we used to accuse you fifteen years ago, makes you unwilling to
retract.'
'No, indeed,' returned Laura, with emotion, 'Colonel Hargrave has never
given me cause to be jealous of his affection. But jealousy would feebly
express the anguish with which his wife would behold his vices,
degrading him in the eyes of men, and making him vile in the sight of
Heaven.'
'My love,' said Montreville, 'your simplicity and ignorance of the world
make you attach far too great importance to Hargrave's little
irregularities. I am persuaded that a wife whom he loved would have no
cause to complain of them.'
'She would at least have no _right_ to complain,' returned Laura, 'if,
knowing them, she chose to make the hazardous experiment.'
'But I am certain,' said Montreville, 'that a passion such as he
evidently feels for you, would ensure his perfect reformation; and that
a heart so warm as Hargrave's, would readily acknowledge all the claims
upon a husband's and a father's love.'
Laura held down her head, and, for a moment, surrendered her fancy to
prospects, rainbow-like, bright but unreal. Spite of the dictates of
sober sense, the vision was cheering; and a smile dimpled her cheek
while she said, 'But since this reformation is so easy and so certain,
would it be a grievous delay to wait for its appearance.'
'Ah Laura!' Montreville began, 'this is no time for--' 'Nay, now,'
interrupted Laura, sportively laying her hand upon his mouth,
'positively I will be no more lectured tonight. Besides I have got a new
book for you from the library, and the people insisted upon having it
returned to-morrow.' 'You are a spoiled girl,' said Montreville, fondly
caressing her, and he dropped the subject with the less reluctance,
because he believed that his wishes, aided as he perceived they were, by
an advocate in Laura's own breast, were in a fair train for
accomplishment. He little knew how feeble was the influence of
inclination over the decisions of her self-controlling spirit.
To prevent him from returning to the topic he had quitted, she read
aloud to him till his hour of rest; and then retired to her chamber to
labour as formerly, till the morning was far advanced.