They travelled slowly, and Laura's health seemed improved by the
journey. The reviving breeze of early spring, the grass field exchanging
its winter olive for a bright green, the ploughman's cheerful labour,
the sower whistling to his measured step, the larch trees putting forth
the first and freshest verdure of the woods, the birds springing busy
from the thorn, were objects whose cheering influence would have been
lost on many a querulous child of disappointment. But they were
industriously improved to their proper use by Laura, who acknowledged in
them the kindness of a father, mingling with some cordial drop even the
bitterest cup of sorrow. The grief which had fastened on her heart she
never obtruded on her companion. She behaved always with composure,
sometimes with cheerfulness. She never obliquely reflected upon
Providence, by insinuations of the hardness of her fate, nor indulged in
splenetic dissertations on the inconstancy and treachery of man. Indeed
she never, by the most distant hint, approached the ground of her own
peculiar sorrow. She could not, without the deepest humiliation, reflect
that she had bestowed her love on an object so unworthy. She burnt with
shame at the thought of having been so blinded, so infatuated, by
qualities merely external. While she remembered, with extreme vexation,
that she had suffered Hargrave to triumph in the confession of her
regard, she rejoiced that no other witness existed of her folly--that
she had never breathed the mortifying secret into any other ear.
In this frame of mind, she repelled with calm dignity every attempt
which Lady Pelham made to penetrate her sentiments; and behaved in such
a manner that her aunt could not discover whether her spirits were
affected by languor of body or by distress of mind. Laura, indeed, had
singular skill in the useful art of repulsing without offence; and Lady
Pelham, spite of her curiosity, found it impossible to question her
niece with freedom. Notwithstanding her youth, and her almost dependent
situation, Laura inspired Lady Pelham with involuntary awe. Her
dignified manners, her vigorous understanding, the inflexible integrity
which descended even to the regulation of her forms of speech, extorted
some degree of respectful caution from one not usually over careful of
giving offence. Lady Pelham was herself at times conscious of this
restraint; and her pride was wounded by it. In Laura's absence, she
sometimes thought of it with impatience, and resolved to cast it off at
their next interview; but whenever they met, the unoffending majesty of
Laura effaced her resolution, or awed her from putting it in practice.
She could not always, however, refrain from using that sort of innuendo
which is vulgarly called _talking at_ one's companions; a sort of
rhetoric in great request with those who have more spleen than courage,
and which differs from common scolding only in being a little more
cowardly and a little more provoking. All her Ladyship's dexterity and
perseverance in this warfare were entirely thrown away. Whatever might
be meant, Laura answered to nothing but what met the ear; and, with
perverse simplicity, avoided the particular application of general
propositions. Lady Pelham next tried to coax herself into Laura's
confidence. She redoubled her caresses and professions of affection. She
hinted, not obscurely, that if Laura would explain her wishes, they
would meet with indulgence, and even assistance, from zealous
friendship. Her professions were received with gratitude--her caresses
returned with sensibility; but Laura remained impenetrable. Lady
Pelham's temper could never brook resistance; and she would turn from
Laura in a pet:--the pitiful garb of anger which cannot disguise, and
dares not show itself. But Laura never appeared to bestow the slightest
notice on her caprice, and received her returning smiles with unmoved
complacency. Laura would fain have loved her aunt; but in spite of
herself, her affection took feeble root amidst these alternations of
frost and sunshine. She was weary of hints and insinuations; and felt
not a little pleased that Lady Pelham's fondness for improving and
gardening seemed likely to release her, during most of the hours of
daylight, from this sort of sharpshooting warfare.
It was several days after their arrival at Walbourne before they were
visited by any of the De Courcy family. Undeceived in his hopes of
Laura's regard, Montague was almost reluctant to see her again. Yet
from the hour when he observed Lady Pelham's carriage drive up the
avenue, he had constantly chosen to study at a window which looked
towards Walbourne. Laura, too, often looked towards Norwood, excusing to
herself the apparent neglect of her friends, by supposing that they had
not been informed of her arrival. Lady Pelham was abroad superintending
her gardeners, and Laura employed in her own apartment, when she was
called to receive De Courcy. For the first time since the wreck of all
her hopes, joy flushed the wan cheek of Laura, and fired her eye with
transient lustre. 'I shall hear the voice of friendship once more,' said
she, and she hastened down stairs with more speed than suited her but
half-recovered strength. 'Dear Mr De Courcy,' she cried, joyfully
advancing towards him! De Courcy scarcely ventured to raise his eyes.
Laura held out her hand to him. 'She loves a libertine!' thought he,
and, scarcely touching it, he drew back. With grief and surprise, Laura
read the cold and melancholy expression of his face. Her feeble spirits
failed under so chilling a reception; and while, in a low tremulous
voice, she inquired for Mrs and Miss De Courcy, unbidden tears wandered
down her cheeks. In replying, Montague again turned his eyes towards
her; and, shocked at the paleness and dejection of her altered
countenance, remembered only Laura ill and in sorrow. 'Good Heavens!' he
exclaimed, with a voice of the tenderest interest, 'Laura--Miss
Montreville, you are ill--you are unhappy!' Laura, vexed that her
weakness should thus extort compassion, hastily dried her tears. 'I have
been ill,' said she, 'and am still so weak that any trifle can
discompose me.' Montague's colour rose. 'It is then a mere trifle in her
eyes,' thought he, 'that I should meet her with coldness.' 'And yet,'
continued Laura, reading mortification in his face, 'it is no trifle to
fear that I have given offence where I owe so much gratitude.' 'Talk not
of gratitude, I beseech you,' said De Courcy, 'I have no claim, no wish,
to excite it.' 'Mr De Courcy,' cried Laura, bursting into tears of sad
remembrance, 'has all your considerate friendship, all your soothing
kindness to him who is gone, no claim to the gratitude of his child!'
Montague felt that he stood at this moment upon dangerous ground, and he
gladly availed himself of this opportunity to quit it. He led Laura to
talk of her father, and of the circumstances of his death; and was not
ashamed to mingle sympathetic tears with those which her narrative wrung
from her. In her detail, she barely hinted at the labour by which she
had supported her father; and avoided all allusion to the wants which
she had endured. If any thing could have exalted her in the opinion of
De Courcy, it would have been the humility which sought no praise to
recompense exertion--no admiration to reward self-denial. 'The praise of
man is with her as nothing,' thought he, gazing on her wasted form and
faded features with fonder adoration than ever he had looked on her full
blaze of beauty. 'She has higher hopes and nobler aims. And can such a
creature love a sensualist!--Now, too, when his infamy cannot be unknown
to her! Yet it must be so--she has never named him, even while
describing scenes where he was daily present; and why this silence if he
were indifferent to her? If I durst mention him!--but I cannot give her
pain.'
From this reverie De Courcy was roused by the entrance of Lady Pelham,
whose presence brought to his recollection the compliments and
ceremonial which Laura had driven from his mind. He apologized for
having delayed his visit; and excused himself for having made it alone,
by saying that his sister was absent on a visit to a friend, and that
his mother could not yet venture abroad; but he warmly entreated that
the ladies would wave etiquette, and see Mrs De Courcy at Norwood. Lady
Pelham, excusing herself for the present on the plea of her niece's
indisposition, urged De Courcy to direct his walks often towards
Walbourne; in charity, she said, to Laura, who being unable to take
exercise, spent her forenoons alone, sighing, she supposed, for some
Scotch Strephon. Laura blushed; and Montague took his leave, pondering
whether the blush was deepened by any feeling of consciousness.
'She has a witchcraft in her that no language can express--no heart
withstand--,' said De Courcy, suddenly breaking a long silence, as he
and his mother were sitting tête à tête after dinner. 'Marriage is an
excellent talisman against witchcraft,' said De Courcy, gravely; 'but
Miss Montreville has charms that will delight the more the better they
are known. There is such noble simplicity, such considerate benevolence,
such total absence of vanity and selfishness in her character, that no
woman was ever better fitted to embellish and endear domestic life.'
'Perhaps in time,' pursued De Courcy, 'I might have become not unworthy
of such a companion--But now it matters not,'--and, suppressing a very
bitter sigh, he took up a book which he had of late been reading to his
mother. 'You know, Montague,' said Mrs De Courcy, 'I think differently
from you upon this subject. I am widely mistaken in Miss Montreville, if
she could bestow her preference on a libertine, knowing him to be
such.' Montague took involuntary pleasure in hearing this opinion
repeated; yet he had less faith in it than he usually had in the
opinions of his mother. 'After the emotion which his presence excited,'
returned he,--'an emotion which even these low people--I cannot think of
it with patience,' cried he, tossing away the book, and walking hastily
up and down the room. 'To betray her weakness, her _only_ weakness, to
such observers--to the wretch himself.' 'My dear De Courcy, do you make
no allowance for the exaggeration, the rage for the romantic, so common
to uneducated minds?' 'Wilkins could have no motive for inventing such a
tale,' replied De Courcy; 'and if it had _any_ foundation, there is no
room for doubt.' 'Admitting the truth of all you have heard,' resumed
Mrs De Courcy, 'I see no reason for despairing of success. If I know any
thing of character, Miss Montreville's attachments will ever follow
excellence, real or imaginary. Your worth is real, Montague; and, as
such, it will in time approve itself to her.' 'Ah, Madam, had her
affection been founded even on imaginary excellence, must it not now
have been completely withdrawn--now, when she cannot be unacquainted
with his depravity. Yet she loves him still.--I am sure she loves him.
Why else this guarded silence in regard to him?--Why not mention that
she permitted his daily visits--saw him even on the night when her
father died?' 'Supposing,' returned Mrs De Courcy, 'that her affection
had been founded on imaginary excellence, might not traces of the ruins
remain perceptible, even after the foundation had been taken away? Come,
come, Montague, you are only four-and-twenty, you can afford a few years
patience. If you act prudently, I am convinced that your perseverance
will succeed; but if it should not, I know how you can bear
disappointment. I am certain that your happiness depends not on the
smile of any face, however fair.' 'I am ashamed,' said De Courcy, 'to
confess how much my peace depends upon Laura. You know I have no
ambition--all my joys must be domestic. It is as a husband and a father
that all my wishes must be fulfilled--and all that I have ever fancied
of venerable and endearing, so meet in her, that no other woman can ever
fill her place.' 'That you have no ambition,' replied Mrs De Courcy, 'is
one of the reasons why I join in your wishes. If your happiness had any
connection with splendour, I should have regretted your choice of a
woman without fortune. But all that is necessary for your comfort you
will find in the warmth of heart with which Laura will return your
affection--the soundness of principle with which she will assist you in
your duties. Still, perhaps, you might find these qualities in others,
though not united in an equal degree; but I confess to you, Montague, I
despair of your again meeting with a woman whose dispositions and
pursuits are so congenial to your own;--a woman, whose cultivated mind
and vigorous understanding, may make her the companion of your studies
as well as of your lighter hours.' 'My dear mother,' cried De Courcy,
affectionately grasping her hand, 'it is no wonder that I persecute you
with this subject so near to my heart for you always, and you alone,
support my hopes. Yet should I even at last obtain this treasure, I must
ever regret that I cannot awaken the enthusiasm which belongs only to a
first attachment.' 'Montague,' said Mrs De Courcy, smiling, 'from what
romance have you learnt that sentiment? However I shall not attempt the
labour of combating it, for I prophesy that, before the change can be
necessary, you will learn to be satisfied with being loved with reason.'
'Many a weary day must pass before I can even hope for this cold
preference. Indeed, if her choice is to be decided by mere rational
approbation, why should I hope that it will fall upon me? Yet, if it be
possible, her friendship I will gain--and I would not exchange it for
the love of all her sex.' 'She already esteems you--highly esteems you,'
said Mrs De Courcy; 'and I repeat that I think you need not despair of
animating esteem into a warmer sentiment. But will you profit by my
knowledge of my sex, Montague? You know, the less use we make of our own
wisdom, the fonder we grow of bestowing it on others in the form of
advice! Keep your secret carefully, Montague. Much of your hope depends
on your caution. Pretensions to a pre-engaged heart are very generally
repaid with dislike.' Montague promised attention to his mother's
advice; but added, that he feared he should not long be able to follow
it. 'I am a bad dissembler,' said he, 'and on this subject, it is
alleged, that ladies are eagle-eyed.' 'Miss Montreville, of all women
living, has the least vanity,' returned Mrs De Courcy; 'and you may
always reinforce your caution, by recollecting that the prepossessions
which will certainly be against you as a lover, may be secured in your
favour as a friend.'
The next day found De Courcy again at Walbourne; and again he enjoyed a
long and private interview with Laura. Though their conversation turned
only on indifferent subjects, De Courcy observed the settled melancholy
which had taken possession of her mind. It was no querulous complaining
sorrow, but a calm sadness, banishing all the cheerful illusions of a
life which it still valued as the preparation for a better. To that
better world all her hopes and wishes seemed already fled; and the saint
herself seemed waiting, with resigned desire, for permission to depart.
De Courcy's fears assigned to her melancholy its true cause. He would
have given worlds to know the real state of her sentiments, and to
ascertain how far her attachment had survived the criminality of
Hargrave. But he had not courage to probe the painful wound. He could
not bear to inflict upon Laura even momentary anguish; perhaps he even
feared to know the full extent of those regrets which she lavished on
his rival. With scrupulous delicacy he avoided approaching any subject
which could at all lead her thoughts towards the cause of her sorrow,
and never even seemed to notice the dejection which wounded him to the
soul.
'The spring of her mind is for ever destroyed,' said he to Mrs De
Courcy, 'and yet she retains all her angelic benevolence. She strives to
make pleasing to others, the objects that will never more give pleasure
to her.' Mrs De Courcy expressed affectionate concern, but added, 'I
never knew of a sorrow incurable at nineteen. We must bring Laura to
Norwood, and find employments for her suited to her kindly nature.
Meanwhile do you exert yourself to rouse her; and, till she is well
enough to leave home, I shall freely resign to her all my claims upon
your time.' De Courcy faithfully profited by his mother's permission,
and found almost every day an excuse for visiting Walbourne. Sometimes
he brought a book which he read aloud to the ladies; sometimes he
borrowed one, which he chose to return in person; now he wished to shew
Laura a medal, and now he had some particularly fine flower-seeds for
Lady Pelham. Chemical experiments were an excellent pretext; for they
were seldom completed at a visit, and the examination of one created a
desire for another. Laura was not insensible to his attentions. She
believed that he attributed whatever was visible of her depression to
regrets for her father; and she was by turns ashamed of permitting her
weakness to wear the mask of filial piety, and thankful that she escaped
the degradation of being pitied as a love-sick girl. But love had now no
share in Laura's melancholy. Compassion, strong indeed to a painful
excess, was the only gentle feeling that mingled with the pain of
remembering Hargrave. Who that, in early youth, gives way to the
chilling conviction, that nothing on earth will ever again kindle a wish
or a hope, can look without sadness on the long pilgrimage that spreads
before them? Laura looked upon hers with resigned sadness, and a
thousand times repeated to herself that it was but a point, compared
with what lay beyond. Hopeless of happiness, she yet forced herself to
seek short pleasure in the charms of nature, and the comforts of
affluence; calling them the flowers which a bountiful hand had scattered
in the desert which it was needful that she should tread alone. It was
with some surprise that she found De Courcy's visits produced pleasure
without requiring an effort to be pleased; and with thankfulness she
acknowledged that the enjoyments of the understanding were still open to
her, though those of the heart were for ever withdrawn.
In the meantime her health improved rapidly, and she was able to join in
Lady Pelham's rambles in the shrubbery. To avoid particularity, De
Courcy had often quitted Laura to attend on these excursions; and he
rejoiced when her recovered strength allowed him to gratify, without
imprudence, the inclination which brought him to Walbourne. It often,
however, required all his influence to persuade her to accompany him in
his walks with Lady Pelham. Her Ladyship's curiosity had by no means
subsided. On the contrary, it was rather exasperated by her conviction
that her niece's dejection had not been the consequence of ill health,
since it continued after that plea was removed; and Laura was constantly
tormented with oblique attempts to discover what she was determined
should never be known.
Lady Pelham's attacks were now become the more provoking, because she
could address her hints to a third person, who, not aware of their
tendency, might strengthen them by assent, or unconsciously point them
as they were intended. She contrived to make even her very looks
tormenting, by directing, upon suitable occasions, sly glances of
discovery to Laura's face; where, if they found out nothing, they at
least insinuated that there was something to find out. She was
inimitably dexterous and indefatigable in improving every occasion of
innuendo. Any subject, however irrelevant, furnished her with the
weapons of her warfare. 'Does this flower never open any further?' asked
Laura, shewing one to De Courcy--'No,' said Lady Pelham, pushing in
between them; 'that close thing, wrapped up in itself, never expands in
the genial warmth; it never shews its heart.' 'This should be a precious
book with so many envelopes,' said Laura, untying a parcel.--'More
likely,' said Lady Pelham, with a sneer, 'that what is folded in so many
doublings won't be worth looking into.' 'This day is cold for the
season,' said De Courcy, one day warming himself after his ride.
'Spring colds are the most chilling of any,' said Lady Pelham. 'They are
like a repulsive character in youth; one is not prepared for them. The
frosts of winter are more natural.'
Lady Pelham was not satisfied with using the occasions that presented
themselves; she invented others. When the weather confined her at home,
and she had nothing else to occupy her, she redoubled her industry.
'Bless me, what a sentiment!' she exclaimed, affecting surprise and
consternation, though she had read the book which contained it above
twenty times before.--'"Always live with a friend as if he might one day
become an enemy!" I can conceive nothing more detestable. A cold-hearted
suspicious wretch! Now to a friend I could not help being all open and
ingenuous but a creature capable of having such a thought, could never
have a friend.' Lady Pelham ran on for a while, contrasting her open
ingenuous self, with the odious character which her significant looks
appropriated to her niece, till even the mild Laura was provoked to
reply. Fixing her eyes upon her aunt with calm severity, 'If
Rochefoucault meant,' said she, 'that a friend should be treated with
suspicious confidence, as if he might one day betray, I agree with your
Ladyship in thinking such a sentiment incompatible with friendship; but
we are indebted to him for a useful lesson, if he merely intended to
remind us that it is easy to alienate affection without proceeding to
real injury, and very possible to forfeit esteem without incurring
serious guilt.'--The blood mounted in Lady Pelham's face, but the calm
austerity of Laura's eye imposed silence, and she continued to turn over
the pages of her book, while her niece rose and left the room. She then
tossed it away, and walked angrily up and down, fretting between baulked
curiosity and irritated pride. Finding every other mode of attack
unsuccessful, she once more resolved to have recourse to direct
interrogation. This intention had been frequently formed, and as often
defeated by the dignified reserve of Laura; but now that Lady Pelham
felt her pride concerned, she grew angry enough to be daring. It was so
provoking to be kept in awe by a mere girl, a dependent. Lady Pelham
could at any time meditate herself into a passion; she did so on the
present occasion; and accordingly resolved and executed in the same
breath. She followed Laura to her apartment, determined to insist upon
knowing what affected her spirits. Laura received her with a smile so
gracious, that, spite of herself, her wrath began to evaporate.
Conceiving it proper, however, to maintain an air of importance, she
began with an aspect that announced hostility, and a voice in which
anger increased intended gravity into surliness. 'Miss Montreville, if
you are at leisure I wish to speak with you.' 'Quite at leisure, Madam,'
said Laura in a tone of the most conciliating good humour, and motioning
her aunt to a seat by the fire. 'It is extremely unpleasant,' said Lady
Pelham, tossing her head to escape the steady look of inquiry which
Laura directed towards her; 'It is extremely unpleasant (at least if one
has any degree of sensibility) to live with persons who always seem
unhappy, and are always striving to conceal it, especially when one can
see no cause for their unhappiness.' 'It must indeed be very
distressing,' returned Laura mentally preparing for her defence. 'Then I
wonder,' said Lady Pelham, with increased acrimony of countenance, 'why
you choose to subject me to so disagreeable a situation. It is very
evident that there is something in your mind which you are either afraid
or ashamed to tell.' 'I am sorry,' said Laura, with unmoved
self-possession, 'to be the cause of any uneasiness to your Ladyship. I
do not pretend that my spirits are high, but I should not have thought
their depression unaccountable. The loss of my only parent, and such a
parent! is reason for lasting sorrow; and my own so recent escape from
the jaws of the grave, might impose seriousness upon levity itself.'--'I
have a strong notion, however, that none of these is the true cause of
your penseroso humours. Modern misses don't break their hearts for the
loss of their parents.--I remember you fainted away just when Mrs
Harrington was talking to me of Colonel Hargrave's affair; and I know he
was quartered for a whole year in your neighbourhood.'
Lady Pelham stopped to reconnoitre her niece's face, but without
success; for Laura had let fall her scissors, and was busily seeking
them on the carpet. 'Did you know him?' inquired Lady Pelham. 'I have
seen him,' answered Laura, painfully recollecting how little she had
really known him. 'Did he visit at Glenalbert?' resumed her Ladyship,
recovering her temper, as she thought she had discovered a clue to
Laura's sentiments. 'Yes, Madam, often;' replied Laura, who having, with
a strong effort, resumed her self-possession, again submitted her
countenance to inspection. 'And he was received there as a lover I
presume?' said Lady Pelham, in a tone of interrogation. Laura fixed on
her aunt one of her cool commanding glances. 'Your Ladyship,' returned
she, 'seems so much in earnest, that if the question were a little less
extraordinary, I should almost have thought you expected a serious
answer.' Lady Pelham's eyes were not comfortably placed, and she
removed them by turns to every piece of furniture in the apartment.
Speedily recovering herself, she returned to the charge. 'I think, after
the friendship I have shewn, I have some right to be treated with
confidence.' 'My dear Madam,' said Laura, gratefully pressing Lady
Pelham's hand between her own, 'believe me, I am not forgetful of the
kindness which has afforded me shelter and protection; but there are
some subjects of which no degree of intimacy will permit the discussion.
It is evident, that whatever proposals have hitherto been made to me,
have received such an answer as imposes discretion upon me. No addresses
which I accept shall ever be a secret from your Ladyship--those which I
reject I am not equally entitled to reveal.' 'By which I understand you
to say, that you have rejected Colonel Hargrave?' said Lady Pelham. 'By
no means,' answered Laura, with spirit, 'I was far from saying so. I
merely intended to express my persuasion, that you are too generous to
urge me on a sort of subject where I ought not to be communicative.'
'Very well, Miss Montreville,' cried Lady Pelham, rising in a pet, 'I
comprehend the terms on which you choose that we should live. I may have
the honour of being your companion, but I must not aspire to the rank of
a friend.' 'Indeed, my dear aunt,' said Laura, in a voice irresistibly
soothing, 'I have no earthly wish so strong as to find a real friend in
you: but,' added she, with an insinuating smile, 'I shall never earn the
treasure with tales of luckless love.' 'Well, Madam,' said Lady Pelham,
turning to quit the room, 'I shall take care for the future not to press
myself into your confidence; and as it is not the most delightful thing
in the world to live in the midst of ambuscades, I shall intrude as
little as possible on your more agreeable engagements.' 'Pray, don't
go,' said Laura with perfect good humour, and holding upon her delicate
fingers a cap which she had been making, 'I have finished your cap. Pray
have the goodness to let me try it on.' Female vanity is at least a
_sexagénaire_. Lady Pelham sent a side glance towards the cap. 'Pray
do,' said Laura, taking her hand, and coaxingly pulling her back. 'Make
haste then,' said Lady Pelham, sullenly, 'for I have no time to spare.'
'How becoming,' cried Laura, as she fixed on the cap, 'I never saw you
look so well in any thing. Look at it;' and she held a looking-glass to
her aunt. The ill humour which had resisted the graces of the loveliest
face in the world, could not stand a favourable view of her own; and
Lady Pelham quitted Laura with a gracious compliment to her genius for
millinery, and a declaration, that the cap should be worn the next day,
in honour of a visit from Mr De Courcy and Harriet.
The next day the expected guests dined at Walbourne. As Harriet had just
returned from her excursion, this was the first time that she had seen
Laura, and the meeting gave them mutual pleasure. Harriet seemed in even
more than usual spirits; and Laura, roused by the presence of persons
whom she loved and respected, shewed a cheerfulness more unconstrained
than she had felt since her father's death. Montague, who watched her
assiduously, was enchanted to perceive that she could once more smile
without effort; and, in the joy of his heart, resumed a gaiety which had
of late been foreign to him. But the life of the party was Lady Pelham;
for who could be so delightful, so extravagantly entertaining as Lady
Pelham could be when she pleased? And she did please this afternoon; for
a train of fortunate circumstances had put her into high good humour.
She not only wore the becoming cap; but had hit, without difficulty, the
most becoming mode of putting it on. The cook had done her office in a
manner altogether faultless; and the gardener had brought in such a
sallad! its like had never been seen in the county.
Miss De Courcy was extremely anxious that Laura should pass a few days
at Norwood. But Laura, remembering the coolness which had of late
subsisted between herself and Lady Pelham, and unwilling to postpone her
endeavours to efface every trace of it, objected that she could not quit
her aunt for such a length of time. Harriet immediately proposed to
invite Lady Pelham.--'I'll set about it this instant, while she's in the
vein,' said she. 'This sunshine is too bright to last.' Laura looked
very grave, and Harriet hastened to execute her purpose. There is no
weakness of their neighbours which mankind so instinctively convert to
their own use as vanity. Except to secure Laura's company, Harriet had
not the slightest desire for Lady Pelham's. Yet she did not even name
her friend while she pressed Lady Pelham so earnestly to visit Norwood,
that she succeeded to her wish, and obtained a promise that the ladies
should accompany her and her brother home on the following day.
When at the close of an agreeable evening, Laura attended her friend to
her chamber, Harriet, with more sincerity than politeness, regretted
that Lady Pelham was to join their party to Norwood. 'I wish the old
lady would have allowed you to go without her,' said she. 'She'll
interrupt a thousand things I had to say to you. However, my mother can
keep her in conversation. She'll be so delighted to see you, that she'll
pay the penalty without a grudge.' 'I shall feel the more indebted to
your mother's welcome,' said Laura, with extreme gravity, 'because she
will extend it to a person to whom I owe obligations that cannot be
repaid.' Harriet, blushing, apologized for her freedom; and Laura
accepting the apology with smiles of courtesy and affection, the friends
separated for the night.