Norwood had appeared to Laura to be little more than a mile distant from
Walbourne. The swellings of the ground had deceived her. It was more
than twice that distance. As the carriage approached Norwood, Laura
perceived traces of a noble park, changed from its former purpose to one
more useful, though less magnificent. The corn fields were intermixed by
venerable avenues, and studded with gigantic elm and oak. Through one of
these avenues, straight as a dart, and darkened by the woods that closed
over it, the party drove up to a massive gate. In the door of a turreted
lodge, overgrown with hornbeam, stood the grey-haired porter, waiting
their arrival. He threw open the gate with one hand, and respectfully
stood with his hat in the other, while De Courcy checked his horse to
inquire for the old man's family.
The avenue now quitted its formality, to wind along the bank of a rapid
stream, till the woods suddenly opening to the right, discovered the
lawn, green as an emerald, and kept with a neatness truly English. A
variety of flowering shrubs were scattered over it, and here and there a
lofty forest-tree threw its quivering shadow; while tall spruce-firs,
their branches descending to the ground, formed a contrast to its
verdure. At the extremity of this lawn stood Norwood, a large
castellated building; and, while Laura looked on it, she imagined the
interior dull with baronial magnificence.
The carriage drove up to the door, and Laura could not helping smiling
at the cordial welcome that seemed to await De Courcy. The great
Newfoundland dog that lay upon the steps leapt upon him, and expressed
his joy by a hundred clumsy gambols; while John, the old servant whom
she had seen in Audley Street, busied himself about his master, with an
officiousness that evidently came from the heart, leaving Lady Pelham's
attendants to wait upon their mistress and her companions. De Courcy,
giving his hand to Lady Pelham, conducted her, followed by Harriet and
Laura, into the room where Mrs De Courcy was sitting; and the next
moment his heart throbbed with pleasure, while he saw the beloved of his
soul locked in his mother's arms.
When the first joy of the meeting was over, Laura had leisure to observe
the interior of the mansion, which differed not less from her
expectations than from any thing she had before seen. Though it was
equally remote from the humble simplicity of her cottage of Glenalbert,
and the gaudiness of Lady Pelham's more modern abode, she saw nothing of
the gloomy splendour which she had fancied; every thing breathed comfort
and repose. The furniture, though not without magnificence, was
unadorned and substantial, grandeur holding the second place to
usefulness. The marble hall through which she had entered, was almost
covered with matting. In the spacious room in which she was sitting, the
little Turkey carpet of our forefathers had given place to one of
homelier grain but far larger dimensions. The apartment was liberally
stored with couches, footstools, and elbow chairs. A harp occupied one
window, a piano-forte stood near it; many books were scattered about, in
bindings which shewed they were not meant for ornament: and in the
chimney blazed a fire which would have done credit to the days of
Elizabeth.
The dinner hour was four; and punctual to a moment the dinner appeared,
plain, neat, and substantial. It was served without tumult, partaken of
with appetite, and enlivened by general hilarity, and good will. When
the ladies rose from table, Harriet offered to conduct Laura through the
other apartments, which exactly corresponded with those she had seen.
The library was spacious; and besides an excellent collection of books,
contained globes, astronomical instruments, and cabinets of minerals and
coins. A smaller room which opened from it, used as De Courcy's
laboratory, was filled with chemical and mechanical apparatus. Comfort,
neatness, and peace reigned everywhere, and Norwood seemed a fit retreat
for literary leisure and easy hospitality.
Between music, work, and conversation, the evening passed away
cheerfully; nor did Laura mark its flight till the great house clock
struck nine. The conversation suddenly paused; Harriet laid aside her
work; Mrs De Courcy's countenance assumed a pleasing seriousness; and
Montague, quitting his place by Laura's side, seated himself in a
patriarchal-looking chair at the upper end of the room. Presently John
entered, followed by all the domestics of the family. He placed before
his master a reading desk and a large bible, and then sat down at a
distance with his fellow servants.
With a manner serious and earnest, as one impressed with a just sense of
their importance, Montague read a portion of the Holy Scriptures. He
closed the volume; and all present sunk upon their knees. In plain but
solemn language, he offered a petition in the name of all, that all
might be endowed with the graces of the Christian spirit. In the name of
all he confessed that they were unworthy of the blessings they implored.
In the name of all, he gave thanks for the means of improvement, and for
the hopes of glory. He next, more particularly, besought a blessing on
the circumstances of their several conditions. Among the joyous faces of
this happy household, Laura had observed one alone clouded with sorrow.
It was that of a young modest-looking girl in deep mourning, whose
audible sobs attested that she was the subject of a prayer which
commended an orphan to the Father of the fatherless. The worship was
closed; the servants withdrew. A silence of a few moments ensued; and
Laura could not help gazing with delight, not unmingled with awe, on the
traces of serene benevolence and manly piety, which lingered on the
countenance of De Courcy.
'Happy Harriet,' said she, when she was alone with her friend, 'Would
that I had been your sister!' Harriet laughed. 'You need not laugh, my
dear,' continued Laura, with most unembarrassed simplicity, 'I did not
mean your brother's wife, but his sister, and Mrs De Courcy's daughter.'
Though Miss De Courcy was much less in Montague's confidence than her
mother, she was not ignorant of his preference for Laura; but Mrs De
Courcy had so strongly cautioned her against even hinting this
preference to the object of it, that, though she but half guessed the
reasons of her mother's injunction, she was afraid to disobey. That
Laura was even acquainted with Hargrave was unknown to Harriet; for De
Courcy was almost as tenacious of Laura's secret as she herself was, and
would as soon have thought of giving up his own heart to the frolics of
a kitten, as of exposing that of Laura to the _badinage_ of his sister.
This kind precaution left Laura perfectly at her ease with Harriet, an
ease which would quickly have vanished, had she known her to be
acquainted with her humiliating story.
The young ladies had rambled over half the grounds of Norwood before the
family had assembled at a cheerful breakfast; and as soon as it was
ended, Harriet proposed that Laura should assist her with her advice in
composing a water-colour drawing from one of her own pictures. 'We'll
leave Lady Pelham and my mother in possession of the drawing-room,' said
she, 'for the pictures all hang in the library. I wanted them put up in
the sitting-room, but Montague would have them where they are--and so he
carried his point, for mamma humours him in everything.' 'Perhaps,'
returned Laura, 'Mrs De Courcy thinks that he has some right to dictate
in his own house.' 'Well, that's true,' cried Harriet. 'I protest I had
forgotten that this house was not my mother's.'
The picture which Miss De Courcy had fixed upon, was that of Leonidas,
and Laura would far rather have been excused from interference; yet, as
she could not with propriety escape, nothing remained but to summon her
composure, and to study anew this resemblance of her unworthy lover. She
took her work, and began quietly to superintend Harriet's progress.
Their employments did not interrupt conversation; and though Laura's was
at first a little embarrassed, she soon recovered her ease. 'Do touch
the outline of the mouth for me,' said Harriet; 'I can't hit the
resemblance at all.' Laura excused herself, saying, that since her
fever, her hand had been unsteady. 'Oh, here's Montague; he'll do it.
Come hither Montague, and sketch a much prettier mouth than your own.'
De Courcy, who had approached his sister before he understood her
request, shrunk back. She could scarcely have proposed an employment
less agreeable to him; and he was hastily going to refuse it, when,
happening to meet the eye of Laura, in the dread that she should detect
his consciousness, he snatched the pencil and began.
Harriet having thus transferred her work, quickly found out other
occupation. 'Oh, by the by, my dear,' said she to Laura, 'your Leonidas
is the greatest likeness in the world of my old beau, Colonel Hargrave.
Bless me, how she blushes! Ah! I see Hargrave has not been so long in
Scotland for nothing!' 'Take away that thing, Harriet,' cried De Courcy,
quite thrown off his guard, and pushing the drawing from him. 'I see no
reason why _everybody_ should do for you what you ought to be doing for
yourself.' 'Hey-day, what ails the man,' cried Harriet, looking after
her brother to the window, whither he had retreated. 'You need not be so
angry at me for making Laura blush. I dare say she likes it; it becomes
her so well.' 'If you are accustomed to say such strange things to your
friends, my dear Harriet,' said Laura, 'the blushes you raise will not
always have that advantage. The colourings of anger are not generally
becoming.' 'So, with that meek face of yours, you would have me believe
that it is downright rage that has made you all scarlet. No, no, my
dear--there is rage, and there is the colour of it, too, (pointing to
Montague's face); and if you'll put your two heads together before the
glass, you will see whether the colours are a bit alike!' Montague,
recovering his temper, tried to laugh, and succeeded very ill. 'I don't
wonder you laugh,' said Laura, not venturing to look round to him, 'at
hearing Harriet, on such slender grounds, exalt such a matter-of-fact
person as myself, into the heroine of a romance. But, to spare your
imagination, Harriet, I will tell you, that your old beau, as you call
him, being the handsomest man I had seen, I saw no harm in making use of
his beauty in my picture.' 'Well, I protest,' cried Harriet, 'it was
quite by accident I thought of mentioning it, for I had not the least
idea that ever you had seen Hargrave.' 'And, now that you have made that
mighty discovery,' said De Courcy, endeavouring to appear unconcerned,
'I suppose you'll poison Miss Montreville; for you know you were so in
love with Hargrave, that I was obliged to put a rail round the fish-pond
to prevent _felo de se_.' 'In love,' said Harriet, yawning, 'ay, so I
was indeed, for three whole days when I had nothing else to do. But only
think of the sly girl never even to name him to me! Well! well! I shall
worm it all out of her when we are by ourselves, though she won't blab
before you.' 'I will give you an opportunity this moment,' said De
Courcy, who, quite unable to bear the subject any longer, determined to
make his mother interrupt it, and immediately went in search of her. In
a few minutes Mrs De Courcy appeared, and dismissed her unwilling
daughter to escort Lady Pelham to the flower-garden, while Laura
preferred remaining at home.
At the next opportunity, Harriet executed her threat, in so far as
depended upon her. She did what she could to rally Laura out of her
secret, but she totally failed of success. Laura, now upon her guard,
not only evaded making any discovery, but, by the easy indifference of
her answers, convinced Harriet that there was nothing to discover.
Indeed, her suspicion was merely a transient thought, arising from
Laura's confusion at her sudden attack, and scarcely outlived the moment
that gave it birth; though the emotion which Montague had shewn,
confirmed his sister in the belief of his attachment to Laura.
The subject thus entirely dropped which Laura could never approach
without pain, the time of her visit to Norwood glided away in peace and
comfort, every day lessening the dejection which she had believed, nay
almost wished, would follow her to the grave. Still, however, the traces
of it were sufficiently visible to the observant eye of love; and
Montague found in it an interest not to be awakened by the brightest
flashes of gaiety. 'There is a charm inexpressible in her sadness,' said
he to Mrs De Courcy. 'I think,' said Mrs De Courcy, 'I can observe that
that charm is decaying. I think, if it should entirely disappear before
your fates are more closely united, you need not lament its departure.
These cypresses look graceful bending over the urn there in the vista,
but I should not like them to darken the sitting-room.'
The only habit, common to love-lorn damsels, in which Laura indulged,
was that of preferring solitary rambles; a habit, however, which had
been imbibed long before she had any title to that character. Delighted
with the environs of Norwood, she sometimes wandered beyond the dressed
ground into the park, where art still embellished without restraining
nature. The park might, indeed, have better deserved the name of an
ornamented farm; for the lawns were here and there diversified by
cornfields, and enlivened by the habitations of the labourers necessary
to the agriculturist. These cottages, banished by fashion far from every
lordly residence, were contrived so as to unite beauty with usefulness;
they gave added interest to the landscape even to the eye of a stranger,
but far more to that of De Courcy, for he knew that every one of them
contained useful hands or graceful hearts; youth for whom he provided
employment, or age whose past services he repaid. Here the blue smoke
curled from amidst the thicket; there the white wall enlivened the
meadow; here the casement flashed bright with the setting sun; there the
woodbine and the creeping rose softened the colouring that would have
glared on the eye.
Laura had followed the windings of a little green lane, till the woods
which darkened it suddenly opened into a small field, sheltered by them
on every side, which seemed to form the territory of a cottage of
singular neatness and beauty. In a porch covered with honeysuckle, which
led through a flower-garden to the house, a lovely little boy about
three years old was playing with De Courcy's great Newfoundland dog. The
child was stretching on tiptoe to hug with one arm the neck of his
rough companion; while, with the other hand, he was playfully offering
the animal a bit of bread, and then snatching it in sport away. Neptune,
not used to be so tantalized, made a catch at his prey; but the child
succeeded in preserving his prize, and, laughing, hid it behind him. The
next moment Laura saw the dog throw him down, and heard a piercing cry.
Fearless of personal danger, she ran to his assistance. The child was
lying motionless on his face; while, with one huge paw laid on his back,
Neptune was standing over him, wagging his tail in triumph. Convinced
that the child was unhurt, and that the scream had been caused merely by
fear, Laura spoke to the dog, who immediately quitted his posture to
fawn upon her. She lifted the child from the ground and carried him
towards the cottage. The poor little fellow, pale with terror, clung
round her neck; but he no sooner saw himself in safety, than, recovering
his suspended faculties, he began to roar with all his might. His cries
reached the people in the house, who hastened to inquire into their
cause; and Laura was met in the door of the cottage by De Courcy's
grey-haired servant, John, who seemed its owner, and a decent old woman,
who was his wife.
Laura prefaced her account of the accident by an assurance that the
child was not hurt, and the old woman, taking him in her arms, tried to
sooth him, while John invited Miss Montreville to enter. She followed
him into a room, which, unacquainted as she was with the cleanliness of
the English cottages, appeared to her quite Arcadian. While Margaret was
busy with her little charge, Laura praised the neatness and comfort of
John's abode. 'It is as snug a place as heart can desire, please you,
Ma'am,' answered John, visibly gratified; 'and we have every thing here
as convenient as in the king's palace, or as my master himself has, for
the matter of that.' 'I thought, John, you had lived in Mr De Courcy's
house,' said Laura. 'Yes, please you, Ma'am, and so I did, since I was a
little fellow no higher than my knee, taken in to run messages, till my
young master came of age, and then he built this house for me, that I
might just have it to go to when I pleased, without being turned away
like; for he knew old folks liked to have a home of their own. So now,
of a fine evening, I come home after prayers, and stay all night; and
when it's bad weather, I have the same bed as I have had these forty
years; not a penny worse than my master's own.' 'And if you are employed
all day at Norwood,' said Laura, 'how do you contrive to keep your
garden in such nice order?' 'Oh! for the matter of that, Ma'am, my
master would not grudge me a day's work of the under gardener any time;
no, nor to pay a man to work the little patch for me; but only, as he
says, the sweetest flowers are of one's own planting, so, of a fine day
he often sends me home for an hour or two in the cool, just to put the
little place in order.' 'Mr De Courcy seems attentive to the comfort of
every body that comes near him,' said Laura. 'That he is, Madam; one
would think he had an affection, like, for every mortal creature, and
particularly when they grow old and useless, like me and Margaret. I
know who offered him twenty pounds a-year for this house and the bit of
field; but he said old folks did not like moving, and he would not put
us out of this, even though he could give us one twice as good.' 'And
your rent is lower than twenty pounds, I suppose?' said Laura. 'Why
sure, Ma'am, we never pay a penny for it. My master,' said John, drawing
up his head, and advancing his chest, 'my master has the proper true
spirit of a gentleman, and he had it since ever he was born; for it's
bred in the bone with him, as the saying is. Why, Ma'am, he had it from
a child.--I have seen him, when he was less than that boy there, give
away his dinner when he was as hungry as a hound, just because a beggar
asked it.--Ay, I remember, one day, just two-and-twenty years ago come
July, that he was sitting at the door on my knee, eating his breakfast,
and he had asked it half a dozen times from Mrs Martin, for he was very
hungry; and she did not always attend to him very well. So, up came a
woman leading a little ragged creature; and it looked at Master
Montague's bread and milk, and said, 'I wish I had some too.' So, says
my master, "here take you some, and I'll take what you leave."--Well,
Ma'am, the brat snapped it up all in a trice, and I waited to see what
little master would do.--Well, he just laughed as good naturedly! Then I
was going to have got him another breakfast, but my Lady would not let
me. "No, No, John!" said my Lady, "we must teach Montague the connection
between generosity and self-denial."--These were my Lady's very words.'
By this time Margaret had succeeded in quieting the child; and a double
allowance of bread and butter restored all his gaiety. 'Come, Nep,' said
he, squatting himself on the ground where Neptune was lying at Laura's
feet; 'come, Nep, I'll make friends; and there's half for you, Henry's
own dear Nep.' 'Will you sit upon my knee?' said Laura, who was
extremely fond of children. The boy looked steadily in her face for a
few moments, and then holding out his arms to her, said, 'Yes, I will.'
'Whose charming child is this?' inquired Laura, twisting his golden
ringlets round her fingers. The colour rose to old Margaret's furrowed
cheek as she answered, 'He is an orphan, Ma'am.'--'He is our grandson,'
said John, and drew his hand across his eyes. Laura saw that the subject
was painful, and she inquired no further. She remained for a while
playing with little Henry, and listening to John's praises of his
master; and then returned homewards.
She was met by De Courcy and Harriet, who were coming in search of her.
She related her little adventure, and praised the extraordinary beauty
of the child. 'Oh, that's Montague's protegé!' cried Harriet. 'By the by
he has not been to visit us since you came; I believe he was never so
long absent before since he could see. I have a great notion my brother
did not want to produce him to you.'--'To me!' exclaimed Laura in
surprise; 'Why not?' But receiving no answer from Harriet, who had been
effectually silenced by a look from De Courcy, she turned for
explanation to Montague; who made an awkward attempt to laugh off his
sister's attack, and then as awkwardly changed the subject.
For some minutes Laura gravely and silently endeavoured to account for
his behaviour. 'His generosity supports this child,' thought she, 'and
he is superior to blazoning his charity.' So having, as great
philosophers have done, explained the facts to agree with her theory,
she was perfectly satisfied, and examined them no more. Association
carrying her thoughts to the contemplation of the happiness which De
Courcy seemed to diffuse through every circle where he moved, she
regretted that she was so soon to exchange the enjoyment of equable
unobtrusive kindness, for starts of officious fondness mingling with
intervals of cold neglect or peevish importunity.
'Norwood is the Eden of the earth,' said she to Harriet, as they drew
their chairs towards the fire, to enjoy a _tête à tête_ after the family
were retired for the night; 'and it is peopled with spirits fit for
paradise.--Happy you, who need never think of leaving it!' 'Bless you,
my dear,' cried Harriet, 'there is nothing I think of half so much.--You
would not have me be an old maid to comb lapdogs and fatten cats, when I
might be scolding my own maids and whipping my own children.' 'Really,'
said Laura, 'I think you would purchase even _these_ delightful
recreations too dearly by the loss of your present society. Sure it were
a mad venture to change such a blessing for any uncertainty!' 'And yet,
Mrs Graveairs, I have a notion that a certain gallant soldier could
inspire you with the needful daring.--Now, look me in the face, and deny
it if you can.' Laura did as she was desired; and, with cheeks flushed
to crimson, but a voice of sweet austere composure, replied, 'Indeed,
Miss De Courcy, I am hurt that you should so often have taxed me, even
in sport, with so discreditable a partiality. You cannot be serious in
supposing that I would marry an'--adulterer, Laura would have said; but
to apply such an epithet to Hargrave was too much for human firmness,
and she stopped. 'I declare she is angry,' cried Harriet. 'Well, my
dear, since it displeases you, I shan't tease you any more; at least not
till I find a new subject. But, pray now, do you intend to practise as
you preach. Have you made a vow never to marry?' 'I do not say so,'
answered Laura; 'it is silly to assert resolutions which nobody credits.
Besides my situation sadly differs from yours. Like the moon, that is
rising yonder, I must pursue my course alone. Thousands around me might
perhaps warm and enlighten me; but far distant, their influence is lost
ere it reaches me. You are in the midst of a happy family, endeared to
you by all that is lovely in virtue; all that is sacred in kindred.--I
know not what would tempt me to resign your situation.'--'What would
tempt you?' cried Harriet. 'Why a pretty fellow would. But I verily
believe you have been taking your cue from Montague; these are precisely
his ideas. I think he has set his heart upon making me lead apes.' 'What
makes you think so?' inquired Laura. 'Because he finds out a hundred
faults to every man that talks nonsense to me. One is poor; and he
thinks it folly to marry a beggar. Another is old, though he's rich; and
that would be downrightly selling myself. One's a fool, and t'other's
cross; and in short there's no end to his freaks. Only the other day he
made me dismiss a creature that I believe I should have liked well
enough in time. I have not half forgiven him for it yet. Poor
Wilmot--and I should have had a nice barouche too!' 'What could possibly
weigh with your brother against the barouche?' said Laura, smiling.
'Why, my dear, the saucy wretch told me, as plainly as he civilly could,
that Wilmot and I had not a grain of prudence between us; ergo, that we
should be ridiculous and miserable. Besides, poor Wilmot once persuaded
a pretty girl to play the fool; and though he afterwards did every thing
he could to prevail on her to be made an honest woman, the silly thing
chose rather to break her heart and die; and, ever since, poor Wilmot
has been subject to fits of low spirits.' 'Is it possible, Harriet, that
you can talk so lightly of a crime so black in its nature, so dreadful
in its consequences: Can it seem a trifle to you to destroy the peace,
the innocence of a fellow-creature? Can you smile at remorse that
pursued its victim even to the grave?' Tears filled the eyes of Harriet.
'Oh no, my dearest,' she cried, throwing her arms round Laura's neck;
'do not think so hardly of me.--I am a rattle, it is true, but I am not
unprincipled.'--'Pardon my injustice, dearest Harriet,' said Laura, 'in
believing, even for a moment, that you were capable of such perversion;
and join with me in rejoicing that your brother's influence has saved
you from witnessing, from sharing, the pangs of unavailing repentance.'
'Indeed,' said Harriet, 'Montague's influence can do any thing with me;
and no wonder. I should be the most ungrateful wretch on earth if I
could oppose his wishes. I cannot tell you the thousandth part of the
affection he has shewn me. Did you ever hear, my dear, that my father
had it not in his power to make any provision for me?' Laura answered
that she had never heard the circumstances of the family at all
mentioned. 'Do you know,' continued Harriet, 'I am certain that Montague
is averse to my marrying, because he is afraid that my poverty, and not
my will, consents. But he has himself set that matter to rest; for the
very morning after I gave Wilmot his _congé_, Montague presented me with
bills for two thousand pounds. The generous fellow told me that he did
not offer his gift while Wilmot's suit was pending, lest I should think
he bought a right to influence my decision.' 'This is just what I should
have expected from Mr De Courcy,' said Laura, the purest satisfaction
beaming in her countenance. 'He is ever considerate, ever generous.' 'To
tell you that he gives me money,' cried Harriet, rapturously, 'is
nothing; he gives me his time, his labour, his affection. Do love him,
dear Laura! He is the best of all creatures!' 'Indeed I believe it,'
said Laura, 'and I have the most cordial regard for him.'--'Ah but you
must'--Harriet's gratitude to her brother had very nearly been too
strong for his secret, and she was on the point of petitioning Laura to
return a sentiment warmer than cordial regard, when, recollecting her
mother's commands, she desisted; and to fly from the temptation, wished
Laura good night, and retired.
It was with sincere regret that Laura, the next day, took leave of her
kind hosts. As De Courcy handed her into the carriage, the tears were
rising to her eyes: but they were checked by a glance from Lady Pelham,
in which Laura thought she could read mingled scorn and anger. Lady
Pelham had remarked the improved spirits of her niece; but, instead of
rejoicing that any medicine should have 'ministered to a mind diseased,'
she was offended at the success of a remedy applied by any other than
herself. She was nettled at perceiving that the unobtrusive seriousness
of Mrs De Courcy, and the rattling gaiety of Harriet, had effected what
all her brilliant powers had not achieved. Her powers, indeed, had been
sometimes directed to entertain, but never to console; they had been
exerted to purchase admiration, not to win confidence; yet, with a
common perverseness, she was angry at their ill success, not sorry for
their wrong direction. She did not consider, that real benevolence, or
an excellent counterfeit, is the only road to an unadulterated heart. It
appeared to her a proof of an ungrateful temper in her niece, that she
should yield in so short a time to strangers to whom she owed nothing,
what she refused to a relation to whom she owed so much. She had been
unable to forbear from venting her spleen in little spiteful remarks,
and sly stings, sometimes so adroitly given, that they were unobserved,
except by the person who was by degrees becoming accustomed to expect
them. The presence of the De Courcy family, however, restrained the
expression of Lady Pelham's ill humour; and, as she detested restraint,
(a detestation which she always ascribed to a noble ingenuousness of
mind), she nestled, with peculiar complacency, into the corner of the
carriage which was to convey her to what she called freedom, namely, the
liberty to infringe, with impunity, the rights of others. Laura felt
that her reluctance to quit Norwood was a bad compliment to her aunt,
and she called a smile to her face as she kissed her hand to her kind
friends; yet the contrast between their affectionate looks, and the
'lurking devil' in Lady Pelham's eye, did not lessen her regret at the
exchange she was making.
Lady Pelham saw the tone of Laura's mind, and she immediately struck up
a discord. 'Heaven be praised,' she cried, 'we have at last escaped out
of that stupid place! I think it must be something extraordinary that
tempts me to spend four days there again.' Laura remained silent; for
she disliked direct contradiction, and never spoke what she did not
think. Lady Pelham continued her harangue, declaring, 'that your good
sort of people were always intolerably tiresome; that clock-work
regularity was the dullest thing in nature; that Norwood was another
cave of Trophonius; Mrs De Courcy inspired with the soul of a starched
old maid; Harriet animated by the joint spirit of a magpie and a monkey;
and Montague by that of a methodist parson.' Finally, she again
congratulated herself on her escape from such society, and wondered how
any body could submit to it without hanging himself. Laura was
accustomed to support Lady Pelham's attacks upon herself with perfect
equanimity; but her temper was not proof against this unjust, this
unexpected philippic against her friends; and she reddened with anger
and disdain, though she had still so much self-command as to reply only,
'Your Ladyship is fortunate in being able to lose, without regret, what
_others_ find it so difficult to replace.'
Lady Pelham fully understood the emphasis which was laid on the word
_others_, but the mortification to her vanity was compensated by the
triumph of discovering the vulnerable side of her niece's temper. This
was the first time that she had been conscious of power over it, and
severely did Laura pay for the momentary negligence which had betrayed
the secret. Some persons never feel pleasure without endeavouring to
communicate it. Lady Pelham acted upon the converse of this amiable
principle; and, as an ill-regulated mind furnished constant sources of
pain, a new channel of participation was a precious discovery. As often,
therefore, as spleen, jealousy, or malice prompted her to annoyance, she
had recourse henceforth to this new-found weapon; and she varied her
warfare through all the changes of hints, insinuations, and that mode of
attack the most provoking of all, which, aiming at no particular point,
becomes the more difficult to parry. During several months, she made it
the occasional instrument of her vengeance for the jealousy which she
entertained of Laura's increasing intimacy with the De Courcys; an
intimacy which she chose to embitter, though she could not break it off,
without depriving herself of acquaintances who were visited by the first
people in the county.
Her industry in teazing was not confined to Laura. She inflicted a
double stroke, by the petulance or coldness with which she sometimes
treated the De Courcys. But though Laura was keenly sensible to these
petty wrongs done her friends, the injury passed them over without much
notice. Harriet repaid them with laughter or sarcasm; while Montague
seemed to consider them as wholly unworthy of attention. He continued
his visits to Walbourne, and accident at last furnished an excuse for
their frequency.
In the course of Lady Pelham's improvements, a difficulty chanced to
occur, which a slight knowledge of the elements of mathematics would
have enabled her to solve. To supply the want of this knowledge, she had
recourse to Mr De Courcy, who removed her perplexity with the ease of
one conversant with his subject, and the accuracy of one who speaks to a
reasoning creature. Lady Pelham was charmed! She was convinced that 'of
all studies that of mathematics must be the most delightful. She
imagined it might not be quite impracticable even for a lady, supposing
she were so fortunate as to meet with a friend who could assist her.' De
Courcy, laughing, offered his services, not, it must be owned, with any
idea that they would be accepted. Her Ladyship, however, eagerly
embraced the offer; for she was little accustomed to forecast the
difficulties of any scheme that entered her brain. In this triumphant
expectation that all difficulty would yield to her acuteness, and her
brighter abilities gain in a comparison with the plain good-sense of her
niece, she obliged Laura to join her in this new pursuit. Upon the study
of this science, so little in favour with a sex who reserve cultivation
for faculties where it is least wanting, Laura entered with a pleasure
that surprised herself, and she persevered in it with an industry that
astonished her teacher. Lady Pelham was, for a little while, the
companion of her labours; but, at the first difficulty, she took offence
at the unaccommodating thing, which shewed no more indulgence to female
than to royal indolence.--Forthwith she was fired with a strong aversion
to philosophers in bibs, and a horror at she-pedants, a term of reproach
which a dexterous side-glance could appropriate to her niece, though the
author of those memoirs challenges any mortal to say that ever Laura
Montreville was heard to mention ellipse or parabola, or to insinuate
her acquaintance with the properties of circle or polygon. Nothing moved
by Lady Pelham's sneers, Laura continued her studies, impelled partly by
the duty of improving the most valuable faculty of an immortal mind,
partly by the pleasure which she derived from the study itself. It is
true, that her Ladyship's indiscreet use of the secret, made Laura's
labours the cause of much merriment to titterers of both sexes; but we
have never discovered that De Courcy esteemed her the less for her
persevering industry, or loved her the less for this new subject of
mutual interest. He watched with delight the restoration of her mind to
its full vigour; and as he had never known her in the blaze of youthful
gaiety, he was scarcely sensible of the shade which blended the radiance
of her mid-day of life with the sober tints of evening.
The impression of her early disappointment was indeed indelible, but it
was no longer overwhelming. She had given the reins to her
imagination--it had fatally misled her; but its power had sustained an
irrecoverable shock, and the sway was transferred to reason. She had
dreamed of an earthly heaven, and seen that it was but a dream. All her
earthly joys had vanished--yet misery had been almost as transient as
delight, and she learned the practical use of a truth which all
acknowledge in theory. In the course of four months residence at
Walbourne, she recovered a placid cheerfulness, which afterwards
continued to be the habitual tenor of her mind. If she looked forward to
the future events of her life, it was to resolve that they should be
subservient to the great end of her being. If she glanced backward, it
was less to lament her disappointment, than to blame the error which had
led to it; and she never allowed her thoughts to dwell upon her unworthy
lover, except when praying that he might be awakened to a sense of his
guilt.
She was chiefly concerned to improve and to enjoy the present; and in
this she was successful in spite of the peevish humours of Lady Pelham,
mixed occasionally with ebullitions of rage. Those who are furious where
they dare, or when the provocation is sufficient to rouse their courage,
sometimes chide with impotent perseverance where they are awed from the
full expression of their fury: as the sea, which the lightest breeze
dashes in billows over the sandbank, frets in puny ripples against the
rock that frowns over it. If Lady Pelham's temper had any resemblance to
this stormy element, it was not wholly void of likeness to another--for
it 'changed as it listed,' without any discoverable reason. It would
have lost half its power to provoke, and Laura half the merit of her
patient endurance, if it had been permanently diabolical. The current,
not only serene but sparkling, would reflect with added beauty every
surrounding object, then would suddenly burst into foam, or settle into
a stagnant marsh. Laura threw oil upon the torrent, and suffered the
marsh to clear itself. She enjoyed Lady Pelham's wit and vivacity in her
hours of good humour, and patiently submitted to her seasons of low
spirits, as she complaisantly called them.
Laura at last, undesignedly, opened a new direction to her aunt's
spleen. From her first introduction to Lady Pelham, she had laboured
assiduously to promote a reconciliation between her aunt and her
daughter, Mrs Herbert. Her zeal appeared surprising to Lady Pelham, who
could not estimate the force of her motive for thus labouring, to the
manifest detriment of her own interest, she being (after Mrs Herbert)
the natural heiress of her aunt's fortune. She had seized the moment of
complacency; watched the relentings of nature; by turns tried to sooth
and to convince; and, in the proper spirit of a peace-maker, adhered to
her purpose with meek perseverance. According to the humour of the
hour, Lady Pelham was alternately flattered by solicitations that
confessed her power, or rendered peevish by entreaties which she was
determined to reject, or fired to rage by the recollection of her
wrongs. If the more placid frame prevailed, she could ring eternal
changes on the same oft-refuted arguments, or adroitly shift the subject
by some lively sally of wit, or some neat compliment to her niece. In
her more stormy tempers, she would profess a total inability to pardon;
nay, a determination never to attempt it; and took credit for scorning
to pretend a forgiveness which she could not practise.
Still Laura was not discouraged: for she had often observed that what
Lady Pelham declared on one day to be wholly impossible, on the next
became, without any assignable reason, the easiest thing in nature; and
that what to-day no human force could wrest from her, was yielded
to-morrow to no force at all. She therefore persisted in her work of
conciliation; and her efforts at last prevailed so far, that, though
Lady Pelham still protested implacability, she acknowledged, that, as
there was no necessity for her family feuds being known to the world,
she was willing to appear upon decent terms with the Herberts; and, for
that purpose, would receive them for a few weeks at Walbourne.
Of this opening, unpromising as it was, Laura instantly availed herself;
and wrote to convey the frozen invitation to her cousin, in the kindest
language which she was permitted to use. It was instantly accepted; and
Mrs Herbert and her husband became the inmates of Walbourne.
Mrs Herbert had no resemblance to her mother. Her countenance was grave
and thoughtful; her manners uniformly cold and repulsive. Laura traced
in her unbending reserve, the apathy of one whose genial feelings had
been blunted by early unkindness. Frank, high-spirited, and imprudent,
Herbert was his wife's opposite; and Laura had not been half an hour in
his company, before she began to tremble for the effects of these
qualities on the irascible temper of her aunt. But her alarm seemed
causeless; for the easy resoluteness with which he maintained his
opinions, appeared to extort from Lady Pelham a sort of respect; and,
though she privately complained to Laura of what she called his
assurance, she exempted him, while present, from her attacks, seeming
afraid to exert upon him her skill in provoking. Laura began to
perceive, that a termagant is not so untameable an animal as she had
once imagined, since one glimpse of the master-spirit is of sovereign
power to lay the lesser imps of spleen. But though Lady Pelham seemed
afraid to measure her strength with spirits of kindred irascibility, she
was under no restraint with Mrs Herbert, upon whom she vented a degree
of querulousness that appeared less like the ebullitions of ill-temper,
than the overflowings of settled malice. Every motion, every look,
furnished matter of censure or of sarcasm. The placing of a book, the
pronunciation of a word, the snuffing of a candle, called forth
reprehension; and Laura knew not whether to be most astonished at the
ingenious malice which contrived to convert 'trifles light as air,' into
certain proofs of degeneracy, or at the apathy on which the venomed
shaft fell harmless. Mrs Herbert received all her mother's reprimands in
silence, without moving a muscle, without announcing, by the slightest
change of colour, that the sarcasm had reached further than her ear. If,
as not unfrequently happened, the reproof extended into a harangue, Mrs
Herbert unmoved withdrew no part of her attention from her netting, but
politely suppressed a yawn.
These discourteous scenes were exhibited only in Mr Herbert's absence;
his presence instantly suspended Lady Pelham's warfare; and Laura
inferred that his wife never made him acquainted with her mother's
behaviour. That behaviour formed an exception to the general
unsteadiness of Lady Pelham; for to Mrs Herbert she was consistently
cruel and insulting. Nothing could be more tormenting to the benevolent
mind of Laura, than to witness this system of aggression; and she
repented having been instrumental in renewing an intercourse that could
lead to no pleasing issue.
But the issue was nearer than she expected. One day, in Herbert's
absence, Lady Pelham began to discuss with his wife, or rather _to_ her,
the never-failing subject of her duplicity and disobedience. She was not
interrupted by any expression of regret or repentance from the culprit,
who maintained a stoical silence, labouring the while to convey
mathematical precision to the crimping of a baby's cap, an employment
upon which Lady Pelham seemed to look with peculiar abhorrence. From the
turpitude of her daughter's conduct, she proceeded to its consequences.
She knew no right, she said, that people had to encumber their friends
with hosts of beggarly brats. She vowed that none such should ever
receive her countenance or protection. Her rage kindled as she spoke.
She inveighed against Mrs Herbert's insensibility; and at last talked
herself into such a pitch of fury, as even to abuse her for submitting
to the company of one who could not conceal detestation of her;--a want
of spirit which she directly attributed to the most interested
views;--views which, however, she absolutely swore that she would
defeat. In the energy of her declamation, she did not perceive that
Herbert had entered the room, and stood listening to her concluding
sentences, with a face of angry astonishment. Advancing towards his
wife, he indignantly inquired the meaning of the tumult. 'Nothing,'
answered she, calmly surveying her handywork; 'only my mother is a
little angry, but I have not spoken a word.' He then turned for
explanation to Lady Pelham, whom the flashing of his eye reduced to
instantaneous quiet; and, not finding, in her stammering abstract of the
conversation, any apology for the insult which he had heard, he took his
wife by the arm, and instantly left the house, giving orders that his
baggage should follow him to a little inn in the neighbouring village.
Thus did the insolence of one person, and the hasty spirit of another,
undo what Laura had for months been labouring to effect. The Herberts
never made any attempt at reconciliation, and Lady Pelham would never
afterwards hear them mentioned, without breaking out into torrents of
abuse, and even imprecation, which made Laura's blood run cold. Yet,
with her usual inconsistency, Lady Pelham was vexed at the suspension of
her intercourse with the Herberts; because she thus lost even the shadow
of power over her daughter. Not that she acknowledged this cause of
regret. No! she eloquently bewailed her hard fate, in being exposed to
the censure of the world as at variance with her nearest relatives. She
complained that, with a heart 'warm as melting charity,' she had no one
to love or to cherish. Yet Laura could not always forbear smiling at the
perverse direction of her aunt's regrets. Lady Pelham was angry, not
that her own unkindness had driven her children from her, but that
Laura's officious benevolence had brought them to her house; a measure
from which, she was pleased to say that no person of common sense could
have expected a different issue.