Laura had proceeded but a short way towards Norwood when she was met by
De Courcy, who, with a manner the most opposite to his coldness on the
preceding day, sprang forward to meet her, his countenance radiant with
pleasure. Laura, delighted with the change, playfully reproached him
with his caprice. Montague coloured, but defended himself with spirit;
and a dialogue, more resembling flirtation than any in which Laura had
ever engaged, occupied them till, as they loitered along the dark avenue
of Norwood, a shade of the sentimental began to mingle with their
conversation. De Courcy had that morning resolved, firmly resolved, that
while Laura was his guest at Norwood, he would avoid a declaration of
his sentiments. Convinced, as he now was, that he no longer had any
thing to fear from the perseverance of Hargrave, he was yet far from
being confident of his own success. On the contrary, he was persuaded
that he had hitherto awakened in Laura no sentiment beyond friendship,
and that she must become accustomed to him as a lover, before he could
hope for any farther grace. He considered how embarrassing would be her
situation in a house of which the master was a repulsed, perhaps a
rejected, admirer; and he had determined not to hazard embittering to
her a residence from which she had at present no retreat. Yet the
confiding manner, the bewitching loveliness of Laura, the stillness,
shade, and solitude of their path had half-beguiled him of his prudence,
when, fortunately for his resolution, he saw Harriet advancing to meet
her friend. Harriet's liveliness soon restored gaiety to the
conversation; and the party proceeded less leisurely than before to
Norwood, where Laura was received with affectionate cordiality by Mrs De
Courcy.
Never had the time appeared to Laura to fly so swiftly as now. Every
hour was sacred to improvement, to elegance, or to benevolence. Laura
had a mind capable of intense application; and therefore could exalt
relaxation into positive enjoyment. But the pleasure which a vigorous
understanding takes in the exercise of its powers, was now heightened in
her hours of study, by the assistance, the approbation of De Courcy; and
the hours of relaxation he enlivened by a manner which, at once frank
and respectful, spirited and kind, seemed peculiarly fitted to adorn the
domestic circle. A part of each day was employed by Mrs De Courcy in
various works of charity; and, joining in these, Laura returned with
satisfaction to a habit which she had unwillingly laid aside during her
residence in London, and but imperfectly resumed at Walbourne. Amiable,
rational, and pious, the family at Norwood realized all Laura's
day-dreams of social happiness; and the only painful feeling that
assailed her mind arose from the recollection that the time of her visit
was fast stealing away. Her visit was, however, prolonged by a fortunate
cold which detained Lady Pelham at Derham Green; and Laura could not
regret an accident which delayed her separation from her friends. Indeed
she began to dread Lady Pelham's return, both as the signal of her
departure from Norwood, and as a prelude to the renewal of her
persecutions on account of Hargrave. Far from having, as Lady Pelham had
insinuated, renounced his pursuit, he returned in a few days from Mrs
Bathurst's; again established himself with Lambert; and, though he could
not uninvited intrude himself into Norwood, contrived to beset Laura as
often as she passed its bounds. In the few visits which she paid, she
generally encountered him; and he regularly waylaid her at church. But
he had lost an able coadjutor in Lady Pelham; and now, when no one
present was concerned to assist his designs, and when Laura was
protected by kind and considerate friends, she generally found means to
escape his officious attentions; though, remembering his former jealousy
of Montague, and the irritability of his temper, she was scrupulously
cautious of marking her preference of De Courcy, or of appearing to take
sanctuary with him from the assiduities of Hargrave. Indeed,
notwithstanding the mildness of De Courcy's disposition, she was not
without fear that he might be involved in a quarrel by the unreasonable
suspicions of Hargrave, who had often taxed her with receiving his
addresses, ascribing his own failure to their success. She had in vain
condescended to assure him that the charge was groundless. He never met
De Courcy without shewing evident marks of dislike. If he accosted him,
it was in a tone and manner approaching to insult. The most trivial
sentence which De Courcy addressed to Laura, drew from Hargrave looks of
enmity and defiance; while Montague, on his part, returned these
aggressions by a cool disdain, the most opposite to the conciliating
frankness of his general manners. Laura's alarm lest Hargrave's
ill-concealed aversion should burst into open outrage, completed the
dread with which he inspired her; and she felt like one subjected to the
thraldom of an evil genius, when he one day announced to her that he had
procured leave to remove his regiment to --; in order, as he said, 'that
he might be at hand to assert his rights over her.'
He conveyed this information as, rudely preventing Mr Bolingbroke and De
Courcy, he led her from Mrs De Courcy's carriage into church. Laura
durst not challenge his presumptuous expression, for Montague was close
by her side, and she dreaded that his aversion to arrogance and
oppression should induce him to engage in her quarrel. Silently
therefore, though glowing with resentment, she suffered Hargrave to
retain the place he had usurped, while Montague followed, with a
countenance which a few short moments had clouded with sudden care.
'Ah,' thought he, 'those rights must indeed be strong which he dares
thus boldly, thus publickly assert.' It was some time ere the service
began, and Laura could not help casting glances of kind inquiry on the
saddened face, which, a few minutes before, she had seen bright with
animation and delight. Hargrave's eye followed her's with a far
different expression. While she observed him darting a scowl of malice
and aversion on the man to whom he owed his life, Laura shuddered; and
wondering at the infatuation which had so long disguised his true
character, bent her head, acknowledged her short-sightedness, and
resigned the future events of her life to the disposal of heaven. It was
the day immediately preceding Harriet's marriage, and neither she nor
Mrs De Courcy was in church; Laura therefore returned home tête à tête
with Montague. Ignorant that Hargrave's provoking half-whisper had been
overheard by De Courcy, she could not account for the sudden change in
his countenance and manner; yet though she took an affectionate interest
in his melancholy, they had almost reached home before she summoned
courage to inquire into its cause. 'I fear you are indisposed,' said she
to him in a voice of kind concern. De Courcy thanked her. 'No, not
indisposed,' said he, with a faint smile. 'Disturbed, then,' said Laura.
De Courcy was silent for a moment, and then taking her hand, said, 'May
I be candid with you?' 'Surely,' returned Laura. 'I trust I shall ever
meet with candour in you.' 'Then I will own,' resumed De Courcy, 'that I
am disturbed. And can the friend of Montreville be otherwise when he
hears a right claimed over you by one so wholly unworthy of you?' 'Ah,'
cried Laura, 'you have then heard all. I hoped you had not attended to
him.' 'Attended!' exclaimed De Courcy, 'Could any right be claimed over
you and I be regardless?' 'It were ungrateful to doubt your friendly
interest in me,' replied Laura. 'Believe me Colonel Hargrave has no
right over me, nor ever shall have.' 'Yet I did not hear you resist the
claim,' returned De Courcy. 'Because,' answered Laura, 'I feared to draw
your attention. His violence terrifies me, and I feared that--that you
might'--She hesitated, stopped, and blushed very deeply. She felt the
awkwardness of appearing to expect that De Courcy should engage in a
quarrel on her account, but the simple truth ever rose so naturally to
her lips, that she could not even qualify it without confusion. 'Might
what?' cried De Courcy eagerly; 'Speak frankly I beseech you.' 'I
feared,' replied Laura, recovering herself, 'that the interest you take
in the daughter of your friend might expose you to the rudeness of this
overbearing man.' 'And did you upon my account, dearest Laura, submit to
this insolence?' cried De Courcy, his eyes sparkling with exultation.
'Is my honour, my safety then dear to you? Could you think of me even
while Hargrave spoke!' With surprise and displeasure Laura read the
triumphant glance which accompanied his words. 'Is it possible,' thought
she, 'that, well as he knows me, he can thus mistake the nature of my
regard! or can he, attached to another, find pleasure in the idle dream.
Oh man! thou art altogether vanity!' Snatching away the hand which he
was pressing to his lips, she coldly replied, 'I should have been
equally attentive to the safety of any common stranger had I expected
his interference, and Colonel Hargrave's speeches cannot divert my
attention even from the most trivial object in nature.' Poor De Courcy,
his towering hopes suddenly levelled with the dust, shrunk from the
frozen steadiness of her eye. 'Pardon me, Miss Montreville,' said he in
a tone of mingled sorrow and reproach, 'pardon me for the hope that you
would make any distinction between me and the most indifferent. I shall
soon be cured of my presumption.' Grieved at the pain she saw she had
occasioned, Laura would fain have said something to mitigate the repulse
which she had given: but a new light began to dawn upon her, and she
feared to conciliate the friend lest she should encourage the lover.
Fortunately for the relief of her embarrassment the carriage stopped. De
Courcy gravely and in silence handed her from it; and, hurrying to her
chamber, she sat down to reconsider the dialogue she had just ended.
De Courcy's manner more than his words recalled a suspicion which she
had oftener than once driven from her mind. She was impressed, she
scarcely knew why, with a conviction that she was beloved. For some
minutes this idea alone filled her thoughts; the next that succeeded was
recollection that she ought sincerely to lament a passion which she
could not return. It was her duty to be sorry, very sorry indeed, for
such an accident; to be otherwise would have argued the most selfish
vanity, the most hard-hearted ingratitude towards the best of friends,
and the most amiable of mankind. Yet she was not _very_ sorry; it was
out of her power to convince herself that she was; so she imputed her
philosophy under her misfortune to doubtfulness of its existence. 'But
after all,' said she to herself, 'his words could not bear such a
construction; and for his manner--who would build any thing upon a
manner! While a woman's vanity is so apt to deceive her, what rational
creature would give credit to what may owe so much to her own
imagination! Besides, did not Mrs De Courcy more than hint that his
affections were engaged. Did he not even himself confess to me that they
were. And I taxed him with vanity!--Truly, if he could see this
ridiculous freak of mine he might very justly retort the charge. And see
it he will. What could possess me with my absurd prudery to take offence
at his expecting that I, who owe him ten thousand kind offices, should
be anxious for his safety?--How could I be so false, so thankless as to
say I considered him as a common acquaintance?--The friend of my father,
my departed father! the friend who supported him in want, and consoled
him in sorrow! No wonder that he seemed shocked! What is so painful to a
noble heart as to meet with ingratitude? But he shall never again have
reason to think me vain or ungrateful;' and Laura hastened down stairs
that she might lose no time in convincing De Courcy that she did not
suspect him of being her lover, and highly valued him as a friend. She
found him in the drawing-room, pensively resting his forehead against
the window sash; and approaching him, spoke some trifle with a smile so
winning, so gracious, that De Courcy soon forgot both his wishes and his
fears, enjoyed the present, and was happy.
The day of Harriet's marriage arrived; and for once she was grave and
silent. She even forgot her bridal finery; and when Laura went to inform
her of Mr Bolingbroke's arrival, she found her in the library, sitting
on the ground in tears, her head resting on the seat of an old-fashioned
elbow chair. She sprang up as Laura entered; and dashing the drops from
her eyes, cried, 'I have been trying to grow young again for a few
minutes, before I am made an old woman for life. Just there I used to
sit when I was a little little thing, and laid my head upon my father's
knee; for this was his favourite chair, and there old Rover and I used
to lie at his feet together. I'll beg this chair of my mother, for now I
love every thing at Norwood.' Laura drew her away, and she forgot the
old elbow-chair when she saw the superb diamonds which were lying on her
dressing-table. The ceremonial of the wedding was altogether adjusted by
Mrs Penelope; and though, in compliance with Mr Bolingbroke's whims, she
suffered the ceremony to be privately performed, she invited every
creature who could claim kindred with the names of Bolingbroke or De
Courcy to meet and welcome the young bride to her home. Mr Bolingbroke
having brought a licence, the pair were united at Norwood. Mr Wentworth
officiated, and De Courcy gave his sister away. Mrs Bolingbroke's own
new barouche, so often beheld in fancy, now really waited to convey her
to her future dwelling; but she turned to bid farewell to the domestics
who had attended her infancy, and forgot to look at the new barouche.
Mr Bolingbroke was a great man, and could not be allowed to marry
quietly. Bonfires were lighted, bells were rung, and a concourse of his
tenantry accompanied the carriages which conveyed the party. The
admiration of the company whom Mrs Penelope had assembled in honour of
the day, was divided between Mrs Bolingbroke's diamonds and her
bride-maid; and as the number of each sex was pretty equal, the wonders
shared pretty equally.
'Did you ever see any thing so lovely as Miss Montreville?' said Sophia
Bolingbroke to the young lady who sat next her. 'I never can think any
body pretty who has red hair,' was the reply. 'If her hair be red,'
returned Sophia, 'it is the most pardonable red hair in the world, for
it is more nearly black. Don't you admire her figure?' 'Not
particularly; she is too much of the May-pole for me; besides, who can
tell what her figure is when she is so muffled up. I dare say she is
stuffed, or she would shew a little more of her skin.' 'She has at least
an excellent taste in stuffing, then,' said Sophia, 'for I never saw any
thing so elegantly formed.' 'It is easy to see,' said the critic, 'that
she thinks herself a beauty by her dressing so affectedly. To-night
when every body else is in full dress, do but look at her's!' 'Pure,
unadorned, virgin white,' said Miss Bolingbroke, looking at Laura; 'the
proper attire of angels!' The name of Miss Montreville had drawn the
attention of De Courcy to this dialogue. 'I protest,' cried he to Mr
Wentworth, who stood by him. 'Sophy Bolingbroke is the most agreeable
plain girl I ever saw.' He then placed himself by her side; and while
she continued to praise Laura, gave her credit for all that is most
amiable in woman.
The moment he left her she ran to rally Laura upon her conquest. 'I give
you joy, my dear,' said she, 'De Courcy is certainly in love with you.'
'Nonsense,' cried Laura, colouring crimson; 'what can make you think
so?' 'Why he will talk of nothing but you, and he looked so delighted
when I praised you; and paid me more compliments in half an hour than
ere I received in my whole life before.' 'If he was so complimentary,'
said Laura, smiling, 'it seems more likely that he is in love with you.'
'Ah,' said Sophia, sighing, 'that is not very probable.' 'Full as
probable as the other,' answered Laura; and turned away to avoid a
subject which she was striving to banish from her thoughts.
During the few days which Laura and the De Courcys spent with the
newly-married pair, Miss Bolingbroke's observations served to confirm
her opinion; and merely for the pleasure of speaking of Montague, she
rallied Laura incessantly on her lover. In weighing credibilities, small
weight of testimony turns the scale; and Laura began alternately to
wonder what retarded De Courcy's declaration, and to tax herself with
vanity in expecting that he would ever make one. She disliked her stay
at Orfordhall, and counted the hours till her return to Norwood. De
Courcy's attentions she had long placed to the account of a regard
which, while she was permitted to give it the name of friendship, she
could frankly own that she valued above any earthly possessions. These
attentions were now so familiar to her, that they were become almost
necessary, and she was vexed at being constantly reminded that she ought
to reject them. She had therefore a latent wish to return to a place
where she would have a legitimate claim to his kindness, and where at
least there would be no one to remind her that she ought to shrink from
it. Besides, she was weary of the state and magnificence that surrounded
her. While Harriet glided into the use of her finery as if she had been
accustomed to it from her cradle, Laura could by no means be reconciled
to it. She endured with impatience a meal of three hours long; could
not eat while six footmen were staring at her; started, if she
thoughtlessly leant her head against the white damask wall; and could
not move with ease, where every gesture was repeated in endless
looking-glasses. With pleasure, therefore, she saw the day arrive which
was to restore her to easy hospitality, and respectable simplicity at
Norwood; but that very day she received a summons to attend her aunt at
Walbourne.
Unwilling as Laura was to quit her friends, she did not delay to comply
with Lady Pelham's requisition. Mrs De Courcy judged it improper to urge
her to stay; and Montague in part consoled himself for her departure, by
reflecting, that he would now be at liberty to disclose his
long-concealed secret. 'No doubt you are at liberty,' said Mrs De
Courcy, when he spoke to her of his intentions, 'and I am far from
pretending to advise or interfere. But, my dear Montague, you must
neither be surprised, nor in despair, if you be at first unsuccessful.
Though Laura esteems you, perhaps more than esteems you, she is
convinced that she is invulnerable to love; and it may be so, but her
fancied security is all in your favour.' Weary of suspense, however, De
Courcy often resolved to know his fate; and often went to Walbourne,
determined to learn ere he returned, whether a circle of pleasing duties
was to fill his after life, or whether it was to be spent alone,
'loveless, joyless, unendeared;' but when he met the friendly smile of
Laura, and remembered that, his secret told, it might vanish like the
gleaming of a wintry sun, his courage failed, and the intended
disclosure was again delayed. Yet his manner grew less and less
equivocal, and Laura, unwilling as she was to own the conviction to
herself, could scarcely maintain her wilful blindness.
She allowed the subject to occupy the more of her thoughts, because it
came disguised in a veil of self-condemnation and humility. Sometimes
she repeated to herself, that she should never have known the vanity of
her own heart, had it not been visited by so absurd a suspicion; and
sometimes that she should never have been acquainted with its
selfishness and obduracy, had she not borne with such indifference, the
thoughts of what must bring pain and disappointment to so worthy a
breast. But, spite of Laura's efforts to be miserable, the subject cost
her much more perplexity than distress; and, in wondering whether De
Courcy really were her lover, and what could be his motive for
concealing it if he were, she often forgot to deplore the consequences
of her charms.
Meanwhile Hargrave continued his importunities; and Lady Pelham seconded
them with unwearied perseverance. In vain did Laura protest that her
indifference was unconquerable; in vain assure him that though a total
revolution in his character might regain her esteem, her affection was
irrecoverably lost. She could at any time exasperate the proud spirit of
Hargrave, till in transports of fury he would abjure her for ever; but a
few hours always brought the 'for ever' to an end, and Hargrave back, to
supplicate, to importune, and not unfrequently to threaten. Though her
unremitting coldness, however, failed to conquer his passion, it by
degrees extinguished all of generous or kindly that had ever mingled
with the flame; and the wild unholy fire which her beauty kept alive,
was blended with the heart-burnings of anger and revenge. From such a
passion Laura shrunk with dread and horror. She heard its expressions as
superstitution listens to sounds of evil omen; and saw his impassioned
glances with the dread of one who meets the eye of the crouching tiger.
His increasing jealousy of De Courcy, which testified itself in
haughtiness, and even ferocity of behaviour towards him, and Montague's
determined though cool resistance of his insolence, kept her in
continual alarm. Though she never on any other occasion voluntarily
entered Hargrave's presence, yet if De Courcy found him at Walbourne,
she would hasten to join them, fearing the consequences of a private
interview between two such hostile spirits; and this apparent preference
not only aggravated the jealousy of Hargrave, but aroused Lady Pelham's
indefatigable spirit of remonstrance. The subject was particularly
suited for an episode to her Ladyship's harangues in favour of Hargrave;
and she introduced and varied it with a dexterity all her own. She taxed
Laura with a passion for De Courcy; and in terms not eminently delicate,
reproached her with facility in transferring her regards. While the
charge was privately made, it appeared to Laura too groundless to affect
her temper. But Lady Pelham, whose whole life might be said to form one
grand experiment upon the powers of provocation, took occasion to rally
her upon it before some of her companions; hinting not obscurely at the
secret which Laura had so religiously kept, and confessed with so much
pain. The attempt was partly successful, for Laura was really angry; but
she commanded herself so far as to parry the attack, secretly vowing
that her candour should never again commit her to the discretion of Lady
Pelham.
Sometimes assuming the tone of a tender monitress, Lady Pelham would
affect to be seriously convinced that her niece entertained a passion
for De Courcy, and treating all Laura's denials as the effect of maiden
timidity, would pretend to sympathize in her sufferings, advising her to
use her strength of mind to conquer this unfortunate partiality; to
transfer her affections from one to whom they appeared valueless to him
who sued for them with such interesting perseverance. Above all, she
entreated her to avoid the appearance of making advances to a man who
probably never bestowed a thought on her in return; thus intimating that
Laura's behaviour might bear so provoking a construction. Laura,
sometimes irritated, oftener amused by these impertinences, could have
endured them with tolerable patience; but they were mere interludes to
Lady Pelham's indefatigable chidings on the subject of Hargrave. These
were continued with a zeal and industry worthy of better success. And
yet they could not be said to be wholly unsuccessful, while, though they
could not persuade, they could torment. In vain did Laura recount the
reasons which, even amidst the utmost strength of inclination, would
have deterred her from a connection with a person of Hargrave's
character. To reason with Lady Pelham was a labour at once severe and
unavailing. She was so dexterous in the use of indefinite language, so
practised in every art of shift and evasion, that the strongest argument
failed to conquer; or if forced from her ground, she on the next
occasion occupied it again, just as if she had always maintained it
undisputed. Remonstrance and entreaty were not more successful. In
defiance of both, Lady Pelham continued to ring endless changes on the
same endless theme, till Laura's patience would have failed her, had she
not been consoled by reflecting that the time now drew near when the
payment of her annuity would enable her to escape from her unwearied
persecutors. She heartily wished, however, that a change of system might
make her residence with Lady Pelham endurable; for strong as was her
attachment to Mrs Douglas, it was no longer her only friendship; and she
could not without pain think of quitting, perhaps for ever, her valued
friends at Norwood.
Winter advanced; Lady Pelham began to talk of her removal to town; and
Laura was not without hopes, that when removed to a distance from
Hargrave, her aunt would remit somewhat of her diligence in his cause.
Laura expected that his duty would generally confine him to
head-quarters, and she hoped to find in his absence a respite from one
half of her plague. At all events, from London she thought she could
easily procure an escort to Scotland, and she was determined rather
finally to forfeit the protection of Lady Pelham, than submit to such
annoyance as she had of late endured. Laura could not help wondering
sometimes that her aunt, while she appeared so anxious to promote the
success of Hargrave, should meditate a step which would place him at a
distance from the object of his pursuit; but Lady Pelham's conduct was
so generally inconsistent, that Laura was weary of trying to reconcile
its contradictories. She endeavoured to hope that Lady Pelham, at last
becoming sensible of the inefficacy of her efforts, was herself growing
desirous to escape the Colonel's importunity; and she thought she could
observe, that as the time of their departure approached, her Ladyship
relaxed somewhat of her industry in teazing.
But the motives of Lady Pelham's removal did not at all coincide with
her niece's hopes; and nothing could be further from her intention, than
to resign her labours in a field so rich in controversy and provocation.
She imagined that Laura's obstinacy was occasioned, or at least
strengthened by the influence of the De Courcys, and she expected that a
more general acquaintance with the world would remove her prejudices. At
Walbourne, Laura, if offended, could always take refuge with Mrs De
Courcy. In London, she would be more defenceless. At Walbourne, Lady
Pelham acted under restraint, for there were few objects to divide with
her the observation of her neighbours, and she felt herself accountable
to them for the propriety of her conduct; but she would be more at
liberty in a place where, each immersed in his own business or pleasure,
no one had leisure to comment on the concerns of others. She knew that
Hargrave would find means to escape the duty of remaining with his
regiment, and indeed had concerted with him the whole plan of her
operations.
Meanwhile Laura, altogether unsuspicious of their designs, gladly
prepared for her journey, considering it as a fortunate instance of the
instability of Lady Pelham's purposes. She paid a parting visit to Mrs
Bolingbroke, whom she found established in quiet possession of all the
goods of fortune. By the aid of Mrs De Courcy's carriage, she contrived,
without molestation from Hargrave, to spend much of her time at Norwood,
where she was always received with a kindness the most flattering, and
loaded with testimonies of regard. De Courcy still kept his secret; and
Laura's suspicions rather diminished when she considered that, though he
knew she was to go without any certainty of returning, he suffered
numberless opportunities to pass without breathing a syllable of love.
The day preceding that which was fixed for the journey arrived; and
Laura begged Lady Pelham's permission to spend it entirely with Mrs De
Courcy. Lady Pelham was rather unwilling to consent, for she remembered
that her last excursion had been rendered abortive by a visit to
Norwood; but, flattering herself that her present scheme was secure from
hazard of failure, she assumed an accommodating humour, and not only
permitted Laura to go but allowed the carriage to convey her,
stipulating that she should return it immediately, and walk home in the
evening. She found the De Courcys alone, and passed the day less
cheerfully than any she had ever spent at Norwood. Mrs De Courcy, though
kind, was grave and thoughtful; Montague absent, and melancholy.
Harriet's never-failing spirits no longer enlivened the party, and her
place was but feebly supplied by the infantine gaiety of De Courcy's
little protegé Henry. This child, who was the toy of all his patron's
leisure hours, had, during her visits to Norwood, become particularly
interesting to Laura. His quickness, his uncommon beauty, his engaging
frankness, above all, the innocent fondness which he shewed for her, had
really attached her to him, and he repaid her with all the affections of
his little heart. He would quit his toys to hang upon her; and, though
at other times, as restless as any of his kind, was never weary of
sitting quietly on her knee, clasping her snowy neck in his little
sun-burnt arms. His prattle agreeably interrupted the taciturnity into
which the little party were falling, till his grandfather came to take
him away. 'Kiss your hand Henry, and bid Miss Montreville farewell,'
said the old man as he was about to take him from Laura's arms. 'It will
be a long time before you see her again.' 'Are you going away?' said the
child, looking sorrowfully in Laura's face. 'Yes, far away,' answered
Laura. 'Then Henry will go with you, Henry's dear pretty lady.' 'No no,'
said his grandfather. 'You must go to your mammy; good boys love their
mammies best.' 'Then you ought to be Henry's mammy,' cried the child,
sobbing, and locking his arms round Laura's neck, 'for Henry loves you
best.' 'My dear boy!' cried Laura, kissing him with a smile that
half-consented to his wish; but, happening to turn her eye towards De
Courcy, she saw him change colour, and, with an abruptness unlike his
usual manner, he snatched the boy from her arms, and, regardless of his
cries, dismissed him from the room.
This little incident did not contribute to the cheerfulness of the
group. Grieved to part with her favourite, and puzzled to account for De
Courcy's behaviour, Laura was now the most silent of the trio. She saw
nothing in the childish expression of fondness which should have moved
De Courcy; yet it had evidently stung him with sudden uneasiness. She
now recollected that she had more than once inquired who were the
parents of this child, and that the question had always been evaded. A
motive of curiosity prompted her now to repeat her inquiry, and she
addressed it to Mrs De Courcy. With a slight shade of embarrassment Mrs
De Courcy answered, 'His mother was the only child of our old servant; a
pretty, meek-spirited, unfortunate girl; and his father'--'His father's
crimes,' interrupted De Courcy, hastily, 'have brought their own
punishment; a punishment beyond mortal fortitude to bear;'--and,
catching up a book, he asked Laura whether she had seen it, endeavouring
to divert her attention by pointing out some passages to her notice.
Laura's curiosity was increased by this appearance of concealment, but
she had no means of gratifying it, and the subject vanished from her
mind when she thought of bidding farewell to her beloved friends,
perhaps for ever.
When she was about to go, Mrs De Courcy affectionately embraced her. 'My
dear child,' said she, 'second in my love and esteem only to my own
Montague, almost the warmest wish of my heart is to retain you always
with me; but, if that is impossible, short may your absence be, and may
you return to us as joyfully as we shall receive you.' Weeping, and
reluctant to part, Laura at last tore herself away. Hargrave had so
often stolen upon her walks that the fear of meeting him was become
habitual to her, and she wished to escape him by reaching home before
her return could be expected. As she leant on De Courcy's arms, ashamed
of being unable to suppress her sensibility, she averted her head, and
looked sadly back upon a dwelling endeared to her by many an innocent,
many a rational pleasure.
Absorbed in her regrets, Laura had proceeded a considerable way before
she observed that she held a trembling arm; and recollected that De
Courcy had scarcely spoken since their walk began. Her tears ceased
suddenly, while confused and disquieted, she quickened her pace. Soon
recollecting herself, she stopped; and thanking him for his escort,
begged that he would go no further. 'I cannot leave you yet,' said De
Courcy in a voice of restrained emotion, and again he led her onwards. A
few short sentences were all that passed till they had almost reached
the antique gate which terminated the winding part of the avenue. Here
Laura again endeavoured to prevail upon her companion to return, but
without success. With more composure than before, he refused to leave
her. Dreading to encounter Hargrave while De Courcy was in such evident
agitation, she besought him to go, telling him that it was her
particular wish that he should proceed no farther. He instantly stopped,
and, clasping her hand between his, 'Must I then leave you, Laura,' said
he; 'you whose presence has so long been the charm of my existence!' The
blood rushed violently into Laura's face, and as suddenly retired. 'And
can I,' continued De Courcy, 'can I suffer you to go without pouring out
my full heart to you?' Laura breathed painfully, and she pressed her
hand upon her bosom to restrain its swelling. 'To talk to you of
passion,' resumed De Courcy, 'is nothing. You have twined yourself with
every wish and every employment, every motive, every hope, till to part
with you is tearing my heart-strings.' Again he paused. Laura felt that
she was expected to reply, and, though trembling and breathless, made an
effort to speak. 'This is what I feared,' said she, 'and yet I wish you
had been less explicit, for there is no human being whose friendship is
so dear to me as yours; and now I fear I ought'--The sob which had been
struggling in her breast now choked her utterance, and she wept aloud.
'It is the will of heaven,' said she, 'that I should be reft of every
earthly friend.' She covered her face and stood labouring to compose
herself; while, heart-struck with a disappointment which was not
mitigated by all the gentleness with which it was conveyed, De Courcy
was unable to break the silence.
'Ungrateful! selfish that I am,' exclaimed Laura suddenly dashing the
tears from her eyes, 'thus to think only of my own loss, while I am
giving pain to the worthiest of hearts.--My best friend, I cannot indeed
return the regard with which you honour me, but I can make you cease to
wish that I should. And I deserve the shame and anguish I shall suffer.
She, whom you honour with your love,' continued she, the burning crimson
glowing in her face and neck, 'has been the sport of a passion, strong
as disgraceful--disgraceful as its object is worthless.'
Her look, her voice, her manner conveyed to De Courcy the strongest idea
of the torture which this confession cost her; and no sufferings of his
own could make him insensible to those of Laura. 'Cease, cease,' he
cried, 'best and dearest of women, do not add to my wretchedness the
thought of giving pain to you.' Then, after a few moments pause, he
continued, 'it would be wronging your noble candour to doubt that you
have recalled your affections.' 'In doing so,' answered Laura, 'I can
claim no merit. Infatuation itself could have been blind no longer.'
'Then why, dearest Laura,' cried De Courcy, his heart again bounding
with hope, 'why may not time and the fond assiduities of love'--'Ah!'
interrupted Laura, 'that is impossible. A mere preference I might give
you, but I need not tell you that I have no more to give.' 'My heavenly
Laura,' cried De Courcy, eager joy beaming in his eyes, 'give me but
this preference, and I would not exchange it for the fondest passion of
woman-kind.' 'You deceive yourself,' said Laura mournfully, 'miserably
deceive yourself. Such a sentiment could never content you. You would
miss a thousand little arts of happiness which love alone can teach;
observe a thousand nameless coldnesses which no caution could conceal;
and you would be unhappy without knowing perhaps of what to complain.
You, who would deserve the warmest affection to be content with mere
endurance! Oh no, I should be wretched in the bare thought of offering
you so poor a return.'
'Endurance, Laura! I should indeed be a monster to find joy in any thing
which you could describe by such a word. But must I despair of awakening
such affection as will make duty delightful, such as will enjoy the
bliss which it bestows?'
'Believe me, my dear friend,' said Laura in a voice as sweet, as
soothing, as ever conveyed the tenderest confession, 'believe me I am
not insensible to the value of your regard. It adds a new debt of
gratitude to all that Montreville's daughter owes you. My highest esteem
shall ever be yours, but after what I have confided to you, a moment's
consideration must convince you that all beyond is impossible.' 'Ah!'
thought De Courcy, 'what will it cost me to believe that it is indeed
impossible.' But Laura's avowal was not quite so fatal to his hopes as
she imagined; and while she supposed that he was summoning fortitude to
endure their final destruction, he stood silently pondering Mrs De
Courcy's oft repeated counsel to let love borrow the garb of friendship,
nor suffer him undisguised to approach the heart where, having once been
dethroned as an usurper, all was in arms against him.
'If I must indeed renounce every dearer hope,' resumed he, 'then in your
friendship, my ever dear Miss Montreville, I must seek the happiness of
my after-life, and surely'--'Oh no,' interrupted Laura, 'that must not
be--the part, the little part of your happiness which will depend upon
earthly connections, you must find in that of some fortunate woman who
has yet a heart to give.' 'How can you name it to me?' cried De Courcy
half indignantly! 'Can he who has known you Laura, admired in you all
that is noble, loved in you all that is enchanting, transfer his heart
to some common-place being?--You are my business--you are my pleasure--I
toil but to be worthy of you--your approbation is my sweetest
reward--all earthly things are precious to me but as you share in
them--even a better world borrows hope from you. And is this a love to
be bestowed on some soulless thing? No, Laura, I cannot, I will not
change. If I cannot win your love, I will admit no substitute but your
friendship.'
'Indeed, Mr De Courcy,' cried Laura, unconsciously pressing, in the
energy of speech, the hand which held hers. 'Indeed it is to no
common-place woman that I wish to resign you. Lonely as my own life must
be, its chief pleasures must arise from the happiness of my friends, and
to know that you are happy.'--Laura stopped, for she felt her own voice
grow tremulous. 'But we will not talk of this now,' resumed she, 'I
shall be absent for some months at least, and in that time you will
bring yourself to think differently. Promise me at least to make the
attempt.'
'No, Laura,' answered De Courcy, 'that I cannot promise. I will never
harass you with importunity or complaint, but the love of you shall be
my heart's treasure, it shall last though life--beyond life--and if you
cannot love me, give in return only such kind thoughts as you would
bestow on one who would promote your happiness at the expence of his
own. And promise me, dearest Laura, that when we meet, you will not
receive me with suspicion or reserve, as if you feared that I should
presume on your favour, or persecute you with solicitations. Trust to my
honour, trust to my love itself for sparing you all unavailing entreaty.
Promise me then, ever to consider me as a friend, a faithful tender
friend; and forget, till my weakness reminds you of it, that ever you
knew me as a lover.'
'Ah, Mr De Courcy,' cried Laura, tears filling her eyes, 'what thoughts
but the kindest can I ever have of him who comforted my father's
sorrows, who relieved--in a manner that made relief indeed a
kindness--relieved my father's wants? And what suspicion, what coldness
can I ever feel towards him whom my father loved and honoured! Yes I
will trust you; for I know that you are as far above owing favours to
compassion as to fear.'
'A thousand thanks, beloved Laura,' cried De Courcy, kissing her hands,
'and thus I seal our compact. One thing more; shall I trespass on your
noble frankness, if I ask you whether, had not another stolen the
blessing, I might have hoped to awaken a warmer regard? whether any
labour, any cares could have won for me what he has forfeited?'
Silent and blushing, Laura stood for a few moments with her eyes fixed
on the ground, then raising them, said, 'From you I fear no wrong
construction of my words, and will frankly own to you that for my own
sake, as well as yours, I wish you had been known to me ere the serpent
wound me in his poisoned folds. I believe, indeed, that no mortal but
himself could have inspired the same--what shall I call an infatuation
with which reason had nothing to do. But you have the virtues which I
have been taught to love, and--and--But what avails it now? I _was_
indeed a social creature; domestic habits, domestic wishes strong in me.
But what avails it now!'
'And was there a time when you could have loved me, Laura? Blessings on
you for the concession. It shall cheer my exiled heart when you are far
distant; sooth me with delightful day-dreams of what might have been;
and give my solitude a charm which none but you could bring to the most
social hour.'
'Your solitude, my honoured friend,' replied Laura, 'needs it not; it
has better and nobler charms; the charms of usefulness, of piety; and
long may these form your business and delight. But what makes me linger
with you. I meant to have hastened home that I might avoid one as unlike
to you as confidence is to fear; the feelings which you each
inspire--Farewell. I trust I shall soon hear that you are well and
happy.'
Loath to part, De Courcy endeavoured to detain her while he again gave
utterance to his strong affection; and when she would be gone, bade her
farewell in language so solemn, so tender, that all her self-command
could not repress the tears which trickled down her cheeks. They parted;
he followed her to beg that she would think of him sometimes. Again she
left him; again he had some little boon to crave. She reached the gate,
and looking back saw De Courcy standing motionless where she had last
quitted him. She beckoned a farewell. The gate closed after her, and De
Courcy felt as if one blank dreary waste had blotted the fair face of
nature.