As Lady Pelham's carriage passed the entrance of the avenue which led to
Norwood, Laura sunk into a profound reverie; in the course of which she
settled most minutely the behaviour proper for her first meeting with De
Courcy. She decided on the gesture of unembarrassed cordiality with
which she was to accost him; intending her manner to intimate that she
accounted him a friend, and only a friend. The awkwardness of a private
interview she meant to avoid by going to Norwood next day, at an hour
which she knew that Montague employed in reading aloud to his mother.
All this excellent arrangement, however, was unfortunately useless.
Laura was taking a very early ramble in what had always been her
favourite walk, when, at a sudden turn, she saw De Courcy not three
steps distant. Her white gown shining through the still leafless trees
had caught his attention, the slightest glimpse of her form was
sufficient for the eye of love, and he had advanced prepared to meet
her; while she, thus taken by surprise, stood before him conscious and
blushing. At this confusion, so flattering to a lover, De Courcy's heart
gave one bound of triumphant joy; but he was too modest to ascribe to
love what timidity might so well account for, and he prudently avoided
reminding Laura, even by a look, of either his hopes or his wishes.
Quickly recollecting herself, Laura entered into a conversation which,
though at first reserved and interrupted, returned by degrees to the
confidential manner which De Courcy had formerly won from her under the
character of her father's friend.
This confidence, so precious to him, De Courcy was careful never to
interrupt. From the time of Laura's return, he saw her almost daily. She
made long visits to Mrs De Courcy; he came often to Walbourne; they met
in their walks, in their visits; they spent a week together under Mr
Bolingbroke's roof; yet De Courcy religiously kept his promise, nor ever
wilfully reminded Laura that he had a wish beyond her friendship. Always
gentle, respectful and attentive, he never invited observation by
distinguishing her above others who had equal claims on his politeness.
She only shared his assiduities with every other woman whom he
approached; nor did he betray uneasiness when she, in her turn, received
attentions from others. His prudent self-command, had the effect which
he intended; and Laura, in conversing with him, felt none of the reserve
which may be supposed to attend intercourse with a rejected admirer. His
caution even at times deceived her. She recollected Mrs Douglas's
prophecy, that 'his attachment would soon subside into friendly regard,'
and imagined she saw its accomplishment. 'How happy are men in having
such flexible affections,' thought she with a sigh. 'I wonder whether he
has entirely conquered the passion which, three short months ago, was to
"last through life--beyond life?" I hope he has,' whispered she with a
deeper sigh; and she repeated it again--'I hope he has,'--as if by
repeating it, she would have ascertained that it was her real sentiment.
Yet, at other times, some little inadvertency, unheeded by less
interested observers, would awaken a doubt of De Courcy's self-conquest;
and in that doubt Laura unconsciously found pleasure. She often
reconsidered the arguments which her friend had used to prove that
passion is unnecessary to the happiness of wedded life. She did not
allow that she was convinced by them; but she half wished that she had
had an opportunity of weighing them before she had decided her fate with
regard to De Courcy. Meanwhile, much of her time was spent in his
company, and his presence had ever brought pleasure with it. Week after
week passed agreeably away, and the close of the winter atoned for the
disquiet which had marked its commencement.
During all this time, Laura saw nothing of Hargrave. His visits, indeed,
to Walbourne were more frequent than she supposed, but the only one of
which she had been informed, Lady Pelham affected to announce to her,
advising her to avoid it by spending that day at Norwood. Since their
return from town, her Ladyship had entirely desisted from her
remonstrances in his favour, and Laura hoped that his last outrage had
opened her aunt's eyes to the deformity of his character. And, could
Lady Pelham's end have been pursued without annoyance to any living
being, it would long before have shared the perishable nature of her
other purposes. But whatever conferred the invaluable occasion of
tormenting, was cherished by Lady Pelham as the dearest of her
concerns; and she only waited fit opportunity to shew that she could be
as stubborn in thwarting the wishes of others, as capricious in varying
her own. De Courcy's attachment could not escape her penetration; and as
she was far from intending to desert the cause of Hargrave, she saw,
with displeasure, the progressive advancement of Laura's regard for the
friend of her father. Though she was sufficiently acquainted with Laura
to know that chiding would effect no change in her sentiments or
conduct, she had not temper enough to restrain her upbraidings on this
subject, but varied them with all the skill and perseverance of a
veteran in provocation. 'She did not, she must confess, understand the
delicacy of ladies whose affections could be transferred from one man to
another. She did not see how any modest woman could find two endurable
men in the world. It was a farce to tell her of friendship and
gratitude, and such like stuff. Everybody knew the meaning of a
friendship between a girl of nineteen and a good-looking young fellow of
five-and-twenty. She wondered whether Laura was really wise enough to
imagine that De Courcy could afford to marry her; or whether, if he were
mad enough to think of such a thing, she could be so ungenerous as to
take advantage of his folly, to plunge him into irretrievable poverty;
and this too, when it was well known that a certain young heiress had
prior claims upon him.' Laura at first listened to these harangues with
tolerable _sang froid_; yet they became, she was unconscious why, every
day more provoking. Though she had self-command enough to be silent, her
changing colour announced Lady Pelham's victory, and it was followed up
without mercy or respite. It had, however, no other effect than that of
imposing a restraint when her Ladyship happened to be present; for De
Courcy continued his attentions, and Laura received him with increasing
favour.
Lady Pelham omitted none of the minor occasions of disturbing this
harmonious intercourse. She interrupted their tête à têtes, beset them
in their walks, watched their most insignificant looks, pried into their
most common-place messages, and dexterously hinted to the one whatever
foible she could see or imagine in the other. A casual breath of scandal
soon furnished her with a golden opportunity of sowing dissension, and
she lost no time in taking advantage of the hint. 'It is treating me
like a baby,' said she once to Laura, after opening in form her daily
attack; 'it is treating me like a mere simpleton to expect that you are
to deceive me with your flourishing sentiments about esteem and
gratitude. Have esteem and gratitude the blindness of love? Don't I see
that you overlook in your beloved Mr Montague De Courcy faults which in
another you would think sufficient excuse for any ill treatment that you
chose to inflict?' Laura kept silence; for of late she had found that
her temper could not stand a charge of this kind. 'What becomes of all
your fine high-flown notions of purity, and so forth,' continued Lady
Pelham, 'when you excuse his indiscretions with his mother's _protegée_,
and make a favourite and a plaything of his spoilt bantling?' Laura
turned pale, then reddened violently. 'What protegée? what bantling?'
cried she, quite thrown off her guard. 'I know of no indiscretions--I
have no playthings.'--'What! you pretend not to know that the brat he
takes so much notice of is his own. Did you never hear of his affair
with a pretty girl whom his mamma was training as a waiting-maid for her
fine-lady daughter.' 'Mr De Courcy, Madam!' cried Laura, making a
powerful struggle with her indignation--'He seduce a girl who as a
member of his family was doubly entitled to his protection! Is it
possible that your Ladyship can give credit to such a calumny?'
'Heyday,' cried Lady Pelham, with a provoking laugh, 'a most incredible
occurrence to be sure! And pray why should your immaculate Mr De Courcy
be impeccable any more than other people?' 'I do not imagine, Madam,'
returned Laura, with recovered self-possession, 'that Mr De Courcy, or
any of the human race, is perfectly sinless; but nothing short of proof
shall convince me that he is capable of deliberate wickedness; or even
that the casual transgressions of such a man can be so black in their
nature, so heinous in their degree. It were next to a miracle if one who
makes conscience of guarding his very thoughts, could, with a single
step, make such progress in iniquity.' 'It were a miracle indeed,' said
Lady Pelham, sneeringly, 'if you could be prevailed upon to believe any
thing that contradicts your romantic vagaries. As long as you are
determined to worship Mr De Courcy, you'll never listen to any thing
that brings him down from his pedestal.' 'It is wasting time,' returned
Laura calmly, 'to argue on the improbability of this malicious tale. I
can easily give your Ladyship the pleasure of being able to contradict
it. Mrs Bolingbroke is at Norwood. She will tell me frankly who is the
real father of little Henry, and I shall feel no difficulty in asking
her. Will you have the goodness to lend me the carriage for an hour?' 'A
pretty expedition truly!' cried Lady Pelham, 'and mighty delicate and
dignified it is for a young lady, to run about inquiring into the
pedigree of all the bastards in the county! I assure you, Miss
Montreville, I shall neither countenance nor assist such a scheme!'
'Then, Madam,' answered Laura coolly, 'I shall walk to Norwood. The
claims of dignity, or even of delicacy, are surely inferior to those of
justice and gratitude. But though it should subject me to the scorn of
all mankind, I will do what in me lies to clear his good name whose
kindness ministered the last comforts that sweetened the life of my
father.'
The manner in which these words were pronounced, shewed Lady Pelham that
resistance was useless. She was far from wishing to quarrel with the De
Courcy family, and she now began to fear that she should appear the
propagator of this scandal. Having little time to consult the means of
safety, since Laura was already leaving the room, she hastily said, 'I
suppose in your explanations with Mrs Bolingbroke, you will give me up
for your authority?' 'No, Madam,' replied Laura, with a scorn which she
could not wholly suppress, 'your Ladyship has no right to think so at
the moment when I am shewing such concern for the reputation of my
friends.' Lady Pelham would have fired at this disdain, but her
_quietus_ was at hand--she was afraid of provoking Laura to expose her,
and therefore she found it perfectly possible to keep her temper. 'If
you are resolved to go,' said she, 'you had better wait till I order the
carriage; I fear we shall have rain.' Laura at first refused; but Lady
Pelham pressed her, with so many kind concerns for a slight cold which
she had, that though she saw through the veil, she suffered her Ladyship
to wear it undisturbed. The carriage was ordered, and Laura hastened to
Norwood.
Though she entertained not the slightest doubt of De Courcy's integrity,
she was restless and anxious. It was easy to see that her mind was
pre-occupied during the few minutes which passed before, taking leave of
Mrs De Courcy, she begged Mrs Bolingbroke to speak with her apart.
Harriet followed her into another room; and Laura, with much more
embarrassment than she had expected to feel, prepared to begin her
interrogation. Harriet, from the thoughtful aspect of her companion,
anticipating something of importance, stood gravely waiting to hear what
she had to say; while Laura was confused by the awkwardness of
explaining her reason for the question she was about to ask. 'I have
managed this matter very ill,' said she at last, pursuing her thoughts
aloud. 'I have entered on it with so much formality, that you must
expect some very serious affair; and, after all, I am only going to ask
a trifling question. Will you tell me who is the father of my pretty
little Henry?' Harriet looked surprised, and answered,--'Really, my
dear, I am not sure that I dare. You inquired the same thing once
before; and just when I was going to tell you, Montague looked so
terrible, that I was forced to hold my tongue. But what makes you ask?
What! You won't tell? Then I know how it is. My prophecy has proved
true, and the good folks have given him to Montague himself. Ah! What a
tell-tale face you have, Laura! And who has told you this pretty story?'
'It is of no consequence,' replied Laura, 'that you should know my
authority, provided that I have yours to contradict the slander.' 'You
shall have better authority than mine,' returned Harriet. 'Those who
were malicious enough to invent such a tale of Montague, might well
assert that his sister employed falsehood to clear him. You shall hear
the whole from nurse Margaret herself; and her evidence cannot be
doubted. Come, will you walk to the cottage and hear what she has to
say?'
They found Margaret alone; and Harriet, impatient till her brother
should be fully justified, scarcely gave herself time to answer the old
woman's civilities, before she entered on her errand. 'Come, nurse,'
said she, with all her natural frankness of manner, 'I have something
particular to say to you. Let's shut the door and sit down. Do you know
somebody has been malicious enough to tell Miss Montreville that
Montague is little Henry's father.' Margaret lifted up her hands and
eyes. 'My young master, Madam!' cried she--'He go to bring shame and
sorrow into any honest man's family! If you'll believe me, Miss,'
continued she, turning to Laura, 'this is, begging your pardon, the
wickedest lie that ever was told.' Laura was about to assure her that
she gave no credit to the calumny, but Harriet, who had a double reason
for wishing that her friend should listen to Margaret's tale,
interrupted her, saying, 'Nurse, I am sure nothing could convince her so
fully as hearing the whole story from your own lips. I brought her
hither on purpose; and you may trust her, I assure you, for she is just
such a wise prudent creature as you always told me that I ought to be.'
'Ah, Madam,' answered Margaret, 'I know that; for John says she is the
prettiest-behaved young lady he ever saw; and says how fond my lady is
of her, and others too besides my lady, though it is not for servants to
be making remarks.' 'Come, then, nurse,' said Harriet, 'sit down between
us; and tell us the whole sad story of my poor foster-sister, and clear
your friend Montague from this aspersion.' Margaret did as she was
desired. 'Ah, yes!' said she, tears lending to her eyes a transient
brightness, 'I can talk of it now! Many a long evening John and I speak
of nothing else. She always used to sit between us,--but now we both sit
close together. But we are growing old,' continued she, in a more
cheerful tone, 'and in a little while we shall see them all again. We
had three of the prettiest boys!--My dear young lady, you will soon have
children of your own, but never set your heart upon them, nor be too
proud of them, for that is only provoking Providence to take them away.'
'I shall probably never have so much reason,' said Harriet, 'as you had
to be proud of your Jessy.' The mother's pride had survived its object;
and it brightened Margaret's faded countenance, as, pressing Harriet's
hand between her own, she cried, 'Ah, bless you! you were always kind to
her. She was indeed the flower of my little flock; and when the boys
were taken away, she was our comfort for all. But I was too proud of
her. Five years since, there was not her like in all the country round.
A dutiful child, too, and never made us sad or sorrowful till--and such
a pretty modest creature! But I was too proud of her.'
Margaret stopped, and covered her face with the corner of her apron.
Sympathizing tears stood in Laura's eyes; while Harriet sobbed aloud at
the remembrance of the play-fellow of her infancy. The old woman first
recovered herself. 'I shall never have done at this rate,' said she,
and, drying her eyes, turned to address the rest of her tale to Laura.
'Well, Ma'am, a gentleman who used to come a-visiting to the castle, by
ill fortune chanced to see her; and ever after that he noticed her and
spoke to her; and flattered me up, too, saying, what a fine-looking
young creature she was, and so well brought up too, and what a pity it
was that she should be destined for a tradesman's wife. So, like a fool
as I was, I thought no harm of his fine speeches, because Jessy always
said he behaved quite modest and respectful like. But John, to be sure,
was angry, and said that a tradesman was her equal, and that he hoped
her rosy cheeks would never give her notions above her station; and,
says he,--I am sure many and many a time I have thought of his
words--says he, 'God grant I never see worse come of her than to be an
honest tradesman's wife.' My young master, too, saw the gentleman one
day speaking to her; and he was so good as advise her himself, and told
her that the gentleman meant nothing honest by all his fine speeches. So
after that, she would never stop with him at all, nor give ear to a word
of his flatteries; but always ran away from him, telling him to say
those fine things to his equals. So, one unlucky day I had some matters
to be done in the town, and Jessy said she would like to go, and poor
foolish I was so left to myself that I let her go. So she dressed
herself in her clean white gown.--I remember it as were it but
yesterday. I went to the door with her, charging her to be home early.
She shook hands with me. Jessy, says I, you look just like a bride. So
she smiled. No, mother, says she, I shan't leave home so merrily the day
I leave it for all--and I never saw my poor child smile again. So she
went, poor lamb, little thinking!--and I stood in the door looking after
her, thinking, like a fool as I was, that my young master need not have
thought it strange though a gentleman had taken her for a wife, for
there were not many ladies that looked like her.'
Margaret rested her arms upon her knees, bent her head over them, made a
pause, and then began again. 'All day I was merry as a lark, singing and
making every thing clean in our little habitation here, where I thought
we should sit down together so happy when John came home at night from
the castle. So it was getting darkish before my work was done, and then
I began to wonder what was become of Jessy; and many a time I went
across the green to see if there was any sight of her. At last John came
home, and I told him that I was beginning to be frightened; but he
laughed at me, and said she had perhaps met with some of her comrades,
and was gone to take her tea with them. So we sat down by the fire; but
I could not rest, for my mind misgave me sadly; so says I, John, I will
go and see after my girl. Well, says he, we may as well go and meet
her.--Alas! Alas! a sad meeting was that! We went to the door; I opened
it, and somebody fell against me.--It was Jessy. She looked as dead as
she did the day I laid her in her coffin; and all her pretty cheek was
blue, and her pretty mouth, that used to smile so sweetly in my face
when she was a baby on my knee, it was all bloody. And her pretty
shining hair that I used to comb so often--Oh woe, woe is me! How could
I see such a sight and live.'
The mother wrung her withered hands, and sobbed as if her heart were
breaking. Laura laid her arms kindly round old Margaret's neck, for
misfortune made the poor and the stranger her equal and her friend. She
offered no words of unavailing consolation, but pitying tears trickled
fast down her cheeks; while Mrs Bolingbroke, her eyes flashing indignant
fires, exclaimed, 'Surely the curse of heaven will pursue that wretch!'
'Alas!' said Margaret, 'I fear I cursed him too; but I was in a manner
beside myself then. God forgive both him and me! My poor child never
cursed him. All that I could say she would not tell who it was that had
used her so. She said she should never bring him to justice; and always
prayed that his own conscience might be his only punishment. So from the
first we saw that her heart was quite broken; for she would never speak
nor look up, nor let me do the smallest thing for her, but always said
it was not fit that I should wait on such a one as she. Well, one night,
after we were all a-bed, a letter was flung in at the window of Jessy's
closet, and she crept out of her bed to take it. I can shew it you,
Miss, for it was under her pillow when she died.' Margaret, unlocking a
drawer, took out a letter and gave it to Laura, who read in it these
words:
'My dear Jessy, I am the most miserable wretch upon earth. I
wish I had been upon the rack the hour I met you. I am sure I
have been so ever since. Do not curse me, dear Jessy! Upon my
soul, I had far less thought of being the ruffian I have been
to you, than I have at this moment of blowing out my own
brains. I wish to heaven that I had been in your own station
that I might have made you amends for the injury I have done.
But you know it is impossible for me to marry you. I inclose a
bank-bill for £100, and I will continue to pay you the same sum
annually while you live, though you should never consent to see
me more. If you make me a father, no expence shall be spared to
provide the means of secrecy and comfort. No accommodation
which a wife could have shall be withheld from you. Tell me if
there be any thing more than I can do for you. I shall never
forgive myself for what I have done. I abhor myself, and from
this hour, I forswear all woman-kind for your sake. Once more,
dear Jessy, pardon me I implore you.'
This letter was without signature; but the hand-writing was familiar to
Laura, and could not be mistaken. It was Hargrave's. Shuddering at this
new proof of his depravity, Laura inwardly offered a thanksgiving that
she had escaped all connection with such a monster. 'You may trust my
friend with the wretch's name,' said Harriet, anxious that Laura's
conviction should be complete. 'She will make no imprudent use of it.'
'I should never have known it myself had it not been for this letter,'
answered Margaret. 'But my poor child wished to answer it, and she was
not able to carry the answer herself, so she was obliged to ask her
father to go with it. And first she made us both promise on the Bible,
never to bring him either to shame or punishment; and then she told us
that it was that same Major Hargrave that used to speak her so fair.
Here is the scroll that John took of her answer.'
'Sir, I return your money, for it can be of no use where I am
going. I will never curse you; but trust I shall to the last
have pity on you, who had no pity on me. I fear your sorrow is
not right repentance; for, if it was, you would never think of
committing a new sin by taking your own life, but rather of
making reparation for the great evil you have done. Not that I
say this in respect of wishing to be your wife. My station
makes that unsuitable, more especially now when I should be a
disgrace to any man. And I must say, a wicked person would be
as unsuitable among my friends; for my parents are honest
persons, although their daughter is so unhappy as to bring
shame on them. I shall not live long enough to disgrace them
any farther, so pray inquire no more of me, nor take the
trouble to send me money, for I will not buy my coffin with the
wages of shame; and I shall need nothing else. So, wishing that
my untimely end may bring you to a true repentance, I remain,
Sir, the poor dying disgraced,
'JESSY WILSON.'
'Ah, Miss,' continued Margaret, wiping from the paper the drops which
had fallen on it, 'my poor child's prophecy was true. She always said
she would just live till her child was born, and then lay her
dishonoured head and her broken heart in the grave. My Lady and Miss
Harriet there were very kind, and my young master himself was so good as
to promise that he would act the part of a father to the little orphan.
And he used to argue with her that she should submit to the chastisement
that was laid upon her, and that she might find some comfort still; but
she always said that her chastisement was less than she deserved, but
that she could never wish to live to be 'a very scorn of men, an outcast
and an alien among her mother's children.' So the day that little Henry
was born, she was doing so well that we were in hopes she would still be
spared to us; but she knew better; and, when I was sitting by her, she
pulled me close to her and said, 'Mother,' says she, looking pleased
like, 'the time of my release is at hand now,' and then she charged me
never to give poor little Henry to his cruel father. I had not the power
to say a word to her, but sat hushing the baby, with my heart like to
break. So, by and by, she said to me again; but very weak and low like,
'my brothers lie side by side in the churchyard, lay me at their feet;
it is good enough for me.' So she never spoke more, but closed her
eyes, and slipped quietly away, and left her poor old mother.'
A long paused followed Margaret's melancholy tale. 'Are you convinced,
my friend,' said Mrs Bolingbroke at length. 'Fully,' answered Laura, and
returned to silent and thankful meditation. 'My master,' said Margaret,
'has made good his promise to poor Jessy. He has shewn a father's
kindness to her boy. He paid for his nursing, and forces John to take a
board for him that might serve any gentleman's son; and now it will be
very hard if the end of all his goodness is to get himself ill spoken
of; and nobody saying a word against him that was the beginning of all
this mischief. But that is the way of the world.' 'It is so,' said
Laura. 'And what can better warn us that the earth was never meant for
our resting-place. The "raven" wings his way through it triumphant. The
"dove" finds no rest for the sole of her foot, and turns to the ark from
whence she came.'
Mrs Bolingbroke soon after took leave of her nurse, and the ladies
proceeded in their walk towards Walbourne. Harriet continued to express
the warmest detestation of the profligacy of Hargrave, while Laura's
mind was chiefly occupied in endeavouring to account for De Courcy's
desire to conceal from her the enormity which had just come to her
knowledge. Unable to divine his reason, she applied to Harriet. 'Why my
dear,' said she, 'should your brother have silenced you on a subject
which could only be mentioned to his honour?' 'He never told me his
reasons,' said Harriet smiling, 'but if you will not be angry I may try
to guess them.' 'I think,' said Laura, 'that thus cautioned, I may
contrive to keep my temper; so speak boldly.' 'Then, my dear,' said
Harriet, 'I may venture to say that I think he suspected you of a
partiality for this wretch, and would not shock you by a full disclosure
of his depravity. And I know,' added she, in a voice tremulous with
emotion, 'that in him this delicacy was virtue; for the peace of his
life depends on securing your affectionate, your exclusive preference.'
'Ah, Harriet, you have guessed right.--Yes! I see it all. Dear generous
De Courcy!' cried Laura, and burst into tears. Harriet had not time to
comment upon this agitation; for the next moment De Courcy himself was
at her side. For the first time, Laura felt embarrassed and distressed
by his presence. The words she had just uttered still sounded in her
ear, and she trembled lest they had reached that of De Courcy. She was
safe. Her exclamation was unheard by Montague,--but he instantly
observed her tears, and they banished from his mind every other idea
than that of Laura in sorrow. He paid his compliments like one whose
attention was distracted, and scarcely answered what his sister
addressed to him. Mrs Bolingbroke inwardly enjoying his abstraction and
Laura's embarrassment, determined not to spoil an opportunity which she
judged so favourable to her brother's suit. 'This close walk,' said she
with a sly smile, 'was never meant for a trio. It is just fit for a pair
of lovers. Now I have letters to write, and if you two will excuse
me'--De Courcy colouring crimson, had not presence of mind to make any
reply, while Laura, though burning with shame and vexation, answered
with her habitual self-command, 'Oh, pray my dear, use no ceremony. Here
are none but _friends_.' The emphasis which she laid upon the last word,
wrung a heavy sigh from De Courcy; who, while his sister was taking
leave, was renewing his resolution not to disappoint the confidence of
Laura.
The very circumstances which Mrs Bolingbroke had expected should lead to
a happy eclaircissement, made this interview the most reserved and
comfortless which the two friends had ever had. Laura was too conscious
to talk of the story which she had just heard, and she was too full of
it to enter easily upon any other subject. With her gratitude for the
delicacy which De Courcy had observed towards her, was mingled a keen
feeling of humiliation at the idea that he had discovered her secret
before it had been confided to him; for we can sometimes confess a
weakness which we cannot without extreme mortification see detected. Her
silence and depression infected De Courcy; and the few short constrained
sentences which were spoken during their walk, formed a contrast to the
general vivacity of their conversations. Laura however recovered her
eloquence as soon as she found herself alone with Lady Pelham. With all
the animation of sensibility, she related the story of the ill-fated
Jessy; and disclosing in confidence the name of her destroyer, drew, in
the fulness of her heart, a comparison between the violator of laws
human and divine, owing his life to the mercy of the wretch whom he had
undone, and the kind adviser of inexperienced youth, the humane
protector of forsaken infancy. Lady Pelham quietly heard her to an end;
and then wrinkling her eyelids, and peeping through them with her
glittering blue eyes, she began, 'Do you know, my dear, I never met with
prejudices so strong as yours? When will you give over looking for
prodigies? Would any mortal but you expect a gay young man to be as
correct as yourself? As for your immaculate Mr De Courcy, with his sage
advices, I think it is ten to one that he wanted to keep the girl for
himself. Besides, I'll answer for it, Hargrave would have bid farewell
to all his indiscretions if you would have married him.' 'Never name it,
Madam,' cried Laura warmly, 'if you would not banish me from your
presence. His marriage with me would have been itself a crime; a crime
aggravated by being, as if in mockery, consecrated to heaven. For _my_
connection with such a person no name is vile enough.' 'Well, well,'
said Lady Pelham, shrugging her shoulders, 'I prophesy that one day you
will repent having refused to share a title with the handsomest man in
England.' 'All distinctions between right and wrong,' returned Laura,
'must first be blotted from my mind. The beauty of his person is no more
to me than the shining colours of an adder; and the rank which your
Ladyship prizes so highly, would but render me a more conspicuous mark
for the infamy in which his wife must share.'
Awed by the lightnings of Laura's eye, Lady Pelham did not venture to
carry the subject farther for the present. She had of late been watching
an opportunity of procuring the re-admission of Hargrave to the presence
of his mistress; but this fresh discovery had served, if possible, to
widen the breach. Hargrave's fiery temper submitted with impatience to
the banishment which he had so well deserved, and he constantly urged
Lady Pelham to use her authority on his behalf. Lady Pelham, though
conscious that this authority had no existence, was flattered by having
power ascribed to her, and promised at some convenient season to
interfere. Finding herself, however, considerably embarrassed by a
promise which she could not fulfil without hazarding the loss of Laura,
she was not sorry that an opportunity occurred of evading the
performance of her agreement. She therefore acquainted Hargrave with
Laura's recent discovery, declaring that she could not ask her niece to
overlook entirely so great an irregularity. From a regard to the promise
of secrecy which she had given to Laura, as well as in common prudence,
Lady Pelham had resolved not to mention the De Courcy family as the
fountain from which she had drawn her intelligence. Principle and
prudence sometimes governed her Ladyship's resolutions, but seldom
swayed her practice. In the first interview with Hargrave which followed
this rational determination, she was led by the mere vanity of a babbler
to give such hints as not only enabled him to trace the story of his
shame to Norwood, but inclined him to fix the publishing of it upon
Montague.
From the moment when Hargrave first unjustly suspected Laura of a
preference for De Courcy, his heart had rankled with an enmity
which a sense of its ingratitude served only to aggravate. The cool
disdain with which De Courcy treated him--a strong suspicion of his
attachment,--above all, Laura's avowed esteem and regard--inflamed this
enmity to the bitterest hatred. Hopeless as he was of succeeding in his
designs by any fair or honourable means, he might have entertained
thoughts of relinquishing his suit; and of seeking, in a match of
interest, the means of escape from his embarrassments: but that Laura,
with all her unequalled charms, should be the prize of De Courcy, that
in her he should obtain all that beauty, affluence, and love could give,
was a thought not to be endured. Lady Pelham, too, more skilled to
practise on the passions of others than to command her own, was
constantly exciting him, by hints of De Courcy's progress in the favour
of Laura; while Lambert, weary of waiting for the tedious accomplishment
of his own scheme, continually goaded him, with sly sarcasms on his
failure in the arts of persuasion, and on his patience in submitting to
be baffled in his wishes by a haughty girl. In the heat of his
irritation, Hargrave often swore that no power on earth should long
delay the gratification of his love and his revenge. But to marry a
free-born British woman against her consent, is, in these enlightened
times, an affair of some difficulty; and Hargrave, in his cooler
moments, perceived that the object of three years eager pursuit was
farther than ever from his attainment.
Fortune seemed in every respect to oppose the fulfilment of his designs,
for his regiment at this time received orders to prepare to embark for
America; and Lord Lincourt, who had discovered his nephew's ruinous
connection with Lambert, had influence to procure, from high authority,
a hint that Hargrave would be expected to attend his duty on the other
side of the Atlantic.
The news of this arrangement Hargrave immediately conveyed to Lady
Pelham, urging her to sanction any means which could be devised for
making Laura the companion of his voyage. Lady Pelham hesitated to carry
her complaisance so far; but she resolved to make the utmost use of the
time which intervened to promote the designs of her favourite. Her
Ladyship was not at any time much addicted to the communication of
pleasurable intelligence, and the benevolence of her temper was not
augmented by a prospect of the defeat of a plan in which her vanity was
so much interested. She therefore maliciously withheld from her niece a
piece of information so likely to be heard with joy. It reached Laura,
however, by means of one who was ever watchful for her gratification. De
Courcy no sooner ascertained the truth of the report, than he hastened
to convey it to Laura.
He found her alone, and was welcomed with all her accustomed cordiality.
'I am sorry,' said he, with a smile which contradicted his words, 'I am
sorry to be the bearer of bad news to you; but I could not deny myself
the edification of witnessing your fortitude--Do you know that you are
on the point of losing the most assiduous admirer that ever woman was
blessed with? In three weeks Colonel Hargrave embarks for America. Nay,
do not look incredulous. I assure you it is true.' 'Thank Heaven,' cried
Laura, 'I shall once more be in peace and safety!' 'Oh, fie! Is this
your regret for so ardent a lover? Have you no feeling?' 'Just such a
feeling as the poor man had when he escaped from beneath the sword that
hung by a hair. Indeed, Mr De Courcy, I cannot tell you to what a degree
he has embittered the two last years of my life. But I believe,'
continued she, blushing very deeply, 'I need not explain to you any of
my feelings towards Colonel Hargrave, since I find you have I know not
what strange faculty of divining them.' Assisted by a conversation which
he had had with his sister, De Courcy easily understood Laura's meaning.
Respectfully taking her hand, 'Pardon me,' said he, in a low voice, 'if
I have ever ventured to guess what it was your wish to conceal from me.'
'Oh, believe me,' cried Laura, with a countenance and manner of mingled
candour and modesty, 'there is not a thought of my heart that I wish to
conceal from you; since from you, even my most humbling weaknesses are
sure of meeting with delicacy and indulgence. But since you are so good
an augur,' added she, with an ingenuous smile, 'I trust you perceive
that I shall need no more delicacy or indulgence upon the same score.'
The fascinating sweetness of her looks and voice, for the first time
beguiled De Courcy of his promised caution. 'Dear, dear Laura,' he
cried, fondly pressing her hand to his breast, 'it is I who have need of
indulgence, and I must--I must sue for it. I must repeat to you that--'
Laura's heart sprung to her lips, and unconsciously snatching away her
hand, she stood in breathless expectation of what was to follow.
'Madman, that I am!' cried De Courcy, recalled to recollection by her
gesture,--'whither am I venturing!' That was precisely what of all
things Laura was most desirous to know; and she remained with her eyes
fixed on the ground, half dreading the confidence, half the timidity of
her lover. A momentary glance at the speaking countenance of Laura,
glowing with confusion, yet brightened with trembling pleasure, awakened
the strongest hopes that ever had warmed De Courcy's bosom. 'Beloved
Laura,' said he, again tenderly approaching her, 'remember I am but
human. Cease to treat me with this beguiling confidence. Cease to
bewitch me with these smiles, which are so like all that I wish, or
suffer me to--' Laura started, as her attention was drawn by some one
passing close to the ground window near which they were standing. 'Ah!'
cried she, in a tone of vexation, 'there is my evil genius. Colonel
Hargrave is come into the house. He will be here this instant. Excuse me
for driving you away. I beseech you do not remain a moment alone with
him.'
Laura was not mistaken. She had scarcely spoken, ere, with a dark cloud
on his brow, Hargrave entered. He bowed to Laura, who was advancing
towards the door. 'I am afraid, Madam, I interrupt you,' said he,
darting a ferocious scowl upon De Courcy. Laura, without deigning even a
single glance in reply, left the room. Hargrave, as he passed the
window, had observed the significant attitude of the lovers; and his
jealousy and rage were inflamed to the uttermost by the scorn which he
had endured in the presence of his rival. Fiercely stalking up to De
Courcy, 'Is it to you, Sir,' said he, 'that I am indebted for this
insolence?' 'No Sir,' answered De Courcy, a little disdainfully. 'I have
not the honour of regulating Miss Montreville's civilities.' 'This is a
paltry evasion,' cried Hargrave. 'Is it not to your misrepresentations
of a youthful indiscretion that I owe Miss Montreville's present
displeasure?' 'I am not particularly ambitious of the character of an
informer,' answered De Courcy; and taking his hat wished Hargrave a
stately good morning. 'Stay, Sir!' cried Hargrave, roughly seizing him
by the arm. 'I must have some further conversation with you--You don't
go yet.' 'I am not disposed to ask your permission,' returned De Courcy;
and coolly liberating his arm, walked out of the house. Boiling with
rage, Hargrave followed him. 'It is easy to see, Sir,' said he, 'from
whence you borrow a spirit that never was natural to you--Your
presumption builds upon the partiality of that fickle capricious woman.
But observe, Sir, that I have claims on her; claims which she herself
was too happy in allowing; and no man shall dare to interfere with
them.' 'I shall dare,' returned De Courcy, anger kindling in his eyes,
'to inquire by what right you employ such expressions in regard to Miss
Montreville; and whether my spirit be my own or not, you shall find it
sufficient to prevent your holding such language in my presence.' 'In
your presence, or the presence of all the devils,' cried De Courcy, 'I
will maintain my right; and, if you fancy that it interferes with any
claim of yours, you know how to obtain satisfaction. There is but one
way to decide the business.' 'I am of your opinion,' replied De Courcy,
'that there is one way, provided that we can mutually agree to bide by
it; and that is, an appeal to Miss Montreville herself.' Hargrave turned
pale, and his lip quivered with rage. 'A mode of decision, no doubt,'
said he, 'which your vanity persuades you will be all in your favour!
No, no, Sir, our quarrel must be settled by means in which even your
conceit cannot deny my equality.' 'By a brace of pistols, you mean of
course,' said De Courcy, coolly; 'but I frankly tell you. Colonel
Hargrave, that my notions must have changed before I can find the
satisfaction of a gentleman in being murdered; and my principles, before
I shall seek it in murdering you.' 'Curse on your hypocrisy!' cried
Hargrave. 'Keep this canting to cozen girls, and let me avenge my wrongs
like a man, or the world shall know you, Sir.' 'Do you imagine,' said De
Courcy, with a smile of calm disdain, 'that I am to be terrified into
doing what I tell you I think wrong, by the danger of a little
misrepresentation? You may, if you think fit, tell the world that I will
not stake my life in a foolish quarrel, nor wilfully send an unrepenting
sinner to his great account; and, if you go on to ascribe for my
forbearance any motive which is derogatory to my character, I may, if
_I_ think fit, obtain justice as a peacable citizen ought; or I may
leave you undisturbed the glory of propagating a slander which even you
yourself believe to be groundless.'
De Courcy's coolness served only to exasperate his adversary. 'Truce
with this methodistical jargon!' cried he fiercely. 'It may impose upon
women, but I see through it, Sir--see that it is but a miserable trick
to escape what you dare not meet.' 'Dare not!' cried De Courcy,
lightnings flashing from his eye. 'My nerves have failed me, then,
since'--He stopped abruptly, for he scorned at such a moment to remind
his antagonist of the courageous effort to which he owed his life.
'Since when!' cried Hargrave, more and more enraged, as the recollection
which De Courcy had recalled, placed before him the full turpitude of
his conduct.--'Do you think I owe you thanks for a life which you have
made a curse to me, by cheating me of its dearest pleasures. But may
tortures be my portion if I do not foil you!'
The latter part of this dialogue was carried on in a close shady lane
which branched off from the avenue of Walbourne. The dispute was
proceeding with increasing warmth on both sides when it was interrupted
by the appearance of Laura. From a window she had observed the gentlemen
leave the house together; had watched Hargrave's angry gestures, and
seen De Courcy accompany him into the by-path. The evil which she had so
long dreaded seemed now on the point of completion; and alarm leaving no
room for reserve, she followed them with her utmost speed.
'Oh, Mr De Courcy,' she cried, with a look and attitude of most earnest
supplication, 'for mercy leave this madman!--If you would not make me
for ever miserable, carry this no further--I entreat--I implore you.
Fear for me, if you fear not for yourself.' The tender solicitude for
the safety of his rival, which Hargrave imagined her words and gestures
to express, the triumphant delight which they called up to the eyes of
De Courcy, exasperated Hargrave beyond all bounds of self-command.
Frantic with jealousy and rage, he drew, and rushed fiercely on De
Courcy; but Montague having neither fear nor anger to disturb his
presence of mind, parried the thrust with his cane, closed with his
adversary before he could recover, wrested the weapon from his hand; and
having calmly ascertained that no person could be injured by its fall,
threw it over the fence into the adjoining field. Then taking Hargrave
aside, he whispered that he would immediately return to him; and, giving
his arm to Laura, led her towards the house.
She trembled violently, and big tears rolled down her colourless cheeks,
as, vainly struggling with her emotion, she said, 'Surely you will not
endanger a life so precious, so'--She was unable to proceed; but, laying
her hand on De Courcy's arm, she raised her eyes to his face, with such
a look of piteous appeal as reached his very soul. Enchanted to find his
safety the object of such tender interest, he again forgot his caution;
and, fondly supporting with his arm the form which seemed almost sinking
to the earth, 'What danger would I not undergo,' he cried, 'to purchase
such concern as this! Be under no alarm, dear Miss Montreville. Even if
my sentiments in regard to duelling were other than they are, no
provocation should tempt me to implicate your revered name in a quarrel
which would, from its very nature, become public.' Somewhat
tranquillized by his words, Laura walked silently by his side till they
reached the house, when, in a cheerful tone, he bade her farewell. 'A
short farewell,' said he, 'for I must see you again this evening.'
Laura could scarcely prevail on herself to part from him. 'May I trust
you?' said she, with a look of anxiety that spoke volumes. 'Securely,
dearest Laura,' answered he. 'He whom you trust needs no other motive
for rectitude.' He then hastened from her into the field, whither he had
thrown Hargrave's sword; and having found it, sprung over into the lane
where he had left its owner. Gracefully presenting it to him, De Courcy
begged pardon for having deprived him of it, 'though,' added he, 'I
believe you are now rather disposed to thank me for preventing the
effects of a momentary irritation.' Hargrave took his sword, and, in
surly silence walked on; then, suddenly stopping, he repeated that there
was only one way in which the quarrel could be decided; and asked De
Courcy whether he was determined to refuse him satisfaction. 'The only
satisfaction,' returned De Courcy, 'which is consistent with my notions
of right and wrong, I will give you now, on the spot. It is not to my
information that you owe Miss Montreville's displeasure. Circumstances,
which I own were wholly foreign to any consideration of your interests,
induced me to keep your secret almost as if it had been my own; and it
is from others that she has learnt a part of your conduct, which, you
must give me leave to say, warrants, even on the ground of modern
honour, my refusal to treat you as an equal.' 'Insolent!' cried
Hargrave, 'Leave me--avoid me, if you would not again provoke me to
chastise you, unarmed as you are.' 'My horses wait for me at the gate,'
said De Courcy, coolly proceeding by his side, 'and your way seems to
lie in the same direction as mine.'
The remainder of the way was passed in silence. At the gate, De Courcy
mounting his horse, bid his rival good morning, which the other returned
with an ungracious bow. De Courcy rode home, and Hargrave, finding
himself master of the field, returned to Walbourne. There he exerted his
utmost influence with Lady Pelham to procure an opportunity of excusing
himself to Laura. Lady Pelham confessed that she could not venture to
take the tone of command, lest she should drive Laura to seek shelter
elsewhere; but she promised to contrive an occasion for an interview
which he might prolong at his pleasure, provided such a one could be
found without her apparent interference. With this promise he was
obliged for the present to content himself, for, during his stay, Laura
did not appear. She passed the day in disquiet. She could not rest. She
could not employ herself. She dreaded lest the interview of the morning
should have been only preparatory to one of more serious consequence.
She told herself a hundred times that she was sure of De Courcy's
principles; and yet feared as if they had been unworthy of confidence.
He had promised to see her in the evening, and she anxiously expected
the performance of his promise. She knew that if he came while Lady
Pelham was in the way, her Ladyship would be too vigilant a guard to let
one confidential word be exchanged. She therefore, with a
half-pardonable cunning, said not a word of De Courcy's promised visit;
and as soon as her aunt betook herself to her afternoon's nap, stole
from the drawing-room to receive him. Yet perhaps she never met him with
less semblance of cordiality. She blushed and stammered while she
expressed her hopes that the morning's dispute was to have no further
consequences, and apologized for the interest she took in it, in
language more cold than she would have used to a mere stranger. Scarcely
could the expression of tenderness have delighted the lover like this
little ill-concealed affectation, the first and the last which he ever
witnessed in Laura Montreville. 'Ah, dearest Laura,' cried he, 'it is
too late to retract--You have said that my safety was dear to you; owned
that it was for _me_ you feared this morning, and you shall not cancel
your confession.' Laura's colour deepened to crimson, but she made no
other reply. Then, with a more timid voice and air, De Courcy said, 'I
would have told you _then_ what dear presumptuous hopes your anxiety
awakened, but that I feared to extort from your agitation what perhaps a
cooler moment might refuse me. My long-loved, ever dear Laura, will you
pardon me these hopes? Will you not speak to me?--Not one little word to
tell me that I am not too daring.' Laura spoke not even that little
word. She made a faint struggle to withdraw the hand which De Courcy
pressed. Yet the lover read the expressions of her half-averted face,
and was satisfied.