'Pray,' said Lady Pelham to her niece, 'what might you and your paragon
be engaged in for the hour and a half you were together this evening?'
'We were discussing a very important subject, Madam,' answered Laura,
mustering all her confidence.
'May I be permitted to inquire into the nature of it?' returned Lady
Pelham, covering her spleen with a thin disguise of ceremony.
'Certainly, Madam,' replied Laura. 'You may remember I once told you
that if ever I received addresses which I could with honour reveal, I
should bespeak your Ladyship's patience for my tale. Mr De Courcy was
talking of marriage, Madam; and--and I--'
'Oh, mighty well, Miss Montreville,' cried Lady Pelham, swelling with
rage, 'I comprehend you perfectly. You may spare your modesty. Keep all
these airs and blushes till you tell Colonel Hargrave, that all your
fine high-flown passion for him has been quite at the service of the
next man you met with!'
Laura's eyes filled with tears of mortification, yet she meekly
answered, 'I am conscious that the degrading attachment of which I was
once the sport merits your upbraidings; and indeed they have not been
its least punishment.' She paused for a moment, and then added with an
insinuating smile. 'I can bear that you should reproach me with my new
choice, for inconstancy is the prescriptive right of woman, and nothing
else can be objected to my present views.'
'Oh, far be it from me!' cried Lady Pelham, scorn and anger throwing her
whole little person into active motion, 'far be it from me to make any
objection to your immaculate swain! I would have you understand,
however, that no part of my property shall go to enrich a parcel of
proud beggars. It was indeed my intention, if you had made a proper
match, to give you the little all that I have to bestow; but if you
prefer starving with your methodist parson to being the heiress of
five-and-forty thousand pounds, I have no more to say. However, you had
better keep your own secret. The knowledge of it might probably alter Mr
De Courcy's plans a little.'
'Your Ladyship,' answered Laura, with spirit, 'has good access to know
that the love of wealth has little influence on my purposes; and I
assure you that Mr De Courcy would scorn upon any terms to appropriate
what he considers as the unalienable right of your own child. Though we
shall not be affluent, we shall be too rich for your charity, and that
is the only claim in which I could compete with Mrs Herbert.'
This mention of her daughter exasperated Lady Pelham to fury. In a voice
half-choked with passion, she cried, 'Neither that rebellious wretch nor
any of her abbettors or imitators shall ever have countenance or
assistance from me. No! Not though they should beg with their starved
bantlings from door to door.' To this intemperate speech Laura made no
reply, but quietly began to pour out the tea. Lady Pelham continued to
hurry up and down the room, chafing, and venting her rage in common
abuse; for a scold in the drawing-room is not very unlike a scold at a
green-stall. The storm meeting with no opposition, at length spent
itself; or subsided into short growlings, uttered at the intervals of a
surly silence. To these, as no answer was absolutely necessary, none was
returned. Laura did not utter a syllable, till Lady Pelham's wrath
beginning to give place to her curiosity, she turned to her niece,
saying, 'Pray, Miss Montreville, when and where is this same wise
marriage of yours to take place?'
'The time is not quite fixed, Madam,' answered Laura. 'As soon as you
can conveniently spare me, I intend going to Scotland; and when you, and
Mrs De Courcy wish me to return, Mr De Courcy will escort me back.'
'I spare you!' returned Lady Pelham with a sneer--'Oh, Ma'am, if that is
all, pray don't let me retard your raptures. You may go tomorrow, or
to-night, Ma'am if you please.--Spare you indeed! Truly while I can
afford to pay a domestic, I need not be dependent on your assistance;
and in attachment or gratitude any common servant may supply your
place.'
The rudeness and ingratitude of this speech again forced the tears to
Laura's eyes; but she mildly replied, 'Well, Madam, as soon as you find
a substitute for me, I shall be ready to depart.' Then to escape
further insult she quitted the room.
Lady Pelham's wrath at the derangement of her plan would not suffer her
to rest till she had communicated the disaster to Colonel Hargrave.
Early next morning, accordingly, she dispatched a note requiring his
immediate presence at Walbourne. He obeyed the summons, and was as usual
privately received by Lady Pelham. He listened to her intelligence with
transports of rage rather than of sorrow. He loaded his rival with
execrations, declaring that he would rather see Laura torn in pieces
than know her to be the wife of De Courcy. He swore that he would
circumvent their schemes, and that though his life should be the
forfeit, he would severely revenge the sufferings he had endured.
Lady Pelham had not courage to encounter the evil spirit which she had
raised. Subdued, and crouching before his violence, she continued to
give a terrified assent to every extravagance he uttered, till he
announced his resolution of seeing Laura on the instant, that he might
know whether she dared to confirm this odious tale. Lady Pelham then
ventured to represent to him that Laura might be so much offended by
this breach of contract, as to take refuge with Mrs De Courcy, a measure
which would oppose a new obstacle to any scheme for breaking off the
intended marriage. She assured him that she would grant every reasonable
assistance in preventing a connection so injurious to her niece's
interest, though she knew Laura's obstinacy of temper too well to hope
any thing from direct resistance. She hinted that it would be most
prudent to give the desired interview the appearance of accident, and
she promised to contrive the occasion as soon as Hargrave was
sufficiently calm to consider of improving it to best advantage.
But calm was a stranger to the breast of Hargrave. The disquiet which is
the appointed portion of the wicked, raged there beyond control. To the
anguish of disappointment were added the pangs of jealousy, and the
heart-burnings of hatred and revenge. Even the loss of the object of
three years eager pursuit was less cutting than the success of De
Courcy; and the pain of a forfeiture which was the just punishment of a
former crime, was heightened to agony by the workings of such passions
as consummate the misery of fiends.
The associates of the wicked must forego the consolations of honest
sympathy. All Hargrave's tortures were aggravated by the sarcasms of
Lambert; who, willing to hasten the fever to its crisis, goaded him with
coarse comments upon the good fortune of his rival, and advices (which
he well knew would act in a direction opposite to their seeming purpose)
to desist from further competition. After spending four-and-twenty hours
in alternate fits of rage and despair, Hargrave returned to Lady Pelham,
informing her, that whatever were the consequences, he would no longer
delay seeing Laura. Lady Pelham had foreseen this demand; and though not
without fear of the event, had prepared for compliance. She had already
arranged her scheme, and the execution was easy.
Laura's favourite walk in the shrubbery led to a little summer-house,
concealed in a thicket of acacias. Thither Lady Pelham had conveyed some
dried plants, and had requested Laura's assistance in classing them.
Laura had readily agreed, and that very morning had been allotted for
the task. Lady Pelham, having first directed Hargrave where to take his
station, accompanied her unsuspecting niece to the summer-house, and
there for a while joined in her employment. Soon, however, feigning a
pretext for half an hour's absence, she quitted Laura, intending at
first to loiter in the shrubbery, as a kind of safeguard against the ill
consequences of her imprudent connivance; but meeting with a gardener
who was going to transplant a bed of favourite auriculas, she followed
him to watch over their safety, leaving her niece to guard her own.
Scarcely had Laura been a minute alone, ere she was startled by the
entrance of Hargrave, and seriously alarmed by seeing him lock the door,
and deliberately secure the key. 'What is it you mean, Sir?' said she,
trembling.
'To decide your fate and mine!' answered Hargrave, with a look and voice
that struck terror to her soul. 'I am told you are a bride, Laura,' said
he, speaking through his clenched teeth. 'Say,' continued he, firmly
grasping her arm. 'Speak! is it so?'
'I know no right,' said Laura, recovering herself, 'that you have to
question me--nor meanly thus to steal--'
'No evasions!' interrupted Hargrave, in a voice of thunder. 'I have
rights--rights which I will maintain while I have being. Now tell me, if
you dare, that you have transferred them to that abhorred--'
He stopped,--his utterance choked by the frenzy into which he had worked
himself. 'What has transported you to this fury, Colonel Hargrave?' said
Laura, calmly. 'Surely you must be sensible, that whatever claims I
might once have allowed you, have long since been made void by your own
conduct. I will not talk to you of principle, though that were of itself
sufficient to sever us forever; but ask yourself what right you can
retain over the woman whom you have insulted, and forsaken, and
oppressed, and outraged?'
'Spare your taunts, Laura. They will only embitter the hour of
retribution. And may hell be my portion, if I be not richly repaid for
all the scorn you have heaped upon me. I will be revenged, proud woman.
You shall be at my mercy, where no cool canting villain can wrest you
from me!'
His threats, and the frightful violence with which they were uttered,
filled Laura with mingled dread and pity. 'Command yourself, I beseech
you, Colonel Hargrave,' said she. 'If you resent the pain which, believe
me, I have most unwillingly occasioned, you are amply revenged. You have
already caused me sufferings which mock description.'
'Yes, yes. I know it,' cried Hargrave in a milder voice. 'You were not
then so hard. You could feel when that vile wanton first seduced me from
you. Then think what I now endure, when this cold-blooded--but may I
perish if I do not snatch his prize from him. And think not of
resistance, Laura; for, by all that I have suffered, resistance shall be
vain.'
'Why do you talk so dreadfully to me?' said Laura, making a trembling
effort to release her arm, which he still firmly grasped. 'Why, why will
you not cease to persecute me? I have never injured you. I have
forgiven, pitied, prayed for you. How have I deserved this worse than
savage cruelty?'
'Laura,' said Hargrave, moved by the pleadings of a voice which would
have touched a murderer's heart, 'you have still a choice. Promise to be
mine. Permit me only, by slow degrees, to regain what I have lost. Say
that months--that years hence you will consent, and you are safe.'
'Impossible!' said Laura. 'I cannot bind myself. Nor could you trust a
promise extorted by fear. Yet be but half what I once thought you, and I
will esteem--'
'Esteem!' interrupted Hargrave, with a ghastly smile. 'Yes! And shrink
from me, as you do now, while you hang on that detested wretch till even
his frozen heart warm to passion. No!' continued he, with an awful
adjuration, 'though the deed bring me to the scaffold, you shall be
mine. You shall be my wife, too, Laura,--but not till you have besought
me--sued at my feet for the title you have so often despised. I will be
master of your fate, of that reputation, that virtue which you
worship--and your minion shall know it, that he may writhe under
jealousy and disappointment.'
'Powers of Mercy!' cried Laura, raising her eyes in strong compunction,
'have I made this mine idol!' Then, turning on Hargrave a look of deep
repentance, 'Yes,' she continued, 'I deserve to see thee as thou art,
without mitigation vile; since on thee my sacrilegious heart bestowed
such love as was due to the Infinite alone!'
'Oh, Laura,' cried Hargrave, softened by the remembrance of her youthful
affection, 'let but one faint spark of that love revive, and I will
forget all your scorns, and feel again such gentle wishes as blest our
first hours of tenderness. Or only swear that you will renounce that
bane of my existence--that you will shrink from him, shun him like a
serpent!--Or give me your word only, and I will trust it. Your liberty,
your person, shall be as sacred as those of angels. Promise them--'
'Why do you attempt to terrify me?' said Laura, her indignation rising
as her alarm subsided. 'I have perhaps no longer the right--even if I
had the inclination--to utter such a vow. I trust that, in this land of
freedom, I am safe from your violence. My reputation, frail as it is,
you cannot harm without permission from on high; and if, for wise
purposes, the permission be given, I doubt not that I shall be enabled
to bear unjust reproach,--nay, even to profit by the wrong.'
Hargrave suffered her to conclude; rage bereft him, for a time, of the
power of utterance. Then, bursting into a torrent of reproach, he
upbraided her in language the most insulting. 'Do you dare to own,' said
he, 'that your base inclinations favour that abhorred--that this
accursed marriage is your choice--your free choice?' He paused in vain
for a reply. Laura would not irritate him further, and scorned to
disguise the truth. 'Then, Laura,' said he, and he confirmed the
sentence with a dreadful oath, 'you have sealed your fate. Think you
that your De Courcy shall foil me? By Heaven, I will see you perish
first. I will tear you from him, though I answer it with my life and
soul. Let this be the pledge of my triumph'--and he made a motion to
clasp her rudely in his arms. With a cry of dread and horror, Laura
sprung from him, and, throwing open the casement, called loudly for
assistance. Hargrave forced her back. 'Spare your alarms, my lovely
proud one,' said he, with a smile, which made her blood run cold. 'You
are safe till we meet where cries will be useless. What! may I not even
kiss this pretty hand, as earnest that you shall soon be mine beyond the
power of fate?' 'Silence, audacious!' cried Laura, bursting into tears
of mingled fear and indignation, while she struggled violently to
disengage her hands. 'Nay, this rosy cheek will content me better,'
cried Hargrave, and was again attempting to clasp her--when the door was
burst suddenly open, and De Courcy appeared.
'Ruffian!' he exclaimed, approaching Hargrave, who, in his surprise,
permitted his prey to escape. Her fears now taking a new direction,
Laura flew to intercept De Courcy. 'Ah!' she cried, 'my folly has done
this. Fly from this madman, I entreat you. I have nothing to fear but
for you. Begone, I implore you.'
'And leave you to such treatment! Not while I have life! When you choose
to go, I will attend you. For you, Sir!--But I must stoop below the
language of a gentleman ere I find words to describe your conduct.'
'For Heaven's sake,' cried Laura, 'dear De Courcy, provoke him no
further. Let us fly this place;' and clinging to De Courcy's arm, she
drew him on; while, with the other, he defended her from Hargrave, who
had advanced to detain her. Her expression of regard, her confiding
attitude, exasperated the frenzy of Hargrave to the uttermost. Almost
unconscious of his actions, he drew a pistol from his pocket and fired.
Laura uttered a cry of terror, clasping her lover's arm more closely to
her breast. 'Be not alarmed love,' whispered De Courcy. 'It is
nothing!'--and staggering forward a few paces, he fell to the ground.
Laura, in desperation rushed from the summer-house, calling wildly for
help; then struck with the fearful thought that Hargrave might complete
his bloody work, she hastened back. During the few moments of her
absence, De Courcy addressed his murderer, whose rage had given place to
a mild stupor. 'I fear this is an unlucky stroke, Hargrave. Save
yourself. My horse is at the gate.' Hargrave answered only with a groan;
and, striking his clenched hand on his forehead, turned away. His crime
was unpremeditated. No train of self-deceit had reconciled his
conscience to its atrocity. The remembrance of the courage which had
saved his life; the generous concern of De Courcy for his safety;
humility, the last virtue which utterly forsakes us, all awakened him to
remorse, keen and overwhelming, like every other passion of Hargrave.
Not bearing to look upon his victim, he stood fixed and motionless;
while Laura, on her knees, watched, in dismay, the changing countenance
of De Courcy, and strove to staunch the blood which was streaming from
his wound.
De Courcy once more tried to cheer Laura with words of comfort. 'Were
it not,' said he, 'for the pleasure this kind concern gives me, I might
tell you that I do not suffer much pain. I am sure I could rise, if I
could trust this slender arm,' laying his hand gently upon it. Laura
eagerly offered her assistance as he attempted to raise himself; but the
effort overpowered him, and he sunk back fainting.
In the strong language of terror, Laura besought Hargrave to procure
help. Still motionless, his forehead resting against the wall, his hands
clenched as in convulsion, Hargrave seemed not to heed her entreaties.
'Have you no mercy?' cried she, clasping the arm from which she had so
lately shrunk in horror. 'He saved your life. Will you let him perish
without aid?' 'Off, woman!' cried Hargrave, throwing her from him. 'Thy
witchcraft has undone me;' and he distractedly hurried away.
Laura's terror was not the passive cowardice of a feeble mind. She was
left alone to judge, to act, for herself--for more than herself.
Immediate, momentous decision was necessary. And she did decide by an
effort of which no mind enfeebled by sloth or selfishness would have
been capable. She saw that loss of blood was the cause of De Courcy's
immediate danger, a danger which might be irremediable before he could
receive assistance from more skilful hands than her's. Such remedy,
then, as she could command she hastened to apply.
To the plants which their beauty had recommended to Lady Pelham, Laura
had added a few of which the usefulness was known to her. Agaric of the
oak was of the number, and she had often applied it where many a hand
less fair would have shrunk from the task. Nor did she hesitate now. The
ball had entered near the neck; and the feminine, the delicate Laura
herself disengaged the wound from its coverings; the feeling, the tender
Laura herself performed an office from which false sensibility would
have recoiled in horror.
She was thus employed when she was found by a woman whom Hargrave had
met and sent to her assistance, with an indistinct message, from which
Laura gathered that he was gone in search of a surgeon. The woman no
sooner cast her eyes on the bloody form of De Courcy, and on the
colourless face of Laura, more death-like than his, than, with noisy
imbecility, she began to bewail and ejaculate. Laura, however, instantly
put a stop to her exclamations by dispatching her for cordials and
assistance. In a few minutes all the household was assembled round De
Courcy; yet such was the general curiosity, horror, or astonishment,
that he would have remained unaided but for the firmness of her who was
most interested in the scene. She dismissed every one whose presence
was unnecessary, and silenced the rest by peremptory command. She
administered a cordial to recruit the failing strength of De Courcy; and
causing him to be raised to the posture which seemed the least painful,
made her own trembling arms his support.
Nothing further now remained to be done, and Laura began to feel the
full horrors of her situation; to weigh the fearful probability that all
her cares were vain; to upbraid herself as the cause of this dire
tragedy. Her anguish was too great to find relief in tears. Pale and
cold as marble, chilly drops bursting from her forehead, she sat in the
stillness of him who waits the sentence of condemnation, save when a
convulsive shudder expressed her suffering.
The mournful quiet was interrupted by the entrance of Lady Pelham, who,
quite out of breath, began a string of questions, mixed with abundance
of ejaculation. 'Bless my soul!' she cried, 'how has all this happened?
For heaven's sake, Laura, tell me the meaning of all this. Why don't you
speak, girl? Good Lord! could you not have prevented these madmen from
quarrelling? What brought De Courcy here? How did he find you out? Why
don't you speak. Mercy on me! Is the girl out of her senses?'
The expression of deep distress with which Laura now raised her eyes,
reminded Lady Pelham of the sensibility requisite upon such an occasion,
which her Ladyship's curiosity had hitherto driven from her
recollection. Approaching, therefore, to De Courcy, she took a hasty
look at this dismal spectacle; and exclaiming, 'Oh what a sight is here!
Unfortunate Laura! Dear wretched girl!' she began first to sob, and then
to scream violently. Laura motioned to the attendants to lead her away;
and she suffered them to do so without resistance; but she had no sooner
crossed the threshold, than, perceiving the spectators whom curiosity
had collected in the shrubbery, she redoubled her shrieks, struggled,
beat herself; and, but for the untoward strength of her nerves, would
have soon converted her pretended fit into reality. Wearied with her
efforts, she was beginning to relax them, when the surgeon appeared, and
her Ladyship was more vociferous than ever. Mr Raby, a quiet sensible
man, undertook her care before he proceeded to his more serious
business; and, either guided by his previous acquaintance with his
patient, or by his experience in similar cases, gave a prescription
which, though simple was perfectly efficacious. He directed that the
lady should be instantly secluded in her own chamber, with only one
attendant; and the remedy proved so beneficial, that her Ladyship
enjoyed a night of tranquil repose.
He next turned his attention to De Courcy; and judging it proper to
extract the ball without delay, advised Laura to retire. Without
opposition she prepared to obey; and, seeing De Courcy about to speak,
put her hand on his lips to save him the exertion, and herself the pain
of a farewell. Yet, as she resigned her charge, raising her eyes to
heaven, once more to commend De Courcy to the divine protection, the
fervour of her supplication burst into words. 'Oh if it be possible! if
it be possible!'--she cried. 'Yes it is possible,' said De Courcy,
comprehending the unfinished sentence. 'Your firmness, noble creature,
has made it possible.' Reproaching herself with having allowed De Courcy
to perceive her alarm, she hastened away; and seating herself on the
steps that led to the door, awaited in silence the event of the
operation.
Here, as she sorrowfully called to mind the various excellencies of De
Courcy, his piety, his integrity, his domestic virtues, so lately known,
so soon to be lost to her, she suddenly recollected the heavier calamity
of the mother deprived of such a son, and perceived the inhumanity of
permitting the stroke to fall without preparation. Having access to no
messenger more tender than a common servant, she determined, though with
unspeakable reluctance, herself to bear the tidings to Mrs De Courcy. 'I
will know the worst,' thought she, 'and then'--
She started at a faint noise that sounded from the summer-house. Steps
approached the door from within. She sprung up, and the surgeon
appeared. 'I have the happiness to tell you,' said he, 'that, if no
fever take place, our friend is safe. The chief danger has been from
loss of blood; and your presence of mind--Ah!--Do you feel faint?'--
The awful interest which had supported the spirits of Laura thus
suddenly withdrawn, the tide of various feeling overpowered them; and
she sunk into one of those long and deep faintings which were now
unhappily become in some degree constitutional with her. Mr Raby having
given directions for her recovery, placed De Courcy in Lady Pelham's
carriage, and himself attended him to Norwood; where he mitigated Mrs De
Courcy's horror and distress by assuring her of her son's safety, which
he again delighted Montague by ascribing to the cares of Laura.
It was late in the evening before Laura was sufficiently collected to
review with composure the events of the day! As soon, however, as she
was capable of considering all the circumstances, a suspicion occurred
that her unfortunate interview with Hargrave had been sanctioned, if not
contrived by Lady Pelham. That he should know the place and the hour in
which he might surprise her alone;--that to this place, which because of
its loneliness she had of late rather deserted, she should be conducted
by her aunt;--that at this moment she should upon a trivial pretence be
left in solitude,--seemed a coincidence too strong to be merely
accidental. She recollected some symptoms of private communication
between Lady Pelham and Hargrave. Suspicions of connivance in the
infamous strategem of her arrest again revived in her mind. Lady Pelham,
she perceived, had afforded her a protection at best imperfect, perhaps
treacherous. Hargrave's late threats too, as she revolved them in her
thoughts, appeared more like the intimations of settled design than the
vague ravings of passion. Prudence, therefore, seemed to require that
she should immediately provide for her own safety: and indignation at
her aunt's breach of confidence, hastened the purpose which she formed,
to leave Walbourne without delay. She determined to go the next morning
to Norwood, there to remain till De Courcy shewed signs of
convalescence, and then perform her long-projected journey to Scotland.
In order to avoid unpleasant altercation, she resolved to depart without
warning Lady Pelham of her intention; merely announcing by letter the
reasons of her conduct. The affectionate Laura would not have parted
from the meanest servant without a kindly farewell; but her innate
abhorrence of treachery steeled her heart, and she rejoiced that it was
possible to escape all present intercourse with her deceitful kinswoman.
As soon as the dawn appeared she arose; and on her knees thankfully
acknowledged the protecting care which had watched over her, since first
as a destitute orphan she applied to Lady Pelham. She blessed the
goodness which had softened in her favour a heart little subject to
benevolent expressions, which had restored her in sickness, consoled her
in sorrow, delivered her from the snares of the wicked, and opened to
her the joys of virtuous friendship. And where is the wretch so
miserable that he may not in the review of eighteen months find subjects
of gratitude still more numerous! Laura began no important action of her
life without imploring a blessing on the event; and she now proceeded to
commend herself and her future prospects to the same care of which she
had glad experience.
The proper business of the morning ended, she had begun to make
arrangements for her immediate departure; when she heard Lady Pelham's
bell ring, and the next instant heard a noise like that occasioned by
the fall of something heavy. She listened for a while, but all was again
still. The rest of the family were yet buried in sleep, and Laura
hearing no one stirring to answer Lady Pelham's summons, began to fear
that her aunt was ill, perhaps unable to make any further effort to
procure assistance. At this idea, all her just indignation subsiding in
a moment, she flew to Lady Pelham's chamber.
Lady Pelham was lying on the floor, having apparently fallen in an
attempt to rise from her bed. She was alive though insensible; and her
face, though altered, was still florid. Laura soon procuring help,
raised her from the ground; and guessing that apoplexy was her disorder,
placed her in an upright posture, loosened her night-clothes, and having
hurried away a servant for Mr Raby, ventured, until his arrival, upon
such simple remedies as she knew might be safely administered. In little
more than an hour the surgeon arrived; and having examined his patient,
declared her to be in extreme danger. Before he left her, however, he
succeeded in restoring her to some degree of recollection; yet, far from
changing his first opinion, he advised Laura to lose no time in making
every necessary use of an amendment which he feared would be only
transient.
From Lady Pelham, he went to Norwood; and returning to Walbourne in the
evening, brought the pleasing intelligence that De Courcy continued to
do well. This second visit produced no change in his sentiments, and he
remained persuaded that though Lady Pelham might continue to linger for
a time, the shock had been too great to allow of complete recovery.
Laura now rejoiced that she had not executed her purpose of leaving
Walbourne; since, had her aunt's illness succeeded to the rage which her
departure would have excited, she could never have ceased to blame
herself as the cause. She looked with profound compassion, too, upon the
condition of an unfortunate being, whose death-bed was neither smoothed
by affection, nor cheered by pious hope. 'Unhappy woman!' thought she,
as she sat watching an unquiet slumber into which her aunt had fallen,
'to whom the best gifts of nature and of fortune have, by some fatality,
been useless, or worse than useless; whose affluence has purchased no
higher joys than half-grudged luxuries; whose abilities have dazzled
others and bewildered herself, but lent no steady light to guide her
way; whose generosity has called forth no gratitude, whose kindness has
awakened no affection; to whom length of days has brought no reverence,
and length of intimacy no friends! Even the sacred ties of nature have
been to her unblessed. Her only child, driven from her in anger, dares
not approach to share the last sad offices with me, who, in performing
them, must forgive as well as pity. Favourite of fortune! what has been
wanting to thee save that blessing which "bringeth no sorrow with it."
But that blessing was light in thine esteem; and amidst the glitter of
thy toys, the "pearl of great price" was disregarded.'
For some days Lady Pelham continued much in the same situation. She
suffered no pain, yet gave no signs of amendment. On the sixth morning
from her first attack she grew suddenly and materially worse. It was
soon discovered that her limbs were paralyzed, and the surgeon declared
that her end could not be very distant. Her senses, however, again
returned, and she continued free from pain. She shewed little
apprehension of her own danger; and Laura debated with herself whether
she should permit her aunt to dream away the last precious hours of
probation, or endeavour to awaken her to a sense of her condition.
Laura had no faith in death-bed repentance. She knew that resolution of
amendment which there is no longer time to practise, and renunciation of
sin made under the immediate prospect of punishment, are at best
suspicious. She knew that, in the ordinary course of providence, the
grace which has been long despised is at length justly withdrawn. Yet
she saw that she had no right to judge Lady Pelham as wholly impenitent;
and she considered a death-bed as highly suitable to the renewal, though
not to the beginning of repentance. She knew too, that the call _might_
be made effectual at the 'eleventh hour;' and the bare chance was worth
the toil of ages. She felt how little she herself would have valued the
mistaken pity which could suffer her to enter on the 'dark valley'
without a warning to cling closer to the 'staff and rod' of
comfort:--She therefore ventured to hint gently to Lady Pelham the
opinion of her medical friends, and to remind her of the duty of
preparing for the worst.
Lady Pelham at first appeared a good deal shocked; and lay for some time
apparently meditating upon her situation. At last, recovering her
spirits, she said, 'Your nerves, Laura, were always so coarse, that you
seemed to me to take a pleasure in thinking of shocking things; but I
am sure it is abominably barbarous in you to tease me with them now I am
ill. Do keep your horrid fancies to yourself, or keep away till you are
cured of the vapours--I dare say it is your dismal face that makes me
dream so unpleasantly.'
Laura, however, was not to be so discouraged. She took occasion to
represent that no harm could ensue from preparing to meet the foe; since
his march was not to be retarded by shutting our eyes on his advances,
nor hastened by the daring which watched his approach. She at length
thought she had succeeded in convincing her aunt of her danger. Lady
Pelham _said_ that she feared she was dying, and she believed that she
said the truth. But Lady Pelham had had sixty years practice in
self-deceit. The fear might flutter in her imagination, but was not
strong enough to touch her heart. Laura, however, made use of her
acknowledgement to press upon her the duties of forgiveness and charity
towards all mindkind, and especially towards her child; reminding her of
the affecting parity of situation between offending man and his
disobedient offspring. Lady Pelham at first answered impatiently that
she would not be argued on this subject; but as her spirits began to
fail under the first confinement which she had ever endured, she became
more tractable. 'God knows,' said she to Laura, one day, 'we all have
much need to be forgiven; and therefore we must forgive in our turn. For
my part I am sure I die in charity with all mankind, and with that
creature among the rest. However, I shall take my friend the Spectator's
advice, and remember the difference between giving and _for_giving.'
Laura often begged permission to send for Mrs Herbert; but Lady Pelham
sometimes postponed it till she should get better, sometimes till she
should grow worse. Laura was in the meantime her constant attendant;
bearing with her peevishness, soothing her caprice, and striving to
rouse in her feelings suitable to her condition. Finding, however, that
she made but little progress in her pious work, she begged that she
might be allowed to take the assistance of a clergyman. 'A clergyman,
child!' cried Lady Pelham. 'Do you imagine me to be a papist? Or do you
think me capable of such weak superstitution as to place more reliance
on a parson's prayers than on yours, or my maid Betty's? No, no! I trust
I have been no worse than other people; and I hope, though I may be
weak, I shall never be fanatical. Besides, I have too high a sense of
the Divine Justice to think that our Maker would first give us
ungovernable passions, and then punish us for yielding to them. A
phlegmatic being like you, may indeed be called to strict account; but
people of strong feelings must be judged by a different standard.' 'Oh,
Madam,' said Laura, 'be assured that our Maker gives us no unconquerable
passions. If we ourselves have made them so, it becomes us to be humbled
in the dust, not to glory in the presumptuous hope that He will soften
the sanctions of his law to favour our remissness.'
Driven from the strong hold of justice, rather by the increase of her
bodily languor, than by the force of truth, the dying sinner had
recourse to mercy,--a mercy, however, of her own composing. 'It is
true,' said she one day to Laura, 'that I have done some things which I
have reason to regret, and which, I must confess, deserve punishment.
But Divine Mercy towards believers, we are told, is infinite; and though
I may at times have doubted, I have never disbelieved.' Laura,
shuddering at this awful blindness, was striving to frame a useful
reply, when she saw her aunt's countenance change. It was distorted by a
momentary convulsion, and then fixed for ever in the stillness of
death.