When Laura was restored to recollection, she found herself in a plain
decent apartment. Several persons of her own sex were humanely busied in
attending her. Her mind retaining a confused remembrance of the past,
she inquired where she was, and how she had been brought thither. An
elderly woman, of a prepossessing appearance, answered with almost
maternal kindness, 'that she was among friends all anxious for her
safety; begged that she would try to sleep; and promised to satisfy her
curiosity when she should be more able to converse.' This benevolent
person, whose name was Falkland, then administered a restorative to her
patient; and Laura, uttering almost incoherent expressions of gratitude,
composed herself to rest.
Awakening refreshed and collected, she found Mrs Falkland and one of her
daughters still watching by her bed-side. Laura again repeated her
questions, and Mrs Falkland fulfilled her promise, by relating that her
husband, who was a farmer, having been employed with his two sons in a
field which overlooked the river, had observed the canoe approach the
fall; that seeing it too late to prevent the accident, they had hurried
down to the bed of the stream below the cataract, in hopes of
intercepting the boat at its reappearance: That being accustomed to
float wood down the torrent, they knew precisely the spot where their
assistance was most likely to prove effectual: That the canoe, though
covered with foam for a moment, had instantly risen again, and that Mr
Falkland and his sons had, not without danger, succeeded in drawing it
to land. She then, in her turn, inquired by what accident Laura had been
exposed to such a perilous adventure; expressing her wonder at the
direction of her voyage, since Falkland farm was the last inhabited spot
in that district. Laura, mingling her natural reserve with a desire to
satisfy her kind hostess, answered, that she had been torn from her
friends by an inhuman enemy, and that her perilous voyage was the least
effect of his barbarity. 'Do you know,' said Mrs Falkland, somewhat
mistaking her meaning, 'that to his cruelty you partly owe your life;
for had he not bound you to the canoe, you must have sunk while the boat
floated on.' Laura heard with a faint smile the effect of her
self-possession; but considering it as a call to pious gratitude rather
than a theme of self-applause, she forbore to offer any claim to praise;
and suffered the subject to drop without further explanation.
Having remained for two days with this hospitable family, Laura
expressed a wish to depart. She communicated to Mr Falkland her desire
of returning immediately to Europe; and begged that he would introduce
her to some asylum where she might wait the departure of a vessel for
Britain. She expressed her willingness to content herself with the
poorest accommodation, confessing that she had not the means of
purchasing any of a higher class. All the wealth, indeed, which she
could command, consisted in a few guineas which she had accidentally had
about her when she was taken from her home; and a ring which Mrs De
Courcy had given her at parting. Her hosts kindly urged her to remain
with them till they should ascertain that a vessel was immediately to
sail, in which she might secure her passage; assuring her that a week
scarcely ever elapsed without some departure for her native country.
Finding, however, that she was anxious to be gone, Mr Falkland himself
accompanied her to Quebec. They travelled by land. The country at first
bore the characters of a half redeemed wilderness. The road wound at
times through dreary woods, at others through fields where noxious
variety of hue bespoke imperfect cultivation. At last it approached the
great river; and Laura gazed with delight on the ever-changing, rich and
beautiful scenes which were presented to her view; scenes which she had
passed unheeded when grief and fear veiled every prospect in gloom. One
of the nuns in the Hotel Dieu was the sister of Mrs Falkland; and to her
care Mr Falkland intended to commit his charge. But before he had been
an hour in the town, he received information that a ship was weighing
anchor for the Clyde, and Laura eagerly embraced the opportunity. The
captain being informed by Mr Falkland, that she could not advance the
price of her passage, at first hesitated to receive her; but when, with
the irresistible candour and majesty that shone in all her looks and
words, she assured him of his reward, when she spoke to him in the
accents of his native land, the Scotsman's heart melted; and having
satisfied himself that she was a Highlander, he closed the bargain, by
swearing that he was sure he might trust her. With tears in her eyes,
Laura took leave of her benevolent host; yet her heart bounded with joy
as she saw the vessel cleaving the tide, and each object in the dreaded
land of exile swiftly retiring from her view. In a few days that dreaded
land disappeared. In a few more the mountains of Cape Breton sunk behind
the wave. The brisk gales of autumn wafted the vessel cheerfully on her
way; and often did Laura compute her progress.
In a clear frosty morning towards the end of September, she heard once
more the cry of land!--now music to her ear. Now with a beating breast
she ran to gaze upon a ridge of mountains indenting the disk of the
rising sun; but the tears of rapture dimmed her eyes, when every voice
at once shouted, 'Scotland!'
All day Laura remained on deck, oft measuring, with the light splinter,
the vessel's course through the deep. The winds favoured not her
impatience. Towards evening they died away, and scarcely did the vessel
steal along the liquid mirror. Another and another morning came, and
Laura's ear was blessed with the first sounds of her native land. The
tolling of a bell was borne along the water; now swelling loud, and now
falling softly away. The humble village church was seen on the shore;
and Laura could distinguish the gay colouring of her country-women's
Sunday attire,--the scarlet plaid, transmitted from generation to
generation, pinned decently over the plain clean coif,--the bright blue
gown, the trophy of more recent housewifery. To her every form in the
well-known garb seemed the form of a friend. The blue mountains in the
distance,--the scattered woods,--the fields yellow with the
harvest,--the river sparkling in the sun, seemed, to the wanderer
returning from the land of strangers, fairer than the gardens of
Paradise.
Land of my affections!--when 'I forget thee, may my right hand forget
her cunning!' Blessed be thou among nations! Long may thy wanderers
return to thee rejoicing, and their hearts throb with honest pride when
they own themselves thy children!
The vessel at last cast anchor, and all was cheerful bustle; every one
eager to hurry ashore. Some hastened to launch the boat; some ran below
to seek out the little offerings of love which they had brought for
their friends. Never had Laura heard sound so animating as the cry of
'all ready!' followed by the light short stroke of the oar that sent
her swiftly forward. Many a wistful glance did the rowers turn. 'There's
mother on the pier-head!' cried one. 'I see Annie and the bairns!' cried
another; and the oar was plied more swiftly. They landed. The shout of
joy, and the whisper of affection were exchanged on every side. Laura
stood back from the tumult, breathing a silent thanksgiving on behalf of
herself and her companions. 'Poor lassie!' said the captain, approaching
her, 'is there naebody to welcome thee? Come! I'm going up to Glasgow
the night to see my wife and the owners; and if ye like to gang wi' me,
ye'll be sae far on your way to your friends.' Laura thankfully accepted
the proposal; and the fly-boat being just about to sail up the river,
she placed in it the little packet of necessaries which she had
collected at Quebec; and accompanied the good-natured sailor to his
home.
She was kindly received by his wife and daughter, and furnished with the
best accommodations they could command. The next morning she gave the
captain a draft for the price of her passage; and producing her purse
and Mrs De Courcy's ring, offered them as further security; saying, that
as she was now in her own country, a few shillings would support her
till she reached her friends, since she might travel to Perthshire on
foot. The sailor, however, positively refused to accept of any thing
more than the draft, swearing that if he were deceived in Laura, he
would never trust woman again. He then, at her desire, procured her a
seat in the stage-coach, and once more she proceeded on her journey.
At a small village, a few miles from Perth, she desired to be set down.
A by-road led from the village to Mr Douglas's parish. The distance was
said to be only seven miles; and Laura, forgetting the latitude allowed
to Scotish measurement, thought she might easily reach the parsonage
before night-fall. Leaving her little parcel at the village, she
hastened forward;--now pausing a moment as some well-known peak or cliff
met her eye, now bounding on with the light step of joy. She pictured
the welcome of affection; already she saw the mild countenance of her
early friend; already she felt the embrace of love.
Darkness surprised her when she had yet much of her journey to perform,
and had shrouded every object ere she reached the well-known gate, and
saw across the narrow lawn the lights streaming from the window. She
stopped--fear stealing on her joy. In five months what changes might not
have happened! Her friend, her mother, might be ill, might be dead! So
must weak men mitigate with the prospect of evil the transports which
belong not to his inheritance! She again proceeded. She entered the
hall. The parlour door was open. A group of cheerful faces appeared,
ruddy with youth and health; but Laura's eye rested on one of more
mature, more interesting grace,--one shaded with untimely silver, and
lighted up with milder fires. She remained motionless, fearing to
surprise her friend by too suddenly appearing, till one of the girls,
observing her, exclaimed, in a transport of joy, 'Laura! Mamma! Laura!'
Mrs Douglas sprung from her seat; and the welcome of affection, the
embrace of love were reality!
The first burst of gladness was succeeded by the solicitous inquiry, by
the interesting narrative; and Laura beguiled her friend of many tears
by the story of her sad voyage, her hopeless captivity, her perilous
escape. Tears, too, of real bitterness rose to her eyes, at the thought
that, although she had escaped from the cruelty of her oppressor, yet
its consequences must be lasting as her life; and that she was now
pouring her story perhaps into the only ear that would be open to her
protestations of innocence. But she would not cloud the hour of joy by
calling the attention of her friend to the shade that rested on her
prospects; nor diminish her own gratitude for deliverance from more real
misfortune, by anticipating the scorns of the world. She uttered not the
faintest foreboding of evil, but continued with serene cheerfulness to
'charm as she was wont to do,' till at a late hour the friendly party
separated for the night.
Weary as she was, Laura could not rest. She had a task to perform too
painful to be thought of with indifference. It was necessary to write to
De Courcy; and to damp all the pleasure which a knowledge of her safety
would convey, by retracting engagements which had been made when her
alliance inferred no dishonour. She well knew that De Courcy himself,
convinced of her innocence, would spurn the idea of forsaking her in
misfortune,--of giving, by his desertion, a sanction to calumny. And
should she take advantage of his honour and his love to fix in his heart
the incurable anguish of following to the wife of his bosom the glance
of suspicion or of scorn! The world's neglect was trivial in her
estimation. Even its reproach might be endured by one who could appeal
from its sentence to a higher tribunal. But what should ease the heart
whose best affections were turned to poison by domestic shame; the heart
jealous of the honour which it could not defend, bleeding at the stab
from which it dared not recoil?
Laura had already taken her resolution, and the next day saw it
effected. She wrote to De Courcy, detailing minutely every event that
had befallen her from the hour of their separation till her landing in
Britain. There her narrative closed. She told not in what spot the
wanderer had found rest. She did not even intimate in what part of the
island she had disembarked, lest it should furnish a clue to her present
retreat. Nor did she, by expressions of tenderness and regret, aggravate
the pang which she was compelled to inflict. In words like these she
proceeded. 'And now, my respected friend, I imagine you are pausing to
offer a thanksgiving for yourself and for me. Let it not damp your just
gratitude that somewhat of evil is permitted to mingle with this signal
deliverance. Let not my escape from misfortune the most dreadful be
forgotten, even though the world should refuse to believe in that
escape. For thus it must be. Known to have been in the power of that bad
man, will the harsh-judging world believe me innocent? Will it be
believed that he ventured to cast his very life upon my mercy, by
dragging me unwilling from my home? So long the sport of his ungoverned
passions, will it be believed that I have not even seen him?
'I know it will be difficult to convince you that an unjust sentence can
be pronounced against me. Certain yourself of the truth of my story, you
imagine that it will find easy credence with others. But even if we
could change the nature of man, and teach strangers to judge with the
candour of friendship, who shall furnish them with the materials for
judging? Not he, who, in corroborating my tale, must publish his own
disgrace! Not the weak Laura, who, by a constitutional defect, shrinks
even from the eye where she cannot read distrust!
'Consider all this, and you will at once perceive the reasons which
induce me to conceal myself from you for a time. Engagements formed
under circumstances now so materially changed I cannot consider as
binding. You, I fear, may think otherwise, and be hurried on by your
generous nature to tempt a fate which that very turn of mind would
render insupportable. My own part in this fate I think I can bear. The
share which would fall upon you, I own would crush me to the dust. My
spirits are not yet what they have been. I am weary of struggling with a
perverse heart, ever leading me aside from duty. I will not lend it arms
by exposing myself to entreaties and arguments to which I cannot yield
without betraying my best friend to anguish unpitied and hopeless;
anguish which would bear with double pressure on myself.
'A stain is fallen on my good name, and "the glory has departed from
me." Be it so! He who doth all things well hath chosen my lot, and his
choice shall be mine. I trust I shall be enabled to act as becomes one
who is degraded in the public eye. I have sometimes shrunk from the
approbation of the world--that little circle I mean which we are apt to
call the world. Now I will hide me from its censure; and shall find in
the duties which peculiarly belong to the fallen--the duties of
humility, of charity and of devotion--enough to make life still no
unpleasing pilgrimage. A good name has been justly likened to a
jewel--precious, not necessary. But if you, my dear friend, covet fame
for me, look forward to the time when an assembled universe shall behold
my acquittal, when a Judge, before whom the assembled universe is as
nothing, shall proclaim me for his own.'
This letter Laura accompanied with another, in which she begged Mrs De
Courcy's assistance in reconciling her son to the change in his
prospects. Both were inclosed by Mr Douglas to a friend in London, who
was directed to forward them by post; thus avoiding any trace of the
quarter from whence they came.
Her lot thus chosen, Laura began to make arrangements for entering on a
mode of life befitting her situation. Fearing that the shaft of slander
should glance aside from herself to the friends who still clung to her,
she steadily resisted Mrs Douglas's warm invitations to make the
parsonage her home. Her father's little farm at Glenalbert had been
annexed to one of larger size. The cottage remained untenanted, and
thither Laura determined to retire. Her fortune, however far from
affluent, she thought would suffice to support the humble establishment
which she meant to retain. One servant was sufficient for her who had
been accustomed to make few claims on the assistance of others. To
obviate the impropriety of living alone while yet extreme youth made
even nominal protection valuable, she invited an elderly widow lady,
poor, but respectable, to preside in her household. In necessary
preparations for her removal to Glenalbert, in affectionate assiduities
to the friends with whom she resided, in compensating to her own poor
for her long, though involuntary neglect of their claims, Laura sought a
refuge from painful reflection; and, if a sigh arose at the review of
her altered prospects, she called to mind her deliverance, and regret
was exchanged for thankfulness. The vain might have bewailed a
seclusion thus untimely, thus permanent; the worldly-minded might have
mourned the forfeiture of earthly prosperity; any spirit unsupported by
religion must have sunk under unmerited disgrace, embittered by keen
sense of shame and constitutional timidity. Laura was a Christian, and
she could even at times rejoice that the spirit of vanity was mortified,
the temptations of the world withdrawn; even where the blow was more
painful, she humbly believed that it was necessary, and thankfully owned
that it was kind.
The arrangements for her new establishment were soon completed, and the
time came when Laura was to begin her life of seclusion. The day before
her intended removal she completed her twentieth year; and Mrs Douglas
would have assembled a little group of friends to celebrate the
occasion, but Laura steadily opposed it. 'Let not one who is suspected,'
said she, 'assume the boldness of innocence! yet since the suspicion
wrongs me I will not wear the melancholy of guilt. Give the children a
holiday for my sake, and I shall be as playful and as silly as the
youngest of them.' The holiday was granted; and Laura, amidst the joyful
noisy little company that soon assembled round her, forgot that she was
an outcast.
She was busily searching every corner for the hidden handkerchief, the
little rogue who had concealed it in his shoe laughing the while and
clapping his hands in delight, when she started at the voice of a
stranger in the lobby; who was announcing that he had a letter for Mrs
Douglas, which he could deliver to no person but herself. The next
moment the stranger was shewn in to the room, and Laura with amazement
beheld her American attendant. The amazement on his part was still
greater. He started, he trembled, he at first shrunk from Laura, then
eagerly advancing towards her, 'Bless my soul, Madam!' he exclaimed,
'are you alive? Then Mary's words are true, and the angels watch over
you.'
It was some time before the man's astonishment would permit him to
declare his errand. At last when his curiosity had been partially
satisfied, he was prevailed upon to enter his narrative. 'You may
remember, Madam,' said he, addressing himself to Laura, 'it was the
morning we expected my master, (though I told Mary, for a make-believe,
that he would not come till evening,) that morning Mary took you out and
left you; for which I was mortal angry with her, for my mind misgave me
that some mischief would come of it. So she ran down to the place where
she left you sitting, but you were not there. Then she looked all about,
but she could see you nowhere. She was afraid to go among the canes,
for fear of the rattlesnakes, so she ran home and told me. So I went
with her, scolding her to be sure all the way. Well we sought and
sought, till at last, half in the water, and half on the shore, we found
your hat and then to be sure none of us never doubted that you had
drowned yourself; and Mary cried and wrung her hands like a distracted
creature, saying that my master was a wicked wretch that had broken your
heart, and often and often she wished that we could find you to give you
Christian burial, for she said she was sure your ghost would never let
her rest in her bed. But we had no drags, nor anything to take you up
with out of the water. Well, we were just in the midst of all our
troubles when my master came. "Well, Robert," says he, in his hearty
way, "Where is my angel?" I had not the heart to say a word; so with
that Mary ran forward sobbing like a baby, and says she, just off hand,
"Miss Montreville is in a watery grave, and I am sure, Sir, some heavy
judgment will light on him that drove her to it." So my master stood for
a moment thunderstruck, as it were, and then he flew upon us both like a
tiger, and shook us till he scarce left breath in us, and swore that it
was all a trick, and that he would make us produce you or he would have
our lives. So I tried to pacify him the best I could; but Mary answered
him, that it was all his own doing, and that he might seek you in the
river where he would find your corpse. This put my master quite beside
himself; and he catched her up, and flung her from him, just as if she
had been a kitten; and then he flew down to the river side, and I
followed him, and shewed him where we had found your hat; and explained
to him how it was not our fault, for we had both been very civil and
given you no disturbance at all, which you know Madam was true. So,
close to the place where we found your hat we saw the print of your
little shoe in the bank; and when my master saw it he grew quite
distracted, crying out that he had murdered you, and that he would
revenge you upon a wretch not fit to live (meaning himself, Madam), and
so he would have leaped into the river; but by this time one of the
servants he brought with him came up, and we forced him back to the
house. Then he grew more quiet; and called for Mary, and gave her his
purse with all his money, and bid her tell every thing about you, Madam;
how you had behaved, and what you had said. So she told him, crying all
the while, for she repented from her heart that ever she consented to
have any hand in the business. And sometimes he would start away and
gnash his teeth, and dash his head against the wall; and sometimes he
would bid her go on, that he might run distracted at once and forget
all. So she told him that you had written to one Mrs Douglas, in hopes
that when you were dead he would take pity on you, (repeating your very
words, Madam). Then he asked to see the letter, and he carried it into
your room. And there we heard him groaning and speaking to himself, and
throwing himself against the walls; and we thought it best to let him
come to himself a little and not disturb him. So by and by he called for
pen and ink, and I carried them to him, thinking if he wanted to write
it was a sign he was growing more calm. Then he continued writing for
some time, though now and again we heard him restless as before. At last
he opened the door, and called me, "Robert," says he, quite calm and
composed like, "if you deliver this packet as directed, you will earn
three hundred pounds. But be sure to deliver it with your own hand." I
was going to ask him something more about it, for I did not just know
what he meant about the £300; but he pushed me out, and shut himself
into the room. Then I bethought myself that there was something strange
like in his look, and that he was pale, and somehow not like himself. So
I went to the kitchen to consult with the rest what we had best do. So I
had scarcely got there when I heard a pistol go off, and we all ran and
burst open the door, and there we saw my master, Madam, laid out upon
Miss Montreville's bed, and the pistol still in his hand; though he was
stone dead, Madam, for I suppose the ball had gone right through his
heart.'
Laura, dreadfully shocked, and no longer able to listen to this horrible
relation, hastened out of the room, leaving Mrs Douglas to hear what yet
remained to be told of the history of a man of pleasure!!! The servant
proceeded to tell that he and his companions had conveyed their master's
body to head-quarters, had seen it buried with military honours, and
then had sailed in the first ship for Britain. That remembering the
charge to deliver the packet with his own hand, he had come down to
Scotland on purpose to execute his trust; and hoped that Mrs Douglas
would fulfil his master's promise. He then delivered the packet, which
Mrs Douglas opening in his presence, found to contain a bill for £300 in
favour of Robert Lewson, not payable without her signature; the two
letters which Laura had written during her exile; and the following
lines, rendered almost illegible by the convulsive startings of the hand
which traced them.
'The angel whom I have murdered, was an angel still. "The
destroyer came," but found her not. It was her last wish that
you should know her innocence. None can attest it like me. She
was purer than heaven's own light. She loved you. There is
another, too, whom she protests that she loved to the last--but
it was me alone whom she loved with passion. In the anguish of
her soul she called it "idolatry;" and the words of agony are
true. But I, like a base fool, cast her love away for the
heartless toyings of a wanton! And shall I, who might have been
so blest, live now to bear the gnawings of this viper--this
hell never to be escaped?
'She has said that she must go to the grave laden with shame;
that her name is degraded through me. Once more, then, I charge
you, proclaim her innocence. Let no envious tongue presume to
stain that name. Let it be accounted holy. I will save what she
loved better than life, though I have persecuted her--driven
her to death--forced her to hide in the cold waters all that
was loveliest in woman. She says that she will meet you in
heaven,--and it must be true, for falsehood was a stranger to
her lips. Then tell her that he who was her murderer, was her
avenger too. It is said that self-destruction is the
last--worst crime. In others it may be so. In me it is but
justice; for every law condemns the murderer to die. He who
destroyed that angel should die a thousand deaths. Justice
shall be speedy.
'VILLIERS HARGRAVE.'
Mrs Douglas had no sooner read the contents of her packet, than she
hastened to communicate them to Laura. The horror inspired by Hargrave's
letter, and the dreadful destiny of the writer, did not render her
insensible to the pleasure of being empowered to clear, beyond a doubt,
the fame of her young friend. Laura was, however, for the present, in no
state to share her joy. She could only weep; and, trembling, pray that
she might be enabled to guard against the first beginnings of that
self-indulgence, whose end is destruction!
Mrs Douglas at last found means to rouse her by naming De Courcy, and
reminding her of his right to immediate information of this happy change
in her situation. Laura, as superior to coquetry as to any other species
of despicable cruelty, instantly sat down to communicate the news to her
lover. To her plain unvarnished tale, she added copies of the letters
which attested her innocence, with Lewson's account of the names and
addresses of those persons who had been employed to carry her from
England.
Evening was drawing on before Laura had finished her task; and, desirous
to recruit her spirits before she joined the family circle, she stole
abroad to breathe the reviving air of her native hills. She had crossed
the little lawn, and was opening the gate, when, seeing a carriage drive
quickly up, she drew back. The carriage stopped. She heard an
exclamation of joy, and the next moment she was pressed to the heart of
De Courcy.
Laura first recovered utterance. 'What happy chance,' she cried, 'has
brought you here just at the moment when I am permitted to rejoice that
you are come?' 'Ah, Laura,' said De Courcy, 'could I know that you were
alive and in Britain, yet make no effort to find you? I was convinced
that Mrs Douglas must know your retreat. I was sure that I could plead
so that no human heart could resist my entreaties. And now I have found
thee, I will never leave thee but with life.'
The little shrubbery walk which led round the lawn to the parsonage was
not half a quarter of a mile in length, yet it was an hour before the
lovers reached the house; and before Laura presented De Courcy to her
friends she had promised that in one week she would reward his tried
affection; and had settled, that after they had spent a few days in
delightful solitude at Glenalbert, she would accompany him to Norwood.
* * * * *
Laura has now been for some years a wife; and the same qualities which
made her youth respectable, endear her to the happy partner of her
maturer life. She still finds daily exercise for her characteristic
virtue; since even amidst the purest worldly bliss self-denial is
necessary. But the tranquil current of domestic happiness affords no
materials for narrative. The joys that spring from chastened affection,
tempered desires, useful employment, and devout meditation, must be
felt--they cannot be described.
THE END.
* * * * *
Transcribers Notes:
Some minor obvious typographical errors have been corrected
silently.
The footnote has been moved to underneath the paragraph it
refers to so as to not disrupt the flow of the text.
All inconsistent hyphenation, apostrophes and single quotes have
been left as found unless noted.
Corrections made are shown below in square brackets:
Pg. 2 "She understood all the arts of courtesey[courtesy]"
Pg. 16 "to unit[unite] myself with vice"
Pg. 19 "My dear kind feather[father],' she cried,"
Pg. 21 "features indeliby[indelibly] engraven on her
recollection"
Pg. 23 "Soon after she first saw Hargraves[Hargrave]"
Pg. 24 "the cause of Laura's depresion[depression]"
Pg. 41 "Hargraves[Hargrave] was the only child"
Pg. 66 "and she run[ran] on till she was"
Pg. 108 "triumphantly, [']for haven't I read it"
Pg. 127 "Varius[Various] circumstances, however, had led De
Courcy"
Pg. 135 "must have a companion to it.[']"
Pg. 198 "was leaving the shop, goodnaturedly[good-naturedly]
said"
Pg. 219 "she should inhabit so lovely, so peaceful [a] scene."
Pg. 224 "Hargrave could not possibility[possibly] refuse to
fight"
Pg. 225 "the close of a sleepness[sleepless] night"
Pg. 233 "'That you have no ambition,' replied [Mrs] De Courcy,"
Pg. 237 "twenty times before.--[']"Always live with a"
Pg. 247 "'I think,' said [Mrs] De Courcy, 'I can observe"
Pg. 249 "Then I was gong[going] to have got"
Pg. 253 "namely, the liberty to infrine[infringe]"
Pg. 264 "Montague [who] looks so provokingly pleased"
Pg. 306 "'Do you dare to tell you[replaced with "me"] that you
will not go?'"
Pg. 313 "Laura's habitual ascendancy was completed[completely]
restored"
Pg. 343 "instead of cards, prefer[prefers] allowing me to attend
her"
Pg. 347 "through every tedious hours[hour] in which the absence
of visitors"
Multiple versions of words not changed:
bridemaid, bride-maid
control, controul
couldn't, could'nt
extasy, ecstasy
might'nt, mightn't, might'n't
mustn't, must'nt
print-seller, printseller
recal, recall
superstitution, superstition
surprise, surprize
suspence, suspense
tête à tête, tête-à-tête
tonight, to-night
tremor, tremour
wasn't, was'nt