Mrs Douglas observed, with satisfaction, the improved stature and increasing gracefulness of her young favourite; but she remarked, with painful interest, that the hectic of pleasure which tinged the cheek of Laura, at their meeting, faded fast to the hue of almost sickly delicacy. She soon noticed that an expression, as of sudden torture, would sometimes contract, for a moment, the polished forehead of Laura; that it was now succeeded by the smothered sigh, the compressed lip, the hasty motion that spoke of strong mental effort, now subsided into the languor of deep unconquered melancholy. Such depression Mrs Douglas could not attribute to the loss of a mother, whose treatment furnished more occasions of patience than of gratitude; and she anxiously longed to discover its real cause. But it was soon evident that this was a secret which Laura had no intention to disclose. A glance from the inquiring eye of Mrs Douglas, at once recalled her to constrained cheerfulness; and the presence of Captain Montreville seemed always to put her entirely upon her guard. While he was in the room, she talked, read aloud, or played with the children, as if determined to be amused; but as soon as he retired, she relapsed, like one wearied with effort, into languor and melancholy, till recalled to herself by the scrutinizing looks of Mrs Douglas. Even in their most private conversations, the name of Hargrave never passed her lips. Months, indeed, had elapsed since Laura could have pronounced that name without painful emotion—to utter it now was become almost impossible. She felt that she had no right to publish, while she rejected, his addresses; and she felt an invincible repugnance to expose even his failings, but much more his vices, to the censure of the respectable Mrs Douglas. Soon after she first saw Hargrave, she had written to her friend a warm eulogium ofhis fine person, captivating manners, and elegant accomplishments. Mrs Douglas, in reply, had desired to hear more of this phoenix; but before Laura again found leisure to write, she was no longer inclined to make Hargrave her subject, and her friend had desisted from fruitless inquiries. Mrs Douglas had lately had an opportunity of judging for herself of the Colonel's attractions; and, so great did they appear to her, that it was with extreme astonishment she heard his late disappointment from Captain Montreville, who did not feel his daughter's delicacy on the subject. This communication only served to increase her perplexity as to the cause of Laura's depression; yet she felt herself relieved from the apprehension, that hopeless love for Hargrave was wasting the health and peace of her dear Laura. Still, however, she continued to watch that expressive countenance, to weigh every word that might tend to unfold the enigma. In vain;—Laura studiously avoided all approach to an explanation. Mrs Douglas's anxiety now increased to a painful extreme. She felt how necessary to female inexperience is the advice of a female,—how indispensable to feminine sorrows are the consolations of feminine sympathy; and she resolved that no false delicacy should withhold her from offering such relief as she might have power to bestow.
One morning, after the gentlemen had left them alone together, Mrs Douglas, meditating on the best means of introducing the subject she had so much at heart, had fallen into a long silence; when, looking up, she perceived that Laura had let fall her work, and was sitting with her eyes fixed, and her arms dropped, in the attitude of one whose thoughts had no connection with present objects. At the heavy sigh with which Mrs Douglas surveyed her, she started, and was rousing her attention to some indifferent subject, when Mrs Douglas, kindly taking her hand, said, 'My dear child, whatever may be necessary with others, I beseech you to be under no constraint with me. I am far from wishing to intrude into your confidence, but do not add the pain of constraint to anguish that already seems so oppressive.'
Large tears stole from under Laura's downcast eyelids; but she spoke not. Mrs Douglas continued—'If my best advice, my most affectionate sympathy, can be of use to you, I need not say you may command them.'
Laura threw herself into the arms of her friend, and for some moments sobbed with uncontrolled emotion; but soon composing herself, she replied: 'If advice could have profited, if consolationcould have reached me, where should I have sought them unless from you, respected friend of my youth;—but the warning voice of wisdom comes now too late, and even your sympathy would be bestowed in vain.'
'Heaven forbid that my dearest Laura should be beyond the reach of comfort. That is the lot of guilt alone.'
'I am grateful to Heaven,' said Laura, 'that I have been less guilty than imprudent. But, my best friend, let us quit this subject. This wretchedness cannot, shall not last. Only let me implore you not to notice it to my father. You know not what horrors might be the consequence.'
Mrs Douglas shook her head. 'Ah! Laura,' said she, 'that path is not the path of safety in which you would elude a father's eye.' Laura's glance met that of her friend; and she read suspicion there. The thought was so painful to her, that she was on the point of disclosing all; but she remembered that the reasons which had at first determined her to silence, were not altered by any one's suspicions, and she restrained herself. Colonel Hargrave had cruelly wronged and insulted her—she ought therefore to be doubly cautious how she injured him. Sympathy, in her case, she felt, would be a dangerous indulgence; and, above all, she shrunk with horror from exposing her lover, or his actions, to detestation or contempt. 'Perhaps the time may come,' said she, pursuing her reflections aloud, 'when you will be convinced that I am incapable of any clandestine purpose. At present your compassion might be a treacherous balm to me, when my best wisdom must be to forget that I have need of pity.'
Mrs Douglas looked on the open candid countenance of Laura, and her suspicions vanished in a moment; but they returned when her young friend reiterated her intreaties that she would not hint the subject to her father. Laura was, however, fortified in her resolutions of concealment, by an opinion she had often heard Mrs Douglas express, that the feelings of disappointed love should by women be kept inviolably a secret. She was decisively giving a new turn to the conversation, when it was interrupted by the entrance of the gentlemen; and Mrs Douglas, a little hurt at the steadiness of her young friend, more than half determined to renew the subject no more.
A letter lay on the table, which the post had brought for Captain Montreville; he read it with visible uneasiness, and immediately left the room. Laura perceived his emotion; and, ever alive to the painfulsubject nearest her heart, instantly concluded that the letter brought a confession from Hargrave. She heard her father's disordered steps pacing the apartment above, and earnestly longed, yet feared to join him. Anxiety at length prevailed; and she timidly approached the door of Captain Montreville's chamber. She laid her hand upon the lock; paused again, with failing courage, and was about to retire, when her father opened the door. 'Come in, my love,' said he, 'I wish to speak with you.' Laura, trembling, followed him into the room. 'I find,' said he, 'we must shorten our visit to our kind friends here, and travel homewards, I must prepare,' continued he, and he sighed heavily, 'I must prepare for a much longer journey.'
Laura's imagination took the alarm; and, forgetting how unlikely it was that Captain Montreville should disclose such a resolution to her, she thought only of his intending to prepare for a journey whence there is no return, before he should stake his life against that of Hargrave. She had not power to speak; but, laying her hand on her father's arm, she cast on him a look of imploring agony. 'Do not be alarmed, my love,' said he: 'I shall, in a few days, convey your commands to London; but I do not mean to be long absent.'
Laura's heart leapt light. 'To London, Sir?' said she, in a tone of cheerful inquiry.
'Yes, my dear child; I must go, and leave you alone at home—while yet I have a home to shelter you. Had you resembled any other girl of your age, I should have said no more of this—but I will have no concealments from you. Read this letter.'
It was from Captain Montreville's agent, and briefly stated, that the merchant in whose hands he had lately vested his all, in an annuity on his daughter's life, was dead; and that, owing to some informality in the deed, the heirs refused to make any payment. Having read the letter, Laura continued for some moments to muse on its contents, with her eyes vacantly fixed on the civil expression of concern with which it concluded. 'How merciful it is,' she exclaimed, 'that this blow fell not till my mother was insensible of the stroke.'
'For myself,' said Captain Montreville, 'I think I could have borne it well; but this was the little independence I thought I had secured for you, dear darling of my heart; and now'—The father's lip quivered, and his eyes filled; but he turned aside, for he couldbetender—but would notseemso.
'Dearest father,' said Laura, 'think not of me. Could you have given me millions, I should still have been dependent on the care ofProvidence, even for my daily bread. My dependence will now only be a little more perceptible. But perhaps,' added she cheerfully, 'something may be done to repair this disaster, Warren's heirs will undoubtedly rectify this mistake, when they find it has been merely accidental. At all events, a journey to London will amuse you; and I shall manage your harvest so actively in your absence.'
Captain Montreville had, from Laura's infancy, been accustomed to witness instances of her fortitude, to see her firm under unmerited and merciless chastisement, and patient under intense bodily suffering—but her composure on this occasion, so far surpassed his expectations, that he was inclined to attribute it less to fortitude than to inconsideration. 'How light-hearted is youth,' thought he, as he quitted her. 'This poor child has never seen the harsh features of poverty, but when distance softened their deformity, and she now beholds his approach without alarm.' He was mistaken. Laura had often taken a near survey of poverty. She had entered the cabins of the very poor—seen infancy squalid, and youth spiritless—manhood exhausted by toil, and age pining without comfort. In fancy she had substituted herself in the place of these victims of want; felt by sympathy their varieties of wretchedness; and she justly considered poverty among the heaviest of human calamities. But she was sensible that her firmness might support her father's spirits, or her weakness serve to aggravate his distress; and she wisely pushed aside the more formidable mischief, which she could not surmount, to attend to the more immediate evil, which she felt it in her power to alleviate.
The moment she was alone, Laura fell on her knees: 'Oh! Heavenly Providence,' she cried, 'save, if it be thy will, my dear father's age from poverty, though, like my great Master, I should not have where to lay my head.' She continued to pray long and fervently, for spirits to cheer her father under his misfortune; and for fortitude to endure her own peculiar sorrow, in her estimation so much more bitter. Having implored the blessing of Heaven on her exertions, she next began to practice them. She wandered out to court the exhilarating influence of the mountain air; and, studiously turning her attention to all that was gay, sought to rouse her spirits for the task she had assigned them. She was so successful, that she was that evening the life of the little friendly circle. She talked, sang, and recited—she exerted all the wit and vivacity of which she was mistress—she employed powers of humour which she herself had scarcely been conscious of possessing. Her gaiety soon becamecontagious. Scarcely a trace appeared of the anxious fears of Mrs Douglas, or the parental uneasiness of Captain Montreville, and fewer still of the death-stroke which disappointed confidence had carried to the peace of poor Laura. But, retired to the solitude of her chamber, her exhausted spirits found relief in tears. She felt, that long to continue her exertion would be impossible; and, in spite of reason, which told of the danger of solitude, anticipated, with pleasure, the moment when total seclusion should leave her free to undisguised wretchedness.
Laura was not yet, however, destined to the hopeless task of combating misplaced affection in entire seclusion. On the following morning she found a stranger at the breakfast-table. He seemed a man of information and accomplishments. An enthusiast in landscape, he was come to prosecute his favourite study amidst the picturesque magnificence of Highland scenery; and the appearance and manners of a gentleman, furnished him with a sufficient introduction to Highland hospitality. Relieved, by his presence, from the task of entertaining, Laura scarcely listened to the conversation, till the stranger, having risen from table, began to examine a picture which occupied a distinguished place in Mrs Douglas's parlour. It was the work of Laura, who was no mean proficient. She had early discovered what is called a genius for painting; that is to say, she had exercised much of her native invention, and habitual industry on the art. Captain Montreville added to his personal instructions, every facility which it was in his power to bestow. Even when her performances had little in them of wonderful but their number, her acquaintance pronounced them wonderful; and they obtained the more useful approbation of a neighbouring nobleman, who invited her to use, as copies, any part of his excellent collection. Her progress was now, indeed, marvellous to those who were new to the effects of unremitting industry, guided by models of exquisite skill. Having long and sedulously copied, from pieces of acknowledged merit, she next attempted an original; and having, with great care composed, and with incredible labour finished her design, she dedicated to Mrs Douglas the first fruits of her improved talents, in the picture which the stranger was now contemplating. Willing that her young friend should reap advantage from the criticisms of a judicious artist, Mrs Douglas encouraged him to speak freely of the beauties and defects of the piece. After remarking that there was some skill in the composition, much interest in the principal figure,and considerable freedom in the touch, he added: 'If this be, as I suppose, the work of a young artist, I shall not be surprised that he one day rise both to fame and fortune.'
Mrs Douglas was about to direct his praise to its rightful owner, but Laura silenced her by a look. The stranger's last expression had excited an interest which no other earthly subject could have awakened. Her labours might, it appeared, relieve the wants or increase the comforts of her father's age; and, with a face that glowed with enthusiasm, and eyes that sparkled with renovated hope, she eagerly advanced to question the critic as to the value of her work. In reply, he named a price so far exceeding her expectations, that her resolution was formed in a moment. She would accompany her father to London, and there try what pecuniary advantage was to be derived from her talent. On a scheme which was to repair all her father's losses, prudence had not time to pause; and, feeling company rather a restraint on her pleasure, Laura ran to her apartment, rather to enjoy than to reconsider her plan. Having spent some time in delighted anticipation of the pleasure which her father would take in the new team and thrashing-mill with which she would adorn his farm, and the comfort he would enjoy in the new books and easy sofa with which her labours would furnish his library, she recollected a hundred questions that she wished to ask the stranger, concerning the best means of disposing of her future productions, and she ran down stairs to renew the conversation—but the parlour was empty, the stranger was gone. No matter. No trifle could at this moment have discomposed Laura; and, with steps as light as a heart from which, for a time, all selfish griefs were banished, she crossed the little lawn in search of her father.
The moment she overtook him, locking her arm in his, and looking smilingly up in his face, she began so urgent an entreaty to be admitted as the companion of his journey, that Captain Montreville, with some curiosity, inquired what had excited in her this sudden inclination to travel? Laura blushed and hesitated; for though her plan had, in her own opinion, all the charms which we usually attribute to the new born children of our fancy, she felt that an air of more prudence and forethought might be requisite to render it equally attractive in the eyes of Captain Montreville. She exerted, however, all the rhetoric she could at that moment command, to give her scheme a plausible appearance. With respect to herself, she was entirely successful; and she ventured to cast a look of triumphantappeal on her father. Captain Montreville, unwilling to refuse the request of his darling, remained silent; but at the detail of her plan, he shook his head. Now, to a projector of eighteen, a shake of the head is, of all gestures, the most offensive; and the smile which usually accompanies it, miserably perverts the office of a smile. Tears, half of sorrow, half of vexation, forced their way to the eyes of Laura; and she walked silently on, without courage to renew the attack, till they were joined by Mrs Douglas. Disconcerted by her ill success with her father, Laura felt little inclination to subject her scheme to the animadversions of her friend; but Captain Montreville, expecting an auxiliary, by whose aid he might conquer the weakness of yielding without conviction, called upon Mrs Douglas, in a manner which shewed him secure of her reply, to give her opinion of Laura's proposal. Mrs Douglas, who had heard, with a degree of horror, of the intention to consign Laura to solitude in her present state of suppressed dejection, and who considered new scenes and new interests as indispensable to her restoration, interpreting the asking looks of the fair petitioner, surprised Captain Montreville by a decided verdict in her favour. Rapturously thanking her advocate, Laura now renewed her intreaties with such warmth, that her father, not possessed of that facility in refusing which results from practice, gave a half-reluctant acquiescence. The delight which his consent conveyed to Laura, which sparkled in her expressive features, and animated her artless gestures, converted his half-extorted assent into cordial concurrence; for to the defects of any scheme that gave her pleasure, he was habitually blind.
In the course of the evening, Captain Montreville announced that, in order to give his daughter time to prepare for her journey, it would be necessary for them to return to Glenalbert on the following morning.
While Mrs Douglas was assisting Laura to pack up her little wardrobe, she attempted to break her guarded silence on the subject of Hargrave, by saying, 'I doubt this same journey of your's will prevent Colonel Hargrave from trying the effects of perseverance, which I used to think the most infallible resort in love, as well as in more serious undertakings.' Laura began a most diligent search for something upon the carpet. 'Poor Hargrave,' Mrs Douglas resumed, 'he is a great favourite of mine. I wish he had been more successful.' Laura continued industriously cramming a bandbox. 'All these gowns and petticoats will crush your new bonnet to pieces, my dear.' Laurasuddenly desisted from her employment, rose, and turning full towards Mrs Douglas, said—'It is unkind, it is cruel, thus to urge me, when you know that duty more than inclination keeps me silent.' 'Pardon me, my dear Laura,' said Mrs Douglas, 'I have no wish to persecute you; but you know I was ignorant that Colonel Hargrave was our interdicted subject.'
She then entered on another topic; and Laura, vexed at the partial disclosure she had inadvertently made, uneasy at being the object of constant scrutiny, and hurt at being obliged to thwart the habitual openness of her temper, felt less sorry than relieved as she sprung into the carriage that was to convey her to Glenalbert. So true is it, that concealment is the bane of friendship.
Other interests, too, quickened her desire to return home. She longed, with a feeling which could not be called hope, though it far exceeded curiosity, to know whether Hargrave had called or written during her absence; and the moment the chaise stopped, she flew to the table where the letters were deposited to wait their return. There were none for her. She interrupted Nanny's expression of joy at the sight of her mistress, by asking who had called while they were from home. 'Nobody but Miss Willis.' Laura's eyes filled with tears of bitterness. 'I am easily relinquished,' thought she—'but it is better that it should be so;' and she dashed away the drops as they rose.
She would fain have vented her feelings in the solitude of her chamber; but this was her father's first return to a widowed home, and she would not leave him to its loneliness. She entered the parlour. Captain Montreville was already there; and, cheerfully welcoming him home, she shook up the cushion of an elbow-chair by the fire-side, and invited him to sit. 'No, love,' said he, gently compelling her, 'do you take that seat; it was your mother's.' Laura saw his lip quiver, and, suppressing the sob that swelled her bosom, she tenderly withdrew him from the room, led him to the garden, invited his attention to her new-blown carnations, and gradually diverted his regard to such cheerful objects, that, had Captain Montreville examined what was passing in his own mind, he must have confessed that he felt the loss of Lady Harriet less as a companion than an antagonist. She was more a customary something which it was unpleasant to miss from its place, than a real want which no substitute could supply. Laura's conversation, on the contrary, amusing without effort, ingenious without constraint, and rational without stiffness, furnished to her father a real and constant source ofenjoyment; because, wholly exempt from all desire to shine, she had leisure to direct to the more practicable art of pleasing, those efforts by which so many others vainly attempt to dazzle.
The three following days Laura employed in making arrangements for her journey. Desirous to enliven the solitude in which she was about to leave her only attendant, she consigned the care of the cottage, during her absence, to the girl's mother, who was likewise her own nurse; and cautious of leaving to the temptations of idleness, one for whose conduct she felt herself in some sort accountable, she allotted to Nanny the task of making winter clothing for some of the poorest inhabitants of Glenalbert; a task which her journey prevented her from executing herself. Nor were the materials of this little charity subtracted from her father's scanty income, but deducted from comforts exclusively her own.
Though, in the bustle of preparation, scarcely a moment remained unoccupied, Laura could not always forbear from starting at the sound of the knocker, or following with her eyes the form of a horseman winding through the trees. In vain she looked—in vain she listened. The expected stranger came not—the expected voice was unheard. She tried to rejoice at the desertion: 'I am glad of it,' she would say to herself, while bitter tears were bursting from her eyes. She often reproached herself with the severity of her language at her last interview with Hargrave. She asked herself what right she had to embitter disappointment by unkindness, or to avenge insult by disdain. Her behaviour appeared to her, in the retrospect, ungentle, unfeminine, unchristian. Yet she did not for a moment repent her rejection, nor waver for a moment in her resolution to adhere to it. Her soul sickened at the thought, that she had been the object of licentious passion merely; and she loathed to look upon her own lovely form, while she thought that it had seduced the senses, but failed to touch the soul of Hargrave.
Amidst these employments and feelings the week had closed; and the Sabbath evening was the last which Laura was to spend at Glenalbert. That evening had long been her chosen season of meditation, the village church-yard the scene where she loved to 'go forth to meditate.' The way which led to it, and to it alone, was a shady green lane, gay with veronica and hare-bell, undefaced by wheels, but marked in the middle with one distinct track, and impressed towards the sides with several straggling half-formed footpaths. The church itself stood detached from the village, on a little knoll, on the west side of which the burial-ground sloped towards the woody bank that bounded a brawling mountain stream. Thither Laura stole, when the sun, which had been hid by the rugged hill, again rolling forth from behind the precipitous ascent, poured through the long dale his rays upon this rustic cemetery; the only spot in the valley sufficiently elevated to catch his parting beam.
'How long, how deep is the shadow—how glorious in brightness the reverse,' said she, as she seated herself under the shade of the newly raised grave-stone that marked the place of her mother's rest; and turning her mind's eye from what seemed a world of darkness, she raised it to scenes of everlasting light. Her fancy, as it soared to regions of bliss without alloy, looked back with something like disgust on the labours that were to prepare her for their enjoyment, and a feeling almost of disappointment and impatience accompanied the recollection, that her pilgrimage was to all appearance only beginning. But she checked the feeling as it rose, and, in penitence and resignation, raised her eyes to heaven. They rested as they fell upon a stone marked with the name and years of one who died in early youth. Laura remembered her well—she was the beauty of Glenalbert; but her lover left her for a richer bride, and her proud spirit sunk beneath the stroke. The village artist had depicted her want of resignation in a rude sculpture of the prophet's lamentation over his withered gourd. 'My gourd, too, is withered,' said Laura. 'Do I well to be angry even unto death? Will the giver of all good leave me even here without comfort? Shall I refuse to find pleasure in any duties but such as are of my own selection: Because the gratification of one passion—one misplaced passion, is refused, has this world no more to offer? this fair world, which its great Creator has stamped with his power, and stored by his bounty, and ennobled by making it the temple of his worshippers, the avenue to heaven! Shall I find no balm in the consolations of friendship, theendearments of parental love—no joy in the sweets of benevolence, the stores of knowledge, the miracles of grace! Oh! may I ever fearlessly confide in the fatherly care, that snatched me from the precipice from which my rash confidence was about to plunge me to my ruin—that opened my eyes on my danger ere retreat was impossible.'
The reflections of Laura were disturbed by the noise of some one springing over the fence; and, the next moment, Hargrave was at her side. Laura uttered neither shriek nor exclamation—but she turned; and, with steps as precipitate as would bear the name of walking, proceeded towards the gate. Hargrave followed her. 'Am I indeed so happy as to find you alone?' said he. Laura replied not, by word or look. 'Suffer me to detain you for a few moments.' Laura rather quickened her pace. 'Will you not speak to me Miss Montreville?' said Hargrave, in a tone of tender reproach. Laura continued to advance. 'Stay but one moment,' said he, in a voice of supplication. Laura laid her hand upon the gate. Hargrave's patience was exhausted. 'By heaven youshallhear me!' he cried, and, throwing his arm round her, compelled her to be seated on the stone-bench at the gate. Laura coldly withdrew herself. 'By what right, Sir,' said she, 'do you presume to detain me?' 'By the right of wretchedness—of misery not to be endured. Since I last saw you, I have never known rest or peace. Surely, Laura, you are now sufficiently avenged—surely your stubborn pride may now condescend to hear me.'—'Well, Sir,' said Laura, without attempting to depart; 'what are your commands?' 'Oh, Laura, I cannot bear your displeasure—it makes me supremely miserable. If you have any pity, grant me your forgiveness.' 'If my forgiveness is of any value to you, I give it you, I trust, like a Christian—from the heart. Now, then, suffer me to go.'
'What—think you it is the frozen forgiveness of duty that will content me? Torn, as I am, by every passion that can drive man to frenzy, think you that I will accept—that I will endure this heartless, scornful pardon? Laura, you loved me once. I have doated on you—pined for you—and passion—passion only—will I accept, or bear from you.'
Laura shrunk trembling from his violence. 'Colonel Hargrave,' said she, 'if you do not restrain this vehemence, I must, I will be gone. I would fain spare you unnecessary pain; but while you thus agitate yourself, my stay is useless to you, and to me most distressing.' 'Say, then, that you accept my vows—that, hopeless ofhappiness but with me, you bind yourself to me alone, and for ever. Speak, heavenly creature, and bless me beyond the fairest dreams of hope!'
'Colonel Hargrave,' said Laura, 'you have my forgiveness. My—what shall I say—my esteem you have cast from you—my best wishes for your happiness shall ever be yours—more I cannot give. In pity to yourself, then—in pity to me—renounce one who can never be yours.'
Hargrave's eyes flashed fire, while his countenance faded to ghastly paleness. 'Yes;' he exclaimed, 'cold, pitiless, insensible woman—yes I renounce you. In the haunts of riot, in the roar of intemperance, will I forget that form, that voice—and, when I am lost to fame, to health, to usefulness—my ruin be on your soul.' 'Oh! Hargrave,' cried the trembling Laura, 'talk not so wildly; Heaven will hear my prayers for you.—Amidst the pursuits of wisdom—amidst the attractions of others, you will forget me.'
'Forget you! Never. While I have life, I will follow you—supplicate—persecute you.—Mine you shall be, though infamy and death ensue. Dare not,' said he, grasping her arm,—'dare not to seek the protection of another.—Dare but to give him one smile, and his life shall be the forfeit.'
'Alas! Alas!' cried Laura, wringing her hands in anguish, 'this is real frenzy. Compose yourself, I implore you—there is no other—there never can be'—
Her tears recalled Hargrave to something like composure. 'Dearest Laura,' said he, 'I wish to soften—I only terrify you. Fear not, beloved of my soul—speak to me without alarm. I will hear you, if it be possible, with calmness—but say not, oh! say not, that you reject me!' Laura averted her face. 'Why prolong this distressing interview,' said she,—'You have heard my determination. I know that it is right, and I cannot relinquish it.'
The triumph of self-conquest gave firmness to her voice; and Hargrave, driven again from composure by her self-command, sprang from her side. 'It is well, Madam,' he cried; 'triumph in the destruction of my peace; but think not I will so tamely resign you. No; by Heaven. I will go this moment to your father—I will tell him my offence; and ask if he thinks it deserves such punishment. Let him take my life—I abhor it.'
'Is your promise, then, of such small avail?' said Laura, sternly.
'Shall a promise bind me to a life of wretchedness? Shall I regardthe feelings of one who takes an inhuman pleasure in my sufferings?' At this moment Laura's eyes fell on her father, who was entering the little avenue. Hargrave's glance followed hers, and he prepared to join Captain Montreville. In an agony of terror, Laura grasped his arm. 'Spare me, spare me,' she said, 'and do with me what you will!' Captain Montreville saw that the walk was occupied; he turned from it, and Laura had again time to breathe. 'Say, then,' said Hargrave, softened by her emotion,—'say that, when years of penitence have atoned my offence, you will yet be mine.' Laura covered her face with her hands. 'Let me not hear you—let me not look upon you,' said Laura;—'leave me to think, if it be possible,'—and she poured a silent prayer to Heaven for help in this her sorest trial. The effort composed her, and the majesty of virtue gave dignity to her form, and firmness to her voice, while she said,—'My father's life is in the hands of Providence—it will still be so, when I have repeated to you, that I dare not trust to principles such as yours the guardianship of this the infancy of my being. I dare not incur certain guilt to escape contingent evil. I cannot make you the companion of this uncertain life, while your conduct is such, as to make our eternal separation the object of my dreadful hope.'
Hargrave had trusted that the tenderness of Laura would seduce, or his ardour overpower her firmness; but he read the expression of her pale determined countenance, and felt assured that she was lost to him forever. Convinced that all appeal to her feelings would be hopeless, he would deign to make none; but in a voice made almost inarticulate by the struggle of pride and anguish, he said,—'Miss Montreville, your father's life is safe from me—I will not lift my hand against it. That he should take mine is of small importance, either to you or myself. A violent death,' continued he, his pale lip quivering with a smile of bitterness,—'may perhaps procure me your tardy pity.'
From the storm of passion, Laura had shrunk with terror and dismay; but the voice of suppressed anguish struck her to the soul. 'Oh! Hargrave,' she cried, with tears no longer to be restrained, 'you have my tenderest pity—would to Heaven that the purity of your future life would restore me to the happiness of esteeming you!'
Laura's tenderness revived, in a moment, the hopes of Hargrave. 'Angel of sweetness,' he exclaimed, 'mould me to your will—say that, when purified by years of repentance, you will again bless me with your love; and no exertion will be too severe—no virtue too arduous.'
'No; this I dare not promise; let a higher motive influence you; for it is not merely the conduct—it is the heart that must have changed, ere I durst expose my feeble virtue to the trial of your example—your authority; ere I durst make it my duty to shut my eyes against your faults, or to see them with the indulgence of love.'
'Dearest Laura, one word from you will lure me back to the path of virtue—will you wilfully destroy even the wish to return. If for a year—for two years—my conduct should bear the strictest scrutiny—will you not accept this as a proof that my heart is changed—changed in every thing but its love for you—will you not then receive me?'
Laura had resisted entreaty—had withstood alarm—had conquered strong affection; but the hope of rousing Hargrave to the views, the pursuits, the habits of a Christian, betrayed her caution, and gladdened her heart to rapture. 'If for two years,' said she, her youthful countenance brightening with delight, 'your conduct is such as you describe—if it will bear the inspection of the wise, of the sober-minded, of the pious,—as my father's friend, as my own friend, will I welcome you.'
Thus suddenly raised from despair, Hargrave seemed at the summit of felicity. Once admitted as her 'father's friend, as her own,' he was secure of the accomplishment of his wishes. The time that must first elapse, appeared to him but a moment; and the labours of duty required of him seemed a smiling dream. Love and joy animated every feature of his fine countenance; he threw himself at the feet of Laura, and rapturously blessed her for her condescension. His extasies first made her sensible of the extent of her concession; and she feared that she had gone too far. But with her, a promise, however inadvertent, was a sacred thing, which she would neither qualify nor retract. She contented herself, therefore, with merely repeating the terms of it, emphatically guarding the conditions. Desirous now to have leisure for reflection, she reminded him that the lateness of the hour made it fit that he should depart; and, inwardly persuaded that she would not long obdurately refuse him another interview, he obeyed without much opposition.
The lovers were no sooner parted, than Hargrave began to repent that he had not more distinctly ascertained the kind and manner of the intercourse which he was to hold with his mistress during the term of his probation; and though he had little fear that she would be very rigid, he considered this as a point of such importance, that he resolved not to quit Glenalbert without having the matter settled to his satisfaction. For this reason he condescended to accept the accommodations of the little straw-roofed cottage, by courtesy called the Inn, where he had already left his horse; and thither he retired accordingly, not without some national misgivings of mind on the subject of Scotish nastiness and its consequences. His apartment, however, though small, was decent, his bed was clean, his sleep refreshing, and his dreams pleasant; nor was it till a late hour the following morning, that he rose to the homely comfort, and clumsy abundance of a Highland breakfast. As soon as he had finished his repast, he walked towards Montreville's cottage, ostensibly to pay his respects to the Captain, but, in reality, with the hope of obtaining a private interview with Laura. He entered the garden, where he expected to find Captain Montreville. It was empty. He approached the house. The shutters were barred. He knocked at the door, which was opened by the old woman; and, on inquiring for Captain Montreville, he was answered, 'Wow, Sir, him an' Miss Laura's awa' at six o'clock this morning.' 'Away,' repeated the Colonel,—'Where are they gone?' 'To London, Sir; and I'm sure a lanely time we'll hae till they come hame again.' 'What stay do they intend making?' 'Hech, Sir, I dare say that's what they dinna ken themsels.' 'What is their address?' inquired the Colonel. 'What's your will, Sir:' 'Where are they to be found?' 'Am'n I tellan you they're in London, Sir. I'm sureye ken whar that is?' 'But how are you to send their letters?' 'Wow! they never got mony letters but frae England; and now 'at they're in London, ye ken the folk may gie them into their ain hand.' 'But suppose you should have occasion to write to them yourself?' said Hargrave, whose small stock of patience wore fast to a close. 'Hech, Sir, sorrow a scrape can I write. They learn a' thae newfangled things now; but, trouth, i' my young days, we were na' sae upsettan.' Hargrave was in no humour to canvas the merits of the different modes of education; and, muttering an ejaculation, in which the worddevilwas distinctly audible, he turned away.
Vexed and disappointed, he wandered down the churchyard-lane, and reached the spot where he had last seen Laura. He threw himself on the seat that had supported her graceful form—called to mind her consummate loveliness—her ill-repressed tenderness—and most cordially consigned himself to Satan for neglecting to wring from her some further concessions. She was now removed from the solitude where he had reigned without a rival. Her's would be the gaze of every eye—her's the command of every heart. 'She may soon choose among numbers,' cried he,—'she will meet with people of her own humour, and some canting hypocritical scoundrel will drive me completely from her mind.' By the time he had uttered this prediction, and bit his lip half through—he was some steps on his way to order his horses, that he might pursue his fair fugitive, in the hope of extorting from her some less equivocal kind of promise. Fortunately for his reputation for sanity, however, he recollected, before he began his pursuit, that, ere he could overtake her, Laura must have reached Edinburgh, where, without a direction, it might be difficult to discover her abode. In this dilemma, he was again obliged to have recourse to the old woman at the cottage; but she could give him no information. She neither knew how long Captain Montreville purposed remaining in Edinburgh, nor in what part of the town he intended to reside.
Thus baffled in his inquiries, Hargrave was convinced that his pursuit must be ineffectual; and, in no very placid frame of mind, he changed his destination from Edinburgh to his quarters. He arrived there in time for a late dinner, but his wine was insipid, his companions tiresome; and he retired early, that, early next morning, he might set out on a visit to Mrs Douglas, from whom he purposed to learn Captain Montreville's address.
On comparing the suppressed melancholy of Laura, her embarrassment at the mention of Hargrave, and her inadvertent disclosure, with her father's detail of her rejection of the insinuating young soldier, a suspicion not very remote from truth, had entered the mind of Mrs Douglas. She imagined that Captain Montreville had in some way been deceived as to the kind of proposals made to his daughter; and that Laura had rejected no offers but such as it would have been infamy to accept. Under this conviction, it is not surprising that her reception of the Colonel was far from being cordial; nor that, guessing his correspondence to be rather intended for the young lady than for the old gentleman, she chose to afford no facility to an intercourse which she considered as both dangerous and degrading. To Hargrave's questions, therefore, she answered, that until she should hear from London, she was ignorant of Captain Montreville's address; and that the time of his return was utterly unknown to her. When the Colonel, with the same intention, soon after repeated his visit, she quietly, but steadily, evaded all his inquiries, equally unmoved by his entreaties, and the paroxysms of impatience with which he endured his disappointment.
Hargrave was the only child of a widow—an easy, indolent, good sort of woman, who would gladly have seen him become every thing that man ought to be, provided she could have accomplished this laudable desire without recourse to such harsh instruments as contradiction and restraint. But of these she disliked the use, as much as her son did the endurance: and thus the young gentleman was educated, or rather grew up, without the slightest acquaintance of either. Of consequence, his naturally warm temper became violent, and his constitutionally strong passions ungovernable.
Hargrave was the undoubted heir of a title, and of a fine estate. Of money he had never felt the want, and did not know the value; he was, therefore, so far as money was concerned, generous even to profusion. His abilities were naturally of the highest order. To force him to the improvement of them, was an effort above the power of Mrs Hargrave; but, fortunately for him, ere his habits of mental inaction were irremediable, a tedious illness confined him to recreations in which mind had some share, however small. During the interdiction of bats and balls, he, by accident, stumbled on a volume of Peregrine Pickle, which he devoured with great eagerness; and his mother, delighted with what she was pleased to call aturn for reading, took care that this new appetite should not, any more than the old ones, pine for want of gratification. To direct it to foodwholesome and invigorating, would have required unremitting though gentle labour: and to labour of all kinds Mrs Hargrave had a practical antipathy. But it was very easy to supply the young man with romances, poetry, and plays; and it was pleasing to mistake their intoxicating effect for the bursts of mental vigour. A taste for works of fiction, once firmly established, never after yielded to the attractions of sober truth; and, though his knowledge of history was neither accurate nor extensive, Hargrave could boast of an intimate acquaintance with all the plays, with almost all the poetry, and as far as it is attainable by human diligence, with all the myriads of romances in his mother tongue. He had chosen, of his own free-will, to study the art of playing on the flute; the violin requiring more patience than he had to bestow; and emulation, which failed to incite him to more useful pursuits, induced him to try whether he could not draw as well as his play-fellow, De Courcy. At the age of seventeen he had entered the army. As he was of good family, of an elegant figure, and furnished by nature with one of the finest countenances she ever formed, his company was courted in the highest circles, and to the ladies he was particularly acceptable. Among such associates, his manners acquired a high polish; and he improved in what is called knowledge of the world; that is, a facility of discovering, and a dexterity in managing the weaknesses of others. One year—one tedious year, his regiment had been quartered in the neighbourhood of the retirement where the afore-said De Courcy was improving his 'few paternal acres;' and, partly by his persuasion and example, partly from having little else to do, partly because it was the fashionable science of the day, Hargrave had prosecuted the study of chemistry. Thus have we detailed, and in some measure accounted for, the whole of Colonel Hargrave's accomplishments, excepting only, perhaps, the one in which he most excelled—he danced inimitably. For the rest, he had what is called a good heart; that is, he disliked to witness or inflict pain, except from some incitement stronger than advantage to the sufferer. His fine eyes had been seen to fill with tears at a tale ofelegantdistress; he could even compassionate the more vulgar sorrows of cold and hunger to the extent of relieving them, provided always that the relief cost nothing but money. Some casual instances of his feeling, and of his charity, had fallen under the observation of Laura; and upon these, upon the fascination of his manners, and the expression of his countenance, her fervid imagination had grafted every virtue that can exalt or adornhumanity. Gentle reader, excuse the delusion. Laura was only seventeen—Hargrave was the first handsome man of fashion she had ever known, the first who had ever poured into her ear the soothing voice of love.
Unprepared to find, in an obscure village in Scotland, the most perfect model of dignified loveliness, Hargrave became the sudden captive of her charms; and her manner, so void of all design,—the energy—the sometimes wild poetic grace of her language—the shrewdness with which she detected, and the simplicity with which she unveiled, the latent motives of action, whether in herself or in others, struck him with all the force of contrast, as he compared them with the moulded artificial standard of the day. His interest in her was the strongest he had ever felt, even before it was heightened by a reserve that came too late to repress or conceal the tenderness with which she repaid his passion. Yet Hargrave was not less insensible to the real charms of Laura's mind, than she was unconscious of the defects in his. Her benevolence pleased him; for bright eyes look brighter through tears of sympathy, and no smile is so lovely as that which shines on the joys of others. Her modesty charmed him; for every voluptuary can tell what allurements blushes add to beauty. But of her self-denial and humility he made no account. Her piety, never obtruded on his notice, had at first escaped his observation altogether; and, now that it thwarted his favourite pursuit, he considered it merely as a troublesome prejudice. Of all her valuable qualities, her unfailing sweetness of temper was perhaps the only one that he valued for its own sake. But her person he idolized. To obtain her no exertion would have appeared too formidable; and, remembering the conditions of their future reconciliation, he began, for the first time in his life, to consider his conduct with a view to its moral fitness.
This he found a subject of inextricable difficulty. He was ignorant of the standard by which Laura would judge him. He was willing to believe that, if she were left to herself, it would not be severe; but the words of her promise seemed to imply, that his conduct was to be subjected to the scrutiny of less partial censors, and he felt some anxiety to know who were to be his 'wise,' 'sober-minded,' 'pious' inspectors. He did not game, his expences did not much exceed his income, therefore he could imagine no change in his deportment necessary to conciliate the 'wise.' Though, under the name of sociality, he indulged freely in wine, he seldom exceeded tointoxication. Here again reform seemed needless. But, that he might give no offence to the 'sober-minded,' he intended to conduct his indispensable gallantries with great discretion, he determined to refrain from all approach to seduction, and magnanimously resolved to abstain from the molestation of innocent country-girls and decent maid-servants. Finally, to secure the favour of the 'pious,' he forthwith made a purchase of Blair's sermons, and resolved to be seen in Church once at least every Sunday.
It might be supposed, that when the scale of duty which we trace is low, we should be more likely to reach the little eminence at which we aspire; but experience shews us, that they who poorly circumscribe the Christian race, stop as much short of their humble design, as does he of his nobler purpose, whose glorious goal is perfection. The sequel will show the attainments of Colonel Hargrave in the ways of virtue. In the meantime his magnet of attraction to Perthshire was gone; he soon began to grow weary of the feeling of restraint, occasioned by supposing himself the subject of a system ofespionage; and to kill the time, and relieve himself from his imaginary shackles, he sought the assistance of the Edinburgh races; determined, that if Laura prolonged her stay in London, he would obtain leave of absence, and seek her there.
The grey lights of morning shone mild on Glenalbert, as the carriage, which was conveying Laura to scenes unknown, wound slowly up the hill. With watery eyes she looked back on the quiet beauties of her native valley. She listened to the dashing of its stream, till the murmur died on her ear. Her lowly home soon glided behind the woods; but its early smoke rose peaceful from amidst its sheltering oaks, till it blended with the mists of morning; and Laura gazed on it as on the parting steps of a friend. 'Oh, vales!' she exclaimed, 'where my childhood sported—mountains that have echoed to my songs of praise, amidst your shades may my age find shelter—may your wild-flowers bloom on my grave!'—Captain Montreville pressed the fair enthusiast to his breast and smiled. It was a smile of pity—for Montreville's days of enthusiasm were past. It was a smile of pleasure—for we love to look upon the transcript of our early feelings. But, whatever it expressed, it was discord with the tone of Laura's mind. It struck cold on her glowing heart; and she carefully avoided uttering a word that might call forth such another, till, bright gleaming in the setting sun, she first beheld romantic Edinburgh. 'Is it not glorious!' she cried, tears of wonder and delight glittering in her eyes, and she longed for its re-appearance, when the descent of the little eminence which had favoured their view, excluded the city from their sight.
As the travellers approached the town, Laura, whose attention was rivetted by the castle and its rocks, now frowning majestic in the shades of twilight, and by the antique piles that seemed the work of giants, scarcely bestowed a glance on the neat row of modern buildings along which she was passing, and she was sorry when the carriage turned from the objects of her admiration towards the hotelwhere Captain Montreville intended to lodge.
Next morning, Laura, eager to renew the pleasure of the evening, proposed a walk; not without some dread of encountering the crowd which she expected to find in such a city. Of this crowd, she had, indeed, seen nothing the night before; but she concluded, ere that she reached town, most of the inhabitants had soberly retired to rest. At the season of the year, however, when Laura reached Edinburgh, she had little cause for apprehension. The noble streets through which she passed had the appearance of being depopulated by pestilence. The houses were uninhabited, the window-shutters were closed, and the grass grew from the crevices of the pavement. The few well-dressed people whom she saw, stared upon her with such oppressive curiosity, as gave the uninitiated Laura a serious uneasiness. At first she thought that some peculiarity in her dress occasioned this embarrassing scrutiny. But her dress was simple mourning, and its form the least conspicuous possible. She next imagined, that to her rather unusual stature she owed this unenviable notice; and, with a little displeasure, she remarked to her father, that it argued a strange want of delicacy to appear to notice the peculiarities of any one's figure; and that, in this respect, the upper ranks seemed more destitute of politeness than their inferiors. Captain Montreville answered, with a smile, that he did not think it was her height which drew such attention. 'Well,' said she, with great simplicity, 'I must endeavour to find food for my vanity in this notice, though it is rather against my doing so, that the women stare more tremendously than the gentlemen.'
As they passed the magnificent shops, the windows, gay with every variety of colour, constantly attracted Laura's inexperienced eye; and she asked Montreville to accompany her into one where she wished to purchase some necessary trifle. The shopman observing her attention fixed on a box of artificial flowers, spread them before her; and tried to invite her to purchase, by extolling the cheapness and beauty of his goods. 'Here is a charming sprig of myrtle, ma'am; and here is a geranium-wreath, the most becoming thing for the hair—only seven shillings each, ma'am.' Laura owned the flowers were beautiful. 'But I fear,' said she, looking compassionately at the man, 'you will never be able to sell them all. There are so few people who would give seven shillings for what is of no use whatever.' 'I am really sorry for that poor young man,' said she to her father, when they left the shop. 'Tall, robust, in the very flower of his age, how he must feelhumbled by being obliged to attend to such trumpery?' 'Why is your pity confined to him?' said Montreville. 'There were several others in the same situation.' 'Oh! but they were children, and may do something better by and by. But the tall one, I suppose, is the son of some weak mother, who fears to trust him to fight his country's battles. It is hard that she should have power to compel him to such degradation; I really felt for him when he twirled those flowers between his finger and thumb, and looked so much in earnest about nothing.' The next thing which drew Laura's attention was a stay-maker's sign. 'Do the gentlemen here wear corsets?' said she to Montreville. 'Not many of them, I believe,' said Montreville. 'What makes you inquire?' 'Because there is amanopposite who makes corsets. It cannot surely be for women.'
Captain Montreville had only one female acquaintance in Edinburgh, a lady of some fashion, and hearing that she was come to town to remain till after the races, he that forenoon carried Laura to wait upon her. The lady received them most graciously, inquired how long they intended to stay in Edinburgh; and on being answered that they were to leave it in two days, overwhelmed them with regrets, that the shortness of their stay precluded her from the pleasure of their company for a longer visit. Laura regretted it too; but utterly ignorant of the time which must elapse between a fashionable invitation and the consequent visit, she could not help wondering whether the lady was really engaged for each of the four daily meals of two succeeding days.
These days, Captain Montreville and his daughter passed in examining this picturesque city—its public libraries, its antique castle, its forsaken palace, and its splendid scenery. But nothing in its singular environs more charmed the eye of Laura than one deserted walk, where, though the noise of multitudes stole softened on the ear, scarcely a trace of human existence was visible, except the ruin of a little chapel which peeped fancifully from the ledge of a rock, and reminded her of the antick gambols of the red deer on her native hills, when, from the brink of the precipice, they look fearless into the dell below. Captain Montreville next conducted his daughter to the top of the fantastic mountain that adorns the immediate neighbourhood of Edinburgh, and triumphantly demanded whether she had ever seen such a prospect. But Laura was by no means disposed to let Perthshire yield the palm to Lowland scenery. Here indeed, the prospect was varied and extensive, but the objects were too various,too distant, too gay—they glared on the eye—the interest was lost. The serpentine corn-ridges, offensive to agricultural skill; the school, with its well frequented Gean-tree; the bright green clover fields, seen at intervals through the oak coppice; the church, half hid by its venerable ash trees; the feathery birch, trembling in the breath of evening; the smoking hamlet, its soft colours blending with those of the rocks that sheltered it; the rill, dashing with fairy anger in the channel which its winter fury had furrowed—these were the simple objects which had charms for Laura, not to be rivalled by neat enclosures and whitened villas. Yet the scenes before her were delightful, and had not Captain Montreville's appeal recalled the comparison, she would, in the pleasure which they excited, have forgotten the less splendid beauties of Glenalbert.
Montreville pointed out the road that led to England. Laura sent a longing look towards it, as it wound amid woods and villages and gentle swells, and was lost to the eye in a country which smiled rich and inviting from afar. She turned her eyes where the Forth is lost in the boundless ocean, and sighed as she thought of the perils and hardships of them who go down to the sea in ships. Montreville, unwilling to subject her to the inconveniencies of a voyage, had proposed to continue his journey by land, and Laura herself could not think without reluctance of tempting the faithless deep. The scenery, too, which a journey promised to present, glowed in her fervid imagination with more than nature's beauty. Yet feeling the necessity of rigid economy, and determined not to permit her too indulgent parent to consult her accommodation at the expence of his prudence, she it was, who persuaded Montreville to prefer a passage by sea, as the mode of conveyance best suited to his finances.
The next day our travellers embarked for London. The weather was fine, and Laura remained all day upon deck, amused with the novelty of her situation. Till she left her native solitude, she had never even seen the sea, except, when from a mountain top, it seemed far off to mingle with the sky; and to her, the majestic Forth, as it widened into an estuary, seemed itself a 'world of waters.' But when on one side the land receded from the view, when the great deep lay before her, Laura looked upon it for a moment, and shuddering, turned away. 'It is too mournful,' said she to her father—'were there but one spot, however small, however dimly descried, which fancy might people with beings like ourselves, I could look with pleasure on the gulf between—but here there is no resting place.Thus dismal, thus overpowering, methinks eternity would have appeared, had not a haven of rest been made known to us.' Compared with the boundless expanse of waters, the little bark in which she was floating seemed 'diminished to a point;' and Laura raising her eyes to the stars that were beginning to glimmer through the twilight, thought that such a speck was the wide world itself, amid the immeasurable space in which it rolled. This was Laura's hour of prayer, and far less inviting circumstances can recal us to the acts of a settled habit.
Five days they glided smoothly along the coast. On the morning of the sixth, they entered the river, and the same evening reached London. Laura listened with something like dismay, to the mingled discord that now burst upon her ear. The thundering of loaded carriages, the wild cries of the sailors, the strange dialect, the ferocious oaths of the populace, seemed but parts of the deafening tumult. When they were seated in the coach which was to convey them from the quay, Laura begged her father to prevail on the driver to wait till the unusual concourse of carts and sledges should pass, and heard with astonishment that the delay would be in vain. At last they arrived at the inn where Captain Montreville intended to remain till he could find lodgings; and, to Laura's great surprise, they completed their journey without being jostled by any carriages, or overturned by any waggoner—for ought she knew, without running over any children.
Being shown into a front parlour, Laura seated herself at a window, to contemplate the busy multitudes that thronged the streets; and she could not help contrasting their number and appearance with those of the inhabitants of Edinburgh. There the loitering step, the gay attire, the vacant look, or the inquisitive glance, told that mere amusement was the object of their walk, if indeed it had an object. Here, every face was full of business—none stared, none sauntered, or had indeed the power to saunter, the double tide carrying them resistlessly along in one direction or the other. Among all the varieties of feature that passed before her, Laura saw not one familiar countenance; and she involuntarily pressed closer to her father, while she thought, that among these myriads she should, but for him, be alone.
Captain Montreville easily found an abode suited to his humble circumstances; and, the day after his arrival, he removed with his daughter to the second floor above a shop in Holborn. The landladywas a widow, a decent orderly-looking person; the apartments, though far from elegant, were clean and commodious. They consisted of a parlour, two bedchambers, and a small room, or rather closet, which Laura immediately appropriated as her painting-room. Here she found amusement in arranging the materials of her art, while Captain Montreville walked to the west end of the town, to confer with his agent on the unfortunate cause of his visit to London. He was absent for some hours; and Laura, utterly ignorant of the length of his walk, and of its difficulties for one who had not seen the metropolis for twenty years, began to be uneasy at his stay. He returned at last, fatigued and dispirited, without having seen Mr Baynard, who was indisposed, and could not admit him. After a silent dinner, he threw himself upon a sofa, and dismissed his daughter, saying that he felt inclined to sleep. Laura took this opportunity to write to Mrs Douglas a particular account of her travels. She mentioned with affectionate interest some of her few acquaintances at Glenalbert, and inquired for all the individuals of Mrs Douglas's family; but the name of Hargrave did not once occur in her letter, though nothing could exceed her curiosity to know how the Colonel had borne her departure, of which, afraid of his vehemence, she had, at their last interview, purposely avoided to inform him.
Having finished her letter, Laura, that she might not appear to repress civility, availed herself of her landlady's invitation to 'come now and then,' as she expressed it, 'to have a chat;' and descended to the parlour below. On perceiving that Mrs Dawkins was busily arranging the tea equipage, with an air that showed she expected company, Laura would have retreated, but her hostess would not suffer her to go. 'No, no, Miss,' said she, 'I expects nobody but my daughter Kate, as is married to Mr Jones the haberdasher; and you mustn't go, for she can tell you all about Scotland; and it is but natural to think that you'd like to hear about your own country, now when you're in a foreign land, as a body may say.'
The good woman had judged well in the bribe she offered to her guest, who immediately consented to join her party; and who, perceiving that Mrs Dawkins was industriously spreading innumerable slices of bread and butter, courteously offered to share her toils. Mrs Dawkins thanked her, and accepted her services, adding, 'indeed it's very hard as I should have all them here things to do myself, when I have a grown up daughter in the house. But, poor thing, it a'n't her fault after all, for she never was larnt to do nothingof use.' 'That was very unfortunate,' said Laura. 'Yes, but it might'nt have been so misfortunate neither, only, you see, I'll tell you how it was. My sister, Mrs Smith, had a matter of £10,000 left her by her husband, and so she took a fancy when July was born as she'd have her called a grand name; and I'm sure an unlucky name it was for her; for many a fine freak it has put into her head. Well, and so as I was saying, she took July home to herself, and had her larnt to paint, and to make fillagree, and play on the piano, and what not; and to be sure we thought she would never do less than provide for her. But what do you think, why, two year's ago, she ran away with a young ensign, as had nothing in the varsal world but his pay; and so July came home just as she went; and what was worst of all, she could'nt do no more in the shop nor the day she was born.'
'That was hard, indeed,' said Laura.
'Wasn't it now,—but one comfort was, I had Kate brought up in another guess-way; for I larnt her plain work and writing, and how to cast accounts; and never let her touch a book, except the prayer-book a-Sundays; and see what's the upshot on't. Why, though July's all to nothing the prettiest, nobody has never made an offer for she, and Kate's got married to a warm man as any in his line hereabouts, and a man as has a house not ten doors off; and besides, as snug a box in the country as ever you seed,—so convenient you've no idear. Why, I dare say, there's a matter of ten stage-coaches pass by the door every day.'
To all this family history, Laura listened with great patience, wondering, however, what could induce the narrator to take so much trouble for the information of a stranger.
The conversation, if it deserves the name, was now interrupted by the entrance of a young woman, whom Mrs Dawkins introduced as her daughter July. Her figure was short, inclining to embonpoint—her face, though rather pretty, round and rosy,—and her whole appearance seemed the antipodes of sentiment. She had, however, a book in her hand, on which, after exchanging compliments with Laura, she cast a languishing look, and said, 'I have been paying a watery tribute to the sorrows of my fair name-sake.' Then pointing out the title-page to Laura, she added, 'You, I suppose, have often done so.'
It was the tragedy ofThe Minister, and Laura, reading the name aloud, said, she was not acquainted with it.
'Oh,' cried Mrs Dawkins, 'that's the young woman as swears sohorridly. No, I dares to say, Miss Montreville never read no such thing. If it an't a shame to be seen in a Christian woman hands, it is. And if she would read it by herself, it would be nothing; but there she goes, ranting about the house like an actress, cursing all aloud, worser nor the drunken apple-woman at the corner of the street.'
'Pray Mamma, forbear,' said Miss Julia Dawkins, in a plaintive tone; 'it wounds my feelings to hear you. I am sure, if Miss Montreville would read this play, she would own that the expressions which you austerely denominate curses, give irresistible energy to the language.'
'This kind of energy,' said Laura, with a smile, 'has at least the merit of being very generally attainable.' This remark was not in Miss Julia's line. She had, therefore, recourse to her book, and with great variety of grimace, read aloud one of Casimir's impassioned, or, as Laura thought, frantic speeches. The curious contrast of the reader's manner, with her appearance, of the affected sentimentality of her air, with the robust vulgarity of her figure, struck Laura as so irresistibly ludicrous, that, though of all young ladies, she was the least addicted to tittering, her politeness would have been fairly defeated in the struggle, had it not been reinforced by the entrance of Mr and Mrs Jones. The former was a little man, in a snuff-coloured coat, and a brown wig, who seemed to be about fifty,—the latter was a good-humoured commonplace looking woman, of about half that age. Laura was pleased with the cordiality with which Mr Jones shook his mother-in-law by the hand, saying, 'Well, Mother, I's brought you Kate pure and hearty again, and the little fellow is fine and well, tho'f he be too young to come a wisiting.'
As soon as the commotion occasioned by their entrance was over, and Laura formally made acquainted with the lady, Mrs Dawkins began, 'I hopes, Kate, you ha'nt forgot how to tell about your jaunt to Scotland; for this here young lady staid tea just o'purpose to hear it.' 'Oh, that I ha'nt,' said Mrs Jones, 'I'm sure I shall remember it the longest day I have to live.' 'Pray Miss,' added she, turning to Laura, 'was you ever in Glasgow?' 'Never,' said Laura; 'but I have heard that it is a fine city.' 'Ay, but I've been there first and last eleven days; and I can say for it, it is really a handsome town, and a mort of good white-stone houses in it. For you see, when Mr Jones married me, he had not been altogether satisfied with his rider, and he thoft as he'd go down to Glasgow himself and do business; and that he'd make it do for his wedding jaunt, and that would be killing two dogs with onestone.' 'That was certainly an excellent plan,' said Laura. 'Well,' continued Mrs Jones, 'when we'd been about a week in Glasgow, we were had to dine one day with Mr Mactavish, as supplies Mr Jones with ginghams; and he talked about some grand house of one of your Scotch dukes, and said as how we must'nt go home without seeing it. So we thought since we had come so far, we might as well see what was to be seen.' 'Certainly,' said Laura, at the pause which was made to take breath, and receive approbation. 'Well, we went down along the river, which, to say truth, is very pretty, tho'f it be not turfed, nor kept neat round the edges, to a place they call Dumbarton; where there is a rock, for all the world, like an ill-made sugar loaf, with a slice out o' the middle on't; and they told us there was a castle on it, but such a castle!' 'Pray, sister,' said Miss Julia, 'have you an accurate idea of what constitutes a castle? of the keeps, the turrets, the winding staircases, and the portcullis?' 'Bless you, my dear,' returned the traveller, 'ha'nt I seen Windsor Castle, and t'other's no more like it—no more than nothing at all. Howsoever, we slept that night at a very decent sort of an inn; and Mr Jones thought as we were so comfortable, we had best come back to sleep. So as the duke's house was but thirty miles off, we thought if we set off soon in the morning, we might get back at night. So off we set, and went two stages to breakfast, at a place with one of their outlandish names; and to be sartain, when we got there, we were as hungry as hounds. Well, we called for hot rolls; and, do but think, there was'nt no such thing to be had for love or money.'
Mrs Jones paused to give Laura time for the expression of pity; but she remained silent, and Mrs Jones resumed: 'Well, they brought us a loaf as old as St Paul's, and some good enough butter; so thinks I, I'll make us some good warm toast; for I loves to make the best of a bad bargain. So I bid the waiter bring us the toast-stool; but if you had seen how he stared,—why, the pore fellor had never heard of no such thing in his life. Then they shewed us a huge mountain, as black as a sootbag, just opposite the window, and said as we must go up there; but, thinks I, catch us at that; for if we be so bad off here for breakfast, what shall we be there for dinner. So my husband and I were of a mind upon it, to get back to Glasgow as fast as we could; for, though to be sure it cost us a power of money coming down, yet, thinks we, the first loss is the best.'
'What would I have given,' cried Miss Julia, turning up the whites of her eyes, 'to have been permitted to mingle my sighs with themountain breezes!' Mrs Jones was accustomed to her sister's nonsense, and she only shrugged her shoulders. But Mrs Dawkins, provoked that her daughter should be so much more than usually ridiculous before a stranger, said, 'Why, child, how can you be so silly,—what in the world should you do sighing o' top of a Scotch hill? I dare to say, if you were there you might sigh long enough before you'd find such a comfortable cup of tea, as what you have in your hand.' Miss Julia disdained reply; but turning to our heroine, she addressed her in a tone so amusingly sentimental, that Laura feared to listen to the purport of her speech, lest the manner and the matter united should prove too much for her gravity; and rising, she apologized for retiring, by saying, that she heard her father stir, and that she must attend him.
When two people of very different ages meet tête à tête in a room, where they are not thoroughly domesticated,—where there are no books, no musical instruments, nor even that grand bond of sociality, a fire,—it requires no common invention and vivacity to pass an evening with tolerable cheerfulness. The little appearances of discomfort, however, which imperceptibly lower the spirits of others, had generally an opposite effect upon those of Laura. Attentive to the comfort of every human being who approached her, she was always the first to discover the existence and cause of the 'petty miseries of life;'—but, accustomed to consider them merely as calls to exertion, they made not the slightest impression on her spirits or temper. The moment she cast her eyes on her father, leaning on a table, where stood a pair of candles, that but half-lighted the room; and on the chimney, where faded fennel occupied the place of a fire, she perceived that all her efforts would be necessary to produce any thing like comfort. She began her operations, by enticing her father out of the large vacant room, into the small one, where she intended to work. Here she prepared his coffee, gave him account of the party below stairs, read to him her letter to Mrs Douglas, and did and said every thing she could imagine to amuse him.