'Sir,The writer of this letter is even by name a stranger to you. If this circumstance should induce you to discredit my information, I offer no proof of my veracity but this simple one, that obviously no selfish end can be served by my present interference. Of the force of my motive you cannot judge, unless you have yourself lured to destruction the heart that trusted you,—seen it refuse all comfort,—reject all reparation,—and sink at last in untimely decay. From a fate like this, though not softened like this by anxious tenderness, nor mourned like this by remorseless pity, but aggravated by being endured for one incapable of any tender or generous feeling, it is my purpose, Sir, to save your daughter. I was last night one of a party where her name was mentioned;—where she was described as lovely, innocent, and respectable; yet the person who so described her, scrupled not to boast of a plan for her destruction. In the hope (why should I pretend a better motive) of softening the pangs of late but bitter self-reproach, by saving one fellow-creature from perhaps reluctant ruin, one family from domestic shame, I drew from him your address, and learnt that to ingratiate himself with you, and with his intended victim, he has pretended to offer as a gift, what he knew that he could not long withhold. He means to take the earliest opportunity of inveigling her from your care, secure, as he boasts, of her pardon in her attachment. Ill, indeed, does her character, even as described by him, accord with such a boast; yet even indifference might prove no guard against fraud, which, thus warned, you may defy. A fear that my intention should be frustrated by the merited contempt attached to anonymous information, inclines me to add my name, though aware that it can claim no authority with a stranger.'I am,Sir,'Your obedient Servant,'Philip Wilmot.'
'Sir,
The writer of this letter is even by name a stranger to you. If this circumstance should induce you to discredit my information, I offer no proof of my veracity but this simple one, that obviously no selfish end can be served by my present interference. Of the force of my motive you cannot judge, unless you have yourself lured to destruction the heart that trusted you,—seen it refuse all comfort,—reject all reparation,—and sink at last in untimely decay. From a fate like this, though not softened like this by anxious tenderness, nor mourned like this by remorseless pity, but aggravated by being endured for one incapable of any tender or generous feeling, it is my purpose, Sir, to save your daughter. I was last night one of a party where her name was mentioned;—where she was described as lovely, innocent, and respectable; yet the person who so described her, scrupled not to boast of a plan for her destruction. In the hope (why should I pretend a better motive) of softening the pangs of late but bitter self-reproach, by saving one fellow-creature from perhaps reluctant ruin, one family from domestic shame, I drew from him your address, and learnt that to ingratiate himself with you, and with his intended victim, he has pretended to offer as a gift, what he knew that he could not long withhold. He means to take the earliest opportunity of inveigling her from your care, secure, as he boasts, of her pardon in her attachment. Ill, indeed, does her character, even as described by him, accord with such a boast; yet even indifference might prove no guard against fraud, which, thus warned, you may defy. A fear that my intention should be frustrated by the merited contempt attached to anonymous information, inclines me to add my name, though aware that it can claim no authority with a stranger.
'I am,Sir,'Your obedient Servant,'Philip Wilmot.'
Captain Montreville read this letter more than once. It bore marks of such sincerity that he knew not how to doubt of the intelligence it gave; and he perceived with dismay, that the business which he had considered as closed, was as far as ever from a conclusion; for how could he accept a favour which he had been warned to consider asthe wages of dishonour. For Laura he had indeed no fear. She was no less safe in her own virtue and discretion, than in the contemptuous pity with which she regarded Warren. This letter would put her upon her guard against leaving the house with him, which Captain Montreville now recollected that he had often solicited her to do, upon pretence of taking the air in his curricle.
But must he still linger in London; still be cheated with vain hopes; still fear for the future subsistence of his child; still approach the very verge of poverty; perhaps be obliged to defend his rights by a tedious law-suit? His heart sank at the prospect, and he threw himself on a seat, disconsolate and cheerless.
He had long been in the habit of seeking relief from every painful feeling in the tenderness of Laura,—of finding in her enduring spirit a support to the weakness of his own; and he now sought her in the conviction that she would either discover some advantage to be drawn from this disappointment, or lighten it to him by her affectionate sympathy. He knocked at the door.—She did not answer. He called her.—All was silent. He rang the bell, and inquired whether she was below, and was answered that she had gone out with Mr Warren in his curricle two hours before. The unfortunate father heard no more. Wildly striking his hand upon his breast, 'She is lost!' he cried, and sunk to the ground. The blood burst violently from his mouth and nostrils, and he became insensible.
The family were soon assembled round him; and a surgeon being procured, he declared that Montreville had burst a blood vessel, and that nothing but the utmost care and quiet could save his life. Mrs Dawkins, with great humanity, attended him herself, venting in whispers to the surgeon her compassion for Montreville, and her indignation against the unnatural desertion of Laura, whom she abused as a methodistical hypocrite, against whom her wrath was the stronger because she could never have suspected her.
Montreville no sooner returned to recollection, than he declared his resolution instantly to set off in search of his child. In vain did the surgeon expostulate, and assure him that his life would be the forfeit: his only answer was, 'Why should I live? She is lost.' In pursuance of his design, he tried to rise from the bed on which he had been laid; but exhausted nature refused to second him, and again he sunk back insensible.
When Montreville called in Portland Street, the servant had deceived him in saying that Warren was not at home. He was not onlyin the house, but expected the Captain's visit, and prepared to take advantage of it, for the accomplishment of the honourable scheme of which he had boasted to his associates. As soon, therefore, as the servant had disposed of Montreville, Warren mounted his curricle, which was in waiting at a little distance, and driving to Mrs Dawkins's, informed Laura that he had been sent to her by her father, who proposed carrying her to see the British Museum, and for that purpose was waiting her arrival in Portland Street. Entirely unsuspicious of any design, Laura accompanied him without hesitation; and though Portland Street appeared to her greatly more distant than she had imagined it, it was not till having taken innumerable turns, she found herself in an open road, that she began to suspect her conductor of having deceived her.
'Whither have you taken me, Mr Warren?' she inquired: 'This road does not lead to Portland Street.' 'Oh yes, it does,' answered Warren, 'only the road is a little circuitous.' 'Let us immediately return to the straight one then,' said Laura. 'My father will be alarmed, and conclude that some accident has happened to us.' 'Surely, my charming Miss Montreville,' said Warren, still continuing to drive on, 'you do not fear to trust yourself with me.' 'Fearyou!' repeated Laura, with involuntary disdain. 'No, but I am at a loss to guess what has encouraged you to make me the companion of so silly a frolic. I suppose you mean this for an ingenious joke upon my father.' 'No, 'pon my soul,' said the beau, a little alarmed by the sternness of her manner, 'I meant nothing but to have an opportunity of telling you that I am quite in love with you,—dying for you,—faith I am.' 'You should first have ascertained,' answered Laura, 'whether I was likely to think the secret worth a hearing. I desire you will instantly return.'
The perfect composure of Laura's look and manner (for feeling no alarm she shewed none) made Warren conclude that she was not averse to being detained; and he thought it only necessary that he should continue to make love, to induce her quietly to submit to go on for another half mile, which would bring them to a place where he thought she would be secure. He began, therefore, to act the lover with all the energy he could muster; but Laura interrupted him. 'It is a pity,' said she, with a smile of calm contempt, 'to put a stop to such well-timed gallantry, which is indeed just such as I should have expected from Mr Warren's sense and delicacy. But I would not for the sake of Mr Warren's raptures, nor all else that he has to offer,give my father the most momentary pain, and therefore if you do not suffer me to alight this instant, I shall be obliged to claim the assistance of passengers on an occasion very little worthy of their notice.' Her contumelious manner entirely undeceived her companion in regard to her sentiments; but it had no other effect upon him, except that of adding revenge to the number of his incitements; and perceiving that they were now at a short distance from the house whither he intended to convey her, he continued to pursue his way.
Laura now rose from her seat, and seizing the reins with a force that made the horses rear, she coolly chose that moment to spring from the curricle; and walked back towards the town, leaving her inammorato in the utmost astonishment at her self-possession, as well as rage at her disdainful treatment.
She proceeded till she came to a decent-looking shop, where she entered; and, begging permission to sit down, dispatched one of the shop-boys in search of a hackney-coach. A carriage was soon procured, and Laura, concluding that her father, tired of waiting for her, must have left Portland Street, desired to be driven directly home.
As she entered the house, she was met by Mrs Dawkins. 'So Miss,' cried she, 'you have made a fine spot of work on't. You have murdered your father.' 'Good heavens!' cried Laura, turning as pale as death, 'what is it you mean? where is my father?' 'Your father is on his deathbed Miss, and you may thank your morning rides for it. Thinking you were off, he burst a blood-vessel in the fright, and the doctor says, the least stir in the world will finish him.'
Laura turned sick to death. Cold drops stood upon her forehead; and she shook in every limb. She made an instinctive attempt to ascend the stair; but her strength failed her, and she sunk upon the steps. The sight of her agony changed in a moment Mrs Dawkins's indignation to pity. 'Don't take on so, Miss,' said she, 'to be sure you didn't mean it. If he is kept quiet, he may mend still, and now that you're come back too.—By the bye, I may as well run up and tell him.' 'Oh stop!' cried Laura, reviving at once in the sudden dread that such incautious news would destroy her father, 'Stay,' said she, pressing with one hand her bursting forehead, while with the other she detained Mrs Dawkins.—'Let me think, that we may not agitate him. Oh no! I cannot think;' and leaning her head on Mrs Dawkins' shoulder, she burst into an agony of tears.
These salutary tears restored her recollection, and she inquiredwhether the surgeon, of whom Mrs Dawkins had spoken, was still in the house. Being answered, that he was in Montreville's apartment, she sent to beg that he would speak with her. He came, and she entreated him to inform her father, with the caution which his situation required, that she was returned and safe. She followed him to the door of Montreville's apartment, and stood listening in trembling expectation to every thing that stirred within. At last she received the wished-for summons. She entered; she sprang towards the bed. 'My child!' cried Montreville, and he clasped her to his bosom, and sobbed aloud. When he was able to speak, 'Oh Laura,' said he, 'tell me again that you are safe, and say by what miracle, by what unheard-of mercy, you have escaped.' 'Compose yourself, my dearest father, for Heaven's sake,' cried Laura. 'I am indeed safe, and never have been in danger. When Warren found that I refused to join in his frolic, he did not attempt to prevent me from returning home.' She then briefly related the affair as it had appeared to her, suppressing Warren's rhapsodies, from the fear of irritating her father; and he, perceiving that she considered the whole as a frolic, frivolous in its intention, though dreadful in its effects, suffered her to remain in that persuasion. She passed the night by his bed-side, devoting every moment of his disturbed repose to fervent prayers for his recovery.
From feverish and interrupted sleep, Montreville awoke unrefreshed; and the surgeon, when he repeated his visit, again alarmed Laura with representations of her father's danger, and assurances that nothing but the most vigilant attention to his quiet could preserve his life. The anguish with which Laura listened to this sentence she suppressed, lest it should injure her father. She never approached him but to bring comfort; she spoke to him cheerfully, while the tears forced themselves to her eyes; and smiled upon him while her heart was breaking. She felt what he must suffer, should the thought occur to him that he was about to leave her to the world, unfriended and alone; and she never mentioned his illness to him unless with the voice of hope. But of the danger which she strove to disguise, Montreville was fully sensible; and though he forbore to shock her by avowing it explicitly, he could not, like her, suppress his fears. He would sometimes fervently wish that he could see his child safe in the protection of Mrs Douglas; and sometimes, when Laura was bending over him in the tenderest sympathy, he would clasp her neck, and cry, with an agony that shook his whole frame, 'What—Oh what will become of thee!'
He seemed anxious to know how long Mrs De Courcy was to remain in town, and inquired every hour whether Montague was not returned. Full well did Laura guess the mournful meaning of these questions. Full well did they remind her, that when the De Courcy family left London, she with her dying father would amidst this populous wilderness be alone. She anticipated the last scene of this sad tragedy; when, amidst busy thousands, a senseless corpse would be her sole companion. She looked forward to its close, when even this sad society would be withdrawn. Human fortitude could notsupport the prospect; and she would rush from her father's presence, to give vent to agonies of sorrow.
But the piety of Laura could half-invest misfortune with the character of blessing; as the mists that rise to darken the evening sun are themselves tinged with his glory. She called to mind the gracious assurance which marks the afflicted who suffer not by their own guilt or folly as the favoured of Heaven; and the more her earthly connections seemed dissolving, the more did she strive to acquaint herself with Him, from whose care no accident can sever. To this care she fervently committed her father; praying that no selfish indulgence of her grief might embitter his departure; and resolving by her fortitude to convince him that she was able to struggle with the storm from which he was no longer to shelter her.
The day succeeding that on which Montreville was taken ill had been set apart for a farewell visit to Mrs De Courcy; and Laura's note of mournful apology, was answered by a kind visit from Harriet. Unconscious of the chief cause of her father's impatience for Montague's return, Laura wishing to be the bearer of intelligence which she knew would cheer him, inquired anxiously when Miss De Courcy expected her brother. But De Courcy's motions depended upon the spirits of his venerable friend, and Harriet knew not when he might be able to leave Mr Wentworth. It was even uncertain whether for the present he would return to town at all, as in another week Mrs De Courcy meant to set out for Norwood. Laura softened this unpleasing news to her father; she did not name the particular time of Mrs De Courcy's departure, and she suffered him still confidently to expect the return of his favourite.
The next day brought a letter from De Courcy himself, full of affectionate solicitude for the Captain's health and spirits; but evidently written in ignorance of the fatal change that had taken place since his departure. In this letter the name of Laura was not mentioned, not even in a common compliment, and Montreville remarked to her this omission. 'He has forgotten it,' answered Laura,—'his warm heart is full of his friend's distress and yours, and has not room for more ceremony.' 'I hope,' said Montreville, emphatically, 'that is not the reason.' 'What is then the reason?' inquired Laura; but Montreville did not speak, and she thought no more of De Courcy's little omission.
Her father, indeed, for the present, occupied almost all her earthly thoughts, and even her prayers rose more frequently for him than forherself. Except during the visits of Montreville's surgeon, she was Montreville's sole attendant; and, regardless of fatigue, she passed every night by his bed-side, every day in ministering to his comfort. If, worn out with watching, she dropt asleep, she started again at his slightest motion, and obstinately refused to seek in her own chamber a less interrupted repose. 'No,' thought she, 'let my strength serve me while I have duties to perform, while my father lives to need my efforts; then may I be permitted to sink to early rest, and the weary labourer, while yet it is but mornings be called to receive his hire.'
The desertion of Hargrave, whom she had loved with all the ardour of a warm heart and a fervid imagination, the death of her father so fast approaching, her separation from every living being with whom she could claim friendship or kindred, seemed signals for her to withdraw her affections from a world where she would soon have nothing left to love or to cherish. 'And be it so,' thought she,—'let me no longer grovel here in search of objects which earth has not to offer—objects fitted for unbounded and unchangeable regard. Nor let me peevishly reject what this world really has to give, the opportunity to prepare for a better. This it bestows even on me; and a few childish baubles are all else that it reserves for those who worship it with all their soul, and strength, and mind.'
No mortal can exist without forming some wish or hope. Laurahopedthat she should live while she could be useful to her father; and shewishedthat she might not survive him. One only other wish she had, and that was for De Courcy's return; for Montreville, whose spirits more than shared his bodily languor, now seldom spoke, but to express his longing for the presence of his favourite. Laura continued to cheer him with a hope which she herself no longer felt; for now three days only remained ere Mrs De Courcy was to quit London. The departure of their friends Laura resolved to conceal from her father, that, believing them to be near, he might feel himself the less forlorn; and this she thought might be practicable, as he had never since his illness expressed any wish to quit his bed, or to see Miss De Courcy when she came.
In Montreville's darkened apartment, without occupation but in her cares for him, almost without rest, had Laura passed a week, when she was one morning summoned from her melancholy charge, to attend a visitor. She entered the parlour. 'Mr De Courcy!' she exclaimed, springing joyfully to meet him, 'thank Heaven you are come!' But not with equal warmth did De Courcy accost her. Therepulsive look she had given him at parting was still fresh in his recollection; and, with a respectful distant bow, he expressed his sorrow for Captain Montreville's illness. 'Oh he is ill, indeed!' said Laura, the faint hectic of pleasure fading suddenly from her cheek. 'Earnestly has he longed for your return; and we feared,' said she, with a violent effort suppressing her tears, 'we feared that you might not have come till—till all was over.' 'Surely Miss Montreville,' said De Courcy, extremely shocked, 'surely you are causelessly alarmed.' 'Oh no,' cried Laura, 'he cannot live!' and no longer able to contain her emotion, she burst into a passion of tears. Forced entirely from his guard by her grief, Montague threw himself on the seat beside her. 'Dearest of human beings,' he exclaimed, 'Oh that I could shield thee from every sorrow!' But absorbed in her distress, Laura heeded him not; and the next moment, sensible of his imprudence, he started from her side, and retreated to a distant part of the room.
As soon as she was again able to command herself, she went to inform her father of De Courcy's arrival. Though told with the gentlest caution, Montreville heard the news with extreme emotion. He grasped Laura's hand; and, with tears of joy streaming down his pale cheeks, said,—'Heaven be praised! I shall not leave thee quite desolate.' Laura herself felt less desolate and she rejoiced even for herself, when she once more saw De Courcy seated beside her father.
It was only the morning before, that a letter from Harriet had informed her brother of Montreville's illness and of Laura's distress. To hear of that distress, and to remain at a distance was impossible; and Montague had left Mr Wentworth's within the hour. He had travelled all night; and, without even seeing his mother and sister, had come directly to Captain Montreville's lodgings. He was shocked at the death-like looks of Montreville, and still more at those of Laura. Her eyes were sunk, her lips colourless, and her whole appearance indicated that she was worn out with fatigue and wretchedness. Yet De Courcy felt, that never in the bloom of health and beauty, had she been so dear to him, and scarcely could he forbear from addressing her in the accents of compassion and love. Montreville wishing to speak with him alone, begged of Laura to leave him for a while to De Courcy's care, and endeavour to take some rest. She objected that Montague had himself need of rest, having travelled all night; but when he assured her, that even if she drove him away he would not attempt to sleep, she consented toretire, and seek the repose of which she was so much in want.
When they were alone, Montreville shewed De Courcy the warning letter; and related to him the baseness of Warren and Laura's escape. Montague listened to him with intense interest. He often changed colour, and his lips quivered with emotion; and, when her father described the manner in which she had accomplished her escape, he exclaimed with enthusiasm, 'Yes, she is superior to every weakness, as she is alive to every gentle feeling.' Montreville then dwelt upon her unremitting care of him—on the fortitude with which she suppressed her sorrow, even while its violence was perceptibly injuring her health. 'And is it to be wondered at,' said he, 'that I look forward with horror to leaving this lovely excellent creature in such a world, alone and friendless?' 'She shall never be friendless,' cried De Courcy. 'My mother, my sister, shall be her friends, and I will'—He stopped abruptly, and a heavy sigh burst from him.
Recovering himself, he resumed, 'You must not talk so despondingly. You will live long, I trust, to enjoy the blessing of such a child.' Montreville shook his head, and remained silent. He was persuaded that De Courcy loved his daughter, and would fain have heard an explicit avowal that he did. To have secured to her the protection of Montague would have destroyed the bitterness of death. Had Laura been the heiress of millions, he would have rejoiced to bestow her and them upon De Courcy. But he scorned to force him to a declaration, and respected her too much to make an approach towards offering her to any man's acceptance.
He was at a loss to imagine what reason withheld De Courcy from avowing an attachment which he was convinced that he felt. When he considered his favourite's grave reflecting character, he was rather inclined to believe that he was cautiously ascertaining the temper and habits of the woman with whom he meant to spend his life. But the warmth of approbation with which he mentioned Laura, seemed to indicate that his opinion of her was already fixed. It was possible, too, that De Courcy wished to secure an interest in her regard before he ventured formally to petition for it. Whatever was the cause of Montague's silence, the Captain anticipated the happiest consequences from his renewed intercourse with Laura; and he resolved that he would not, by any indelicate interference, compel him to precipitate his declaration. He therefore changed the conversation, by inquiring when Mrs De Courcy was to leave town. Montague answered, that as he had not seen his mother since his return, he didnot exactly know what time was fixed for her departure: 'but,' said he, 'whenever she goes, I shall only attend her to Norwood, and return on the instant; nor will I quit you again, till you are much, much better, or till you will no longer suffer me to stay.' Montreville received this promise with gratitude and joy; and De Courcy persuaded himself, that in making it, he was actuated chiefly by motives of friendship and humanity. He remained with Montreville till the day was far advanced, and then went to take a late dinner in Audley Street.
Next morning, and for several succeeding days, he returned, and spent the greatest part of his time in attending, comforting, and amusing the invalid. He prevailed on his mother to delay her departure, that he might not be obliged immediately to leave his charge. He soothed the little impatiences of disease; contrived means to mitigate the oppressiveness of debility; knew how to exhilarate the hour of ease; and watched the moment, well known to the sickly, when amusement becomes fatigue.
Laura repaid these attentions to her father with gratitude unutterable. Often did she wish to thank De Courcy as he deserved; but she felt that her acknowledgements must fall far short of her feelings and of his deserts, if they were not made with a warmth, which to a man, and to a young man, she revolted from expressing. She imagined, too, that to one who sought for friendship, mere gratitude might be mortifying; and that it might wound the generous nature of Montague to be thanked as a benefactor, where he wished to be loved as an equal. She therefore did not speak of, or but slightly mentioned, her own and her father's obligations to him; but she strove to repay them in the way that would have been most acceptable to herself, by every mark of confidence and good will. Here no timidity restrained her; for no feeling that could excite timidity at all mingled with her regard for De Courcy. But, confined to her own breast, her gratitude became the stronger; and if she had now had a heart to give, to Montague it would have been freely given.
Meanwhile the spirits of Montreville lightened of a heavy load, by the assurance that, even in case of his death, his daughter would have a friend to comfort and protect her, his health began to improve. He was able to rise; and one day, with the assistance of Montague's arm, surprised Laura with a visit in the parlour. The heart of Laura swelled with transport when she saw him once more occupy his accustomed seat in the family-room, and received him as onereturned from the grave. She sat by him, holding his hand between her own, but did not try to speak. 'If it would not make you jealous, Laura,' said Montreville, 'I should tell you that Mr De Courcy is a better nurse than you are. I have recruited wonderfully since he undertook the care of me. More indeed than I thought I should ever have done.' Laura answered only by glancing upon De Courcy a look of heartfelt benevolence and pleasure. 'And yet,' said Montague, 'it is alleged that no attentions from our own sex are so effectual as those which we receive from the other. How cheaply would bodily suffering purchase the sympathy, the endearments of'—the name of Laura rose to his lips, but he suppressed it, and changed the expression to 'an amiable woman.' 'Is it indeed so?' cried Laura, raising her eyes full of grateful tears to his face. 'Oh then, if sickness or sorrow must be your portion, may your kindness here be repaid by some spirit of peace in woman's form—some gentleness yet more feminine than De Courcy's!'
The enthusiasm and gratitude had hurried Laura into a warmth which the next moment covered her with confusion; and she withdrew her eyes from De Courcy's face before she had time to remark the effect of these, the first words of emotion that ever she had addressed to him. The transport excited by the ardour of her expressions, and the cordial approbation which they implied, instantly gave way to extreme mortification. 'She wishes,' thought he, 'that somewomanmay repay me. She would then, not only with indifference, but with pleasure, see me united to another; resign me without a pang to some mere common-place insipid piece of sweetness; and give her noble self to one who could better feel her value.'
De Courcy had never declared his preference for Laura; he was even determined not to declare it. Yet to find that she had not even a wish to secure it for herself, gave him such acute vexation, that he was unable to remain in her presence. He abruptly rose and took his leave. He soon however reproached himself with the unreasonableness of his feelings; and returned to his oft-repeated resolution to cultivate the friendship without aspiring to the love of Laura. He even persuaded himself that he rejoiced in her freedom from a passion which could not be gratified without a sacrifice of the most important duties. He had a sister for whom no provision had been made; a mother, worthy of his warmest affection, whose increasing infirmities required increased indulgence. Mrs De Courcy's jointure was a verysmall one; and though she consented for the present to share the comforts of his establishment, Montague knew her too well to imagine that she would accept of any addition to her income, deducted from the necessary expences of his wife and family. His generous nature revolted from suffering his sister to feel herself a mere pensioner on his bounty, or to seek dear-bought independence in a marriage of convenience, a sort of bargain upon which he looked with double aversion, since he had himself felt the power of an exclusive attachment.
Here even his sense of justice was concerned; for he knew that, if his father had lived, it was his intention to have saved from his income a provision for Harriet. From the time that the estate devolved to Montague, he had begun to execute his father's intention; and he had resolved, that no selfish purpose should interfere with its fulfilment. The destined sum, however, was as yet little more than half collected, and it was now likely to accumulate still more slowly; for, as Mrs De Courcy had almost entirely lost the use of her limbs, a carriage was to her an absolute necessary of life.
Most joyfully would Montague have sacrificed every luxury, undergone every privation, to secure the possession of Laura; but he would not sacrifice his mother's health nor his sister's independence to any selfish gratification; nor would he subject the woman of his choice to the endless embarrassments of a revenue too small for its purposes.
These reasons had determined him against addressing Laura. At their first interview he had been struck with her as the most lovely woman he had ever beheld; but he was in no fear that his affections should be entangled. They had escaped from a hundred lovely women, who had done their utmost to ensnare them, while she was evidently void of any such design. Besides, Montreville was his old friend, and it was quite necessary that he should visit him. Laura's manners had charmed De Courcy as much as her person. Still might not a man be pleased and entertained, without being in love? Further acquaintance gradually laid open to him the great and amiable qualities of her mind, and was it not natural and proper to love virtue? but this was not being in love.
Symptoms at last grew so strong upon poor De Courcy, that he could no longer disguise them from himself; but it was pleasing to love excellence. He would never reveal his passion. It should be the secret joy of his heart; and why cast away a treasure which he mightenjoy without injury to any? Laura's love indeed he could not seek; but her friendship he might cherish; and who would exchange the friendship of such a woman for the silly fondness of a thousand vulgar minds?
In this pursuit he had all the success that he could desire; for Laura treated him with undisguised regard; and with that regard he assured himself that he should be satisfied. At last this 'secret joy,' this 'treasure of his heart' began to mingle pain with its pleasures; and, when called away on his mournful errand to Mr Wentworth, De Courcy confessed, that it was wise to wean himself a little from one whose presence was becoming necessary to his happiness, and to put some restraint upon a passion, which from his toy was become his master. Short absence, however, had only increased his malady; and Laura in sorrow, Laura grateful, confiding, at times almost tender, seized at once upon every avenue to the heart of De Courcy: he revered her as the best, he admired her as the loveliest, he loved her as the most amiable of human beings. Still he resolved that, whatever it might cost him, he would refrain from all attempt to gain her love; and he began to draw nice distinctions between thevery tenderfriendship with which he hoped to inspire her, and the tormenting passion which he must silently endure. Happily for the success of De Courcy's self-deceit, there was no rival at hand, with whose progress in Laura's regard he could measure his own, and he never thought of asking himself what would be his sensations if hervery tenderfriendship for him should not exclude love for another.
A doubt would sometimes occur to him, as to the prudence of exposing himself to the unremitting influence of her charms, but it was quickly banished as an unwelcome intruder, or silenced with the plea, that, to withdraw himself from Montreville on a sick-bed, would outrage friendship and humanity. He had, too, somewhat inadvertently, given his friend a promise that he would not leave him till his health was a little re-established; and this promise now served as the excuse for an indulgence which he had not resolution to forego. After escorting Mrs De Courcy to Norwood, he pleaded this promise to himself when he returned to London without an hour's delay; and it excused him in his own eyes for going every morning to the abode of Montreville, from whence, till the return of night drove him away, he had seldom the resolution to depart.
Meanwhile, with the health of her father, the spirits of Laura revived; and considering it as an act of the highest self-denial in adomestic man to quit his home—a literary man to suspend his studies—a young man to become stationary in the apartment of an invalid, she exerted herself to the utmost to cheer De Courcy's voluntary task. She sometimes relieved him in reading aloud, an accomplishment in which she excelled. Her pronunciation was correct, her voice varied, powerful, and melodious, her conception rapid and accurate, while the expression of her countenance was an animated comment upon the author.
De Courcy delighted to hear her sing the wild airs of her native mountains, which she did with inimitable pathos, though without skill. Her conversation, sometimes literary, sometimes gay, was always simply intended to please. Yet, though void of all design to dazzle, it happened, she knew not how, that in De Courcy's company she was always more lively, more acute, than at other times. His remarks seemed to unlock new stores in her mind; and the train of thought which he introduced, she could always follow with peculiar ease and pleasure. Safe in her preference for another, she treated him with the most cordial frankness. Utterly unconscious of the sentiment she inspired, she yet had an animating confidence in De Courcy's good will; and sometimes pleased herself with thinking, that, next to his mother and sister, she stood highest of women in his regard. No arts of the most refined coquetry could have rivetted more closely the chains of the ill-fated De Courcy; and the gratitude of the unconscious Laura, pointed the shaft that gave the death wound to his peace.
How was it possible for her to imagine, that the same sentiment could produce a demeanour so opposite as De Courcy's was from that of Hargrave. Hargrave had been accustomed to speak of her personal charms with rapture. De Courcy had never made them the subject of direct compliment; he had even of late wholly discontinued those little gallantries which every pretty woman is accustomed to receive. Hargrave omitted no opportunity to plead his passion; and though the presence of a third person of necessity precluded this topic, it restrained him not from gazing upon Laura with an eagerness from which she shrunk abashed. De Courcy had never mentioned love; and Laura observed that, when his glance met her's, he would sometimes withdraw his eye with (as she thought) almost womanly modesty. In her private interviews with Hargrave, he had ever approached her with as much vehemence and freedom of speech and manner, as her calm dignity would permit. Privacy made nochange in De Courcy's manner, except to render him a little more silent—a little more distant; and to personal familiarity, he seemed to be if possible more averse than herself; for if she accidentally touched him, he coloured and drew back.
Some of these circumstances Montreville had remarked, and had drawn from them inferences very different from those of his daughter. He was convinced that the preference of De Courcy for Laura had risen into a passion, which, for some unknown reason, he wished to conceal; and he perceived, by the ease of her behaviour, that Montague's secret was unsuspected by her. Most anxiously did he wish to know the cause of his favourite's silence, and to discover whether it was likely to operate long. In Laura's absence, he sometimes led the conversation towards the subject; but De Courcy never improved the offered opportunity. Partly in the hope of inviting equal frankness, Montreville talked of his own situation, and mentioned the motive of his journey to London. Montague inquired into every particular of the business, and rested not till he had found Mr Baynard's executor, and received from him an acknowledgement, that he had in his possession a voucher for the payment of Montreville's fifteen hundred pounds to Warren.
He next, without mentioned the matter to the Captain, called upon Warren, with an intention finally to conclude the business; thinking it impossible that, since the payment of the money was ascertained, he could refuse either to pay the annuity, or refund the price of it. But the disdain of Laura yet rankled in the mind of Warren, and he positively refused to bring the affair to any conclusion, declaring, that he would litigate it to the last sixpence he was worth; to which declaration he added an excellent joke concerning the union of Scotch pride with Scotch poverty. At this effrontery the honest blood of De Courcy boiled with indignation, and he was on the point of vowing, that he too would beggar himself, rather than permit such infamous oppression; but his mother, his sister, and Laura herself, rose to his mind, and he contented himself with threatening to expose Warren to the disgrace that he merited.
Warren now began to suspect that De Courcy was the cause of Laura's contemptuous reception of his addresses, and, enraged at his interference, yet overawed by his manly appearance and decided manner, became sullen, and refused to answer Montague's expostulations. Nothing remained to be done, and De Courcy was obliged to communicate to Montreville the ill success of his negotiations.
Bereft of all hope of obtaining justice, which he had not the means to enforce, Montreville became more anxiously desirous to regain such a degree of health as might enable him to return home. In his present state, such a journey was impracticable, and he was convinced, that while he remained pent up in the polluted air of the city, his recovery could advance but slowly. Some weeks must at all events elapse before he could be in a condition to travel; and to accommodate his funds to this prolonged demand upon them, he saw that he must have recourse to some scheme of economy yet more humble than that which he had adopted.
He hoped, if he could recover strength sufficient for the search, to find in the suburbs some abode of purer air, and still more moderate expense than his present habitation. The former only of these motives he mentioned to De Courcy; for though Montreville did not affect to be rich, he never spoke of his poverty. Various circumstances, however, had led De Courcy to guess at his friend's pecuniary embarrassment; and he too had a motive which he did not avow, in the offer which he made to secure a more healthful residence for Montreville.
Unwilling to describe the humble accommodation with which he meant to content himself, or the limited price which he could afford to offer for it, Montreville at first refused De Courcy's services; but they were pressed upon him with such warmth, that he was obliged to submit, and Montague lost no time in fulfilling his commission.
He soon discovered a situation that promised comfort. It was in the outskirts of the town, a small flower-garden belonged to the house, the apartments were airy and commodious, the furniture was handsome, and the whole most finically neat. The rent, however, exceeded that of Montreville's present lodgings; and De Courcy knew that this objection would be insurmountable. That Laura should submit to the inelegancies of a mean habitation, was what he could not bear to think of; and he determined, by a friendly little artifice, to reconcile Montreville's comfort with his economy. The surgeon had named two or three weeks as the time likely to elapse before Montreville could commence his journey. De Courcy paid in advance above half the rent of the apartments for a month, charging the landlady to keep the real rent a secret from her lodgers.
As far as the author of these memoirs has been able to learn, this was the only artifice that ever Montague De Courcy practised in his life; and it led, as artifices are wont to do, to consequences which thecontriver neither wished nor foresaw.
Much to his satisfaction, Montreville was soon settled in his new abode, where De Courcy continued to be his daily visitor. A certain delicacy prevented Laura from endeavouring to procure a reversal of her father's decree, issued in a moment of peevishness, that she should paint no more with a view to pecuniary reward. She felt that he had been wrong, and she shrunk from reminding him of it, till her labours should again become necessary. But, desirous to convey to Mrs De Courcy some token of her remembrance and gratitude, she employed some of the hours which Montague spent with her father, in labouring a picture which she intended to send to Norwood. The subject was the choice of Hercules; and to make her gift the more acceptable, she presented in the hero a picture of De Courcy, while the form and countenance of Virtue, were copied from the simple majesty of her own. The figure of Pleasure was a fancied one, and it cost the fair artist unspeakable labour. She could not pourtray what she would have shrunk from beholding—a female voluptuary. Her draperies were always designed with the most chastened decency; and, after all her toil, even the form of Pleasure came sober and matronly from the hand of Laura.
Designing a little surprise for her friends, she had never mentioned this picture to De Courcy; and as she daily stole some of the hours of his visits to bestow upon it, it advanced rapidly. Montague bore these absences with impatience; but Montreville, who knew how Laura was employed, took no notice of them, and De Courcy durst not complain.
Three weeks had glided away since Montreville's removal to his new lodgings, and he remained as much as ever anxious, and as much as ever unable to guess the reason which induced De Courcy to conceal a passion which evidently increased every day. He recollected that Montague had of late never met Laura but in his presence, and he thought it natural that the lover should wish to make his first application to his mistress herself. He had an idea, that the picture might be made to assist the denouement which he so ardently desired; and with this view he privately gave orders that when next Mr De Courcy came he should be ushered into the painting-room, which he knew would be empty, as Laura never quitted him till De Courcy arrived to take her place.
Next morning accordingly Montague was shewn into the room which he had himself destined for Laura, and, for that reason,supplied with many little luxuries which belonged not to its original furniture. He looked round with delight on the marks of her recent presence. There lay her book open as she had quitted it, and the pencil with which she had marked the margin. It was one which he himself had recommended, and he thought it should ever be dear to him. On a table lay her port-folio and drawing materials: in a corner stood her easel with the picture, over which was thrown a shawl which he had seen her wear.
Not conceiving that she could have any desire to conceal her work, he approached it, and, raising the cover, stood for a moment motionless with surprise. The next, a thousand sensations, vague but delightful, darted through his mind; but before he could give a shape or distinctness to any one of them, the step approached that ever aroused De Courcy to eager expectation, and letting drop the shawl, he flew towards the door to receive Laura.
With rapture in his eyes, but confusion on his tongue, De Courcy paid his compliments, and again turned towards the picture. Laura sprung forward to prevent him from raising the covering. 'Is this forbidden, then?' said he. 'Oh yes, indeed,' said Laura, blushing, 'you must not look at it.' 'Can you be so mischievous,' cried De Courcy, a delighted smile playing on his countenance, 'as to refuse me such a pleasure?' 'I am sure,' said Laura, blushing again, and still more deeply, 'it could give you no pleasure in its present state.' 'And I am sure,' said De Courcy, ardently, 'it would give me more than I have language to express.'
De Courcy's eagerness, and the consciousness of her own confusion, made Laura now more unwilling that Montague should discover the cause of both to be his own portrait, and actually trembling with emotion, she said, putting her hand on the shawl to prevent him from raising it, 'Indeed I cannot shew you this. There is my port-folio—look at any thing but this.' 'And what inference may I draw as to the subject of a picture that Miss Montreville will not shew to the most partial—the most devoted of her friends?' 'Any inference,' replied Laura, still holding the shawl, 'that friendship or charity will permit.' 'And must I not remove this perverse little hand?' said De Courcy, laying his upon it; for all prudence was forgotten in his present emotion. Laura, a little offended at his perseverance, gravely withdrew her hand, and turned away, saying, 'Since my wishes have no power, I shall make no other trial of strength.' 'No power!' cried De Courcy, following her, 'they have more force than athousand arms.' 'Well,' said Laura, a little surprised by his manner, but turning upon him a smile of gracious reconciliation, 'your forbearance may hereafter be rewarded by a sight of this important picture; but lest you should forfeit your recompense, had we not better remove from temptation?'
She then led the way to the parlour, and De Courcy followed her in a state of agitation that could not be concealed. He was absent and restless. He often changed colour, seemed scarce sensible of what was addressed to him, or began to reply, and the unfinished sentence died upon his lips. At last, starting up, he pleaded sudden indisposition, and was hurrying away. 'Do not go away ill and alone,' said Laura, kindly detaining him. 'Walk round the garden—the fresh air will relieve you.' 'No air will relieve me!' said De Courcy, in a voice of wretchedness. 'What then can we do for you?' said Laura, with affectionate earnestness. 'What canyoudo for me!' cried De Courcy, 'Oh nothing, nothing but suffer me to go, while yet I have the power.' He then wrung Montreville's hand, and uttering something which his emotion made inarticulate, without venturing a glance towards Laura, he quitted the house, and returned home in a state bordering on distraction.
He shut himself up in his chamber to consider of his situation, if that can be called consideration, which was but a conflict of tumultuous feeling. That Laura should have painted his portrait in a group where it held such a relation to her own; that she should keep it concealed in an apartment exclusively appropriated to herself; her alarm lest he should examine it; her confusion, which had at last risen to the most distressing height, from the idea of what De Courcy might infer, should he discover that his own portrait was the cause of so many blushes; the confiding affectionate matter in which she treated him,—all conspired to mislead De Courcy. He felt a conviction that he was beloved, and, in spite of himself, the thought was rapture.
But what availed this discovery? Could he forget the justice of his sister's claims, sacrifice to his selfish wishes the comfort of his mother, or wed his half-worshipped Laura to the distresses of an embarrassed fortune? 'Oh no,' he cried, 'let not my passions involve in disaster all that I love.'
Or could he lay open to Laura his feelings and his situation, and sue for her love, even while their union must be delayed. Her attachment, he thought, was yet in its infancy, born of gratitude,fostered by separation from other society, and, for the present, pleasing in its sensations, and transient in its nature. But he thought her capable of a love as fervent—as deep-rooted as that which she inspired; and should he wilfully awaken in her peaceful breast the cravings of such a passion as tortured his own; see her spirits, her vigour of mind, her usefulness, perhaps her health, give way to the sickness of 'hope deferred!' No,—rather let her return to the indifference in which he found her. Or, should he shackle her with a promise, of which honour might extort a reluctant fulfilment, after the affection that prompted it was perhaps withdrawn from him? Or, should he linger on from day to day in vain endeavours to conceal his affection, dishonourably sporting with the tenderness of the woman he loved, his ill-suppressed feelings every hour offering a hope which must every hour be disappointed? No! the generous heart of De Courcy would sooner have suffered a thousand deaths.
But could he return—could he see again this creature, now more than ever dear to him, and stifle the fondness—the anguish that would rend his bosom at parting? Impossible! He would see her no more. He would tear at once from his heart every hope—every joy—and dare at once all the wretchedness that awaited him. In an agony of desperation, he rang for his servant, ordered his horses, and in an hour was on his way to Norwood, with feelings which the criminal on the rack need not have envied.
The next morning, while Montreville and his daughter were expecting, with some anxiety the arrival of their daily visitor, a note was brought which De Courcy had left in Audley Street, to be delivered after his departure. Though nearly illegible, from the agitation in which it was written, it contained nothing but the simple information, that he had been suddenly obliged to leave London. It assigned no reason for his journey—it fixed no period for his absence; and Montreville endeavoured to hope that his return would not be distant. But day after day passed heavily on, and De Courcy came not. Montreville again began to feel himself a solitary deserted being; again became dejected; again became the victim of real debility and fancied disease.
All Laura's endeavours failed to animate him to cheerfulness, or rouse him to employment. If he permitted her to remain by him, he seemed rather to endure than to enjoy her presence, repressed with a languid monosyllable her attempts at conversation, or passed whole hours in listless silence. Laura, who forboded the worst consequences from the indulgence of this depression, endeavoured to persuade him that he might now safely attempt a voyage to Scotland, and predicted beneficial effects from the sea air. But Montreville answered her with displeasure, that such an exertion would certainly destroy him, and that those who were themselves in high health and spirits, could not judge of the feelings, nor sympathize with the weakness of disease. The reproach had no more justice than is usual with the upbraidings of the sickly; for Laura's spirits shared every turn of her father's, though her stronger mind could support with grace the burden that weighed him to the earth. She desisted, however, from a subject which she saw that, for the present, he wouldnot bear, and confined her endeavours to persuading him to undertake some light occupation, or to walk in the little garden that belonged to the house. But, even in these attempts she was commonly defeated; for Montreville would make no exertion, and the winter wind, now keen and biting, pierced through his wasted form.
None but they who have made the melancholy experiment, can tell how cheerless is the labour of supporting the spirit that will make no effort to sustain itself, of soliciting the languid smile, offering the rejected amusement, or striving, with vain ingenuity, to enliven the oft-repulsed conversation. They only know who have tried it, what it is to resist contagious depression—to struggle against the effects of the complaining voice, the languid motion, the hopeless aspect; what it is to suppress the sympathetic sigh, and restrain the little sally of impatience, so natural to those whose labours are incessant, yet unavailing. Such were the tasks that Laura voluntarily prescribed to herself. Incited by affection, and by strong sense of duty, she soothed the fretful humour, prompted the reluctant exertion, fanned the expiring hope, and seized the most favourable moment to soften by feminine tenderness, or exhilarate by youthful gaiety.
Many motives may lead to one great effort of virtue. The hope of reward, the desire of approbation, a sense of right, the natural benevolence which still affords a faint trait of the image in which man was made, all, or any of these, may produce single, or even oft-repeated acts deserving of praise; but one principle alone can lead to virtuous exertions persevering and unremitting though without success. That principle was Laura's; and even while her endeavours seemed unavailing, she was content to employ all her powers in the task selected for her by the bestower of them.
Montreville often reproached himself for the untimely burden which he was laying on the young heart of his daughter; but he could make no effort to lighten it, and self-reproach served only to embitter the spirit which it failed of stimulating to exertion. Fretful and impatient, yet conscious of his injustice, and unwilling that Laura should observe it, he would often dismiss her from her attendance, and spend whole hours in solitary gloom. These hours Laura devoted to her picture, stealing between whiles, on tiptoe, to the door of her father's apartment, to listen whether he was stirring; and sometimes venturing to knock gently for admittance.
The picture, which was far advanced when De Courcy left town, soon received the finishing touches; and Laura lost no time intransmitting it to Norwood. She wrote an affectionate letter to Harriet; in which, after thanking her for all her kindness, she offered her gift, and added, that to give her work a value which it would not otherwise have possessed, she had introduced the portrait of De Courcy; and that, glad of an opportunity of associating the remembrance of herself with an object of interest, she had admitted her own resemblance into the group. She apologized for the appearance of conceit which might attend her exhibiting her own form under the character of Virtue, by relating, with characteristic simplicity, that she had determined on her subject, chosen and half-finished her Hercules, before she designed the figures of his companions; that she had afterwards thought that her memorial would be more effectual if it contained the portrait of the giver. 'And you know,' added she, 'it would have been impossible to mould my solemn countenance into the lineaments of Pleasure.'
In the singleness of her heart, it never occurred to Laura, that any thing in the mutual relation of the figures of her piece stood in need of explanation. Had Hargrave furnished the model for her hero, she would probably have been a little more quick-sighted. As it was, she felt impatient to shew the De Courcy family, not excepting Montague himself, that she was not forgetful of their kindness; and she chose a day, when the influence of bright sunshine a little revived the spirits of Montreville, to leave him for an hour, and accompany the picture to the shop of the obliging print-seller, that it might be packed more skilfully than by herself.
After seeing it safely put up, she gave the address to Wilkins, who immediately exclaimed, 'So, Ma'am, you have found out the secret that you would not let me tell you?' 'What secret?' inquired Laura. 'The name of the gentleman, Ma'am, that bought your pictures.' 'Was it De Courcy, then?' 'Yes, Ma'am;—though to be sure it might'n't be the same. But I suppose you'll know him, Ma'am. A tall pleasant-looking gentleman, Ma'am. The pictures were sent home to Audley Street.' Laura's countenance brightened with satisfaction, and she suffered her informer to proceed. 'I am sure,' continued he, 'I managed that business to the very best of my power, and, as one might say, very dexterously.' 'Was there any occasion for management?' inquired Laura. 'Oh yes, Ma'am; for when he seemed very much taken with the first one, then I told him all about you just as I had it all from Mrs Dawkins, and how you were so anxious to have it sold; and then he said he'd have it, and paid the money into myhands; and then I told him how you looked the first day you brought it here, and that you were just ready to cry about it; and he said he must have a companion to it.'
The flush, both of pride and vexation, for once stained the transparent skin of Laura. Yet it was but for a moment; and her next feeling was pleasure at the confirmation of the benevolent character with which her imagination had invested De Courcy. He had purchased her work when she was quite unknown to him, only, as she thought, from a wish to reward industry; and because he had been led to believe that the price was an object to the artist. Had another been the purchaser, she might have allowed something for the merit of the piece, but Laura was not yet cured of first imagining characters, and then bending facts to suit her theory. Sooner than bate one iota from De Courcy's benevolence, she would have assigned to her picture the rank of a sign-post.
She now remembered, that in her visits to Audley Street she had never seen her works; and in her approbation of the delicacy which prompted De Courcy to conceal that she was known to him as an artist, she forgot the little prejudice which this concealment implied. De Courcy, indeed, was himself unconscious that he entertained any such prejudice. He applauded Laura's exertions; he approved of the spirit that led a young woman of family to dare, in spite of custom, to be useful. Yet he could not help acting as if she had shared the opinion of the world, and been herself ashamed of her labours. But this was a shame that Laura knew not. She wished not indeed to intrude on the world's notice. Her choice was peaceful obscurity. But if she must be known, she would have far preferred the distinction earned by ingenious industry, to the notoriety which wealth and luxury can purchase.
On her return home, she found her father reading a letter which he had just received from De Courcy. It seemed written in an hour of melancholy. The writer made no mention of returning to town; on the contrary, he expressed a hope that Montreville might now be able to undertake a journey to Scotland. He besought the Captain to remember him, to speak of him often, and to write to him sometimes; and ended with these words—'Farewell, my friend; the dearest of my earthly hopes is, that we may one day meet again, though years, long years, must first intervene.'
'So ends my last hope,' said Montreville, letting his head sink mournfully on his breast; 'De Courcy comes not, and thou must beleft alone and unprotected.' 'The protection of so young a man,' said Laura, avoiding to answer to a foreboding which she considered merely as a symptom of her father's disease, 'might not perhaps have appeared advantageous to me in the eyes of those who are unacquainted with Mr De Courcy.' 'It would have given comfort to my dying hour,' said Montreville, 'to consign thee to such a guardian—such a husband.' 'A husband!' cried Laura, starting, and turning pale. 'Heaven be praised, that Mr De Courcy never harboured such a thought!' Montreville looked up in extreme surprise; and inquired the reason of her thankfulness. 'Oh Sir,' she replied, 'we owe so much to Mr De Courcy's friendship, that I should have hated myself for being unable to return his affection;—and pity would it have been that the love of so amiable a being should have been bestowed in vain.'
Montreville fixed his eyes upon her, as if to seek for further explanation, and continued to gaze on her face, when his thoughts had wandered from the examination of it. After some minutes of silence, he said—'Laura, you once rejected an alliance, splendid beyond my hopes, almost beyond my wishes, and that with a man formed to be the darling of your sex; and now you speak as if even Montague De Courcy would have failed to gain you. Tell me, then, have you any secret attachment? Speak candidly, Laura;—you will not always have a father to confide in.'
Deep crimson dyed the cheeks of Laura; but, with the hesitation of a moment, she replied—'No, Sir, I have no wish to marry. I pretend not to lay open my whole heart to you; but I may with truth assure you, that there is not at this moment a man in being with whom I would unite myself. I know you would not be gratified by extorted confidence.'
'No, Laura,' said Montreville, 'I ask no more than you willingly avow. I confide, as I have always done, in your prudence and integrity. Soon, alas! you will have no other guides. But it was my heart's wish to see you united to a man who could value and protect your worth—of late, more especially, when I feel that I so soon must leave you.'
'My dearest father,' said Laura, throwing her arm affectionately round his neck, 'do not give way to such gloomy forebodings. Your spirits are oppressed by confinement—let us but see Glenalbert again, and all will be well.'
'I shall never see Glenalbert,' said Montreville;—'and left alone insuch a place as this, without money, without friends, without a home;—where shall my child find safety or shelter?'
'Indeed, Sir,' said Laura, though a cold shuddering seized her, 'your fears have no foundation. Only yesterday Dr Flint told me that your complaints were without danger, and that a little exercise would make you quite strong again.'
Montreville shook his head. 'Dr Flint deceives you, Laura,' said he;—'you deceive yourself.' 'No, indeed,' said Laura, though she trembled; 'you look much better,—you are much better. It is only these melancholy thoughts that retard your recovery. Trust yourself—trust me to the Providence that has hitherto watched over us.'
'I could die without alarm,' said Montreville; 'but to leave thee alone and in want—Oh! I cannot bear it.' 'Should the worst befal,' said Laura, turning pale as alabaster, 'think that I shall not be alone, I shall not want, for'—her voice failed, but she raised her eyes with an expression that filled up the ennobling sentiment. 'I believe it, my love,' said Montreville, 'but you feel these consolations more strongly than I do. Leave me for the present, I am fatigued, and wish to be alone.'
Laura retired to her own room, and endeavoured herself to practise the trust which she recommended to her father. Her meditations were interrupted by the entrance of her landlady, Mrs Stubbs, who, with many courtesies and apologies, said that she was come to present her account.
Laura, who always had pleasure in cancelling a debt the moment it was incurred, and who conceived no apology to be necessary from those who came to demand only their own, received her landlady very graciously, and begged her to be seated, while she went to bring her father's purse. Mrs Stubbs spread her bills upon the table; and Laura, after examining them, was obliged to ask an explanation.
'Why, ma'am,' returned the landlady, 'there are fourteen guineas for lodgings for six weeks, and £10, 15s. for victuals and other articles that I have furnished. I am sure I have kept an exact account.'
'I understood,' said Laura, 'that we were to have the lodgings for a guinea and a half a-week, and'—'A guinea and a half!' cried the landlady, colouring with wrath at this disparagement of her property. 'Sure, Miss, you did not think to have lodgings such as these for a guinea and a half a-week. No, no—these lodgings have never been let for less than four guineas, and never shall, as long as my name is Bridget.'
Laura mildly pleaded her ignorance of those matters, and urged De Courcy's information as an excuse for her mistake. 'To be sure, Ma'am,' said the now pacified Mrs Stubbs, 'nobody that know'd any thing of the matter, would expect to have such rooms for less than four guineas; and that was what the gentleman said when he took them; so he paid me two guineas and a half advance for four weeks; and charged me not to let you know of it; but I can't abide them secret doings; and, besides, if I take only a guinea and a half from you, where was I to look for the rest of my rent for the last fortnight—for the young gentleman seems to have taken himself off.'
Laura suffered her loquacious hostess to proceed without interruption, for her thoughts were fully occupied. She had incurred a debt greater, by five guineas, than she had been prepared to expect; and this sum was, in her present circumstances, of great importance. Yet her predominant feeling was grateful approbation of De Courcy's benevolence; nor did her heart at all upbraid him with the consequences of his well-meant deception. 'Kind, considerate De Courcy,' thought she; 'he had hoped that, ere now, we should have ceased to need his generosity, and even have been removed from the possibility of discovering it.'
Recollecting herself, she paid the landlady her full demand; and, dismissing her, sat down to examine what remained of her finances. All that she possessed, she found amounted to no more than one guinea and a few shillings; and, dropping the money into her lap, she sat gazing on it in blank dismay.
The poverty, whose approach she had so long contemplated with a fearful eye, had now suddenly overtaken her. Husbanded with whatever care, the sum before her could minister only to the wants of a few hours. In her present habitation, it would scarcely purchase shelter for another night from the storm which a keen winter-wind was beginning to drive against her window. An immediate supply then was necessary; but where could that supply be found? It was too late to resort to the earnings of her own genius. Painting was a work of time and labour. No hasty production was likely to find favour amidst the competition of studied excellence. Even the highest effort of her art might long wait a purchaser; and tears fell from the eyes of Laura while she reflected that, even if she could again produce a Leonidas, she might never again find a De Courcy.
To borrow money on the Captain's half-pay, was an expedient which Laura had always rejected, as calculated to load their scantyincome with a burden which it could neither shake off nor bear. But even to this expedient she could now no longer have recourse; for Montreville had assured her that, in his present state of health, it would be impossible to mortgage his annuity for a single guinea.
She might raise a small supply by stripping her beloved Glenalbert of some of its little luxuries and comforts; but, long before this revolting business could be transacted, she must be absolutely pennyless. Nor did she dare, without consulting her father, to give orders for dismantling his home. And how should she inform him of the necessity for such a sacrifice? Weakened both in body and in mind, how would he endure the privations that attend on real penury? His naturally feeble spirits already crushed to the earth, his kindly temper already, by anxiety and disappointment, turned to gall, his anxieties for his child alarmed even to anguish, how could he bear to learn that real want had reached him—had reached that dear child, whom the dread of leaving to poverty was poisoning the springs of life within him! 'He thinks he is about to leave me,' cried she, 'and shall I tell him that I must owe to charity even the sod that covers him from me? No; I will perish first,' and, starting from her seat, she paced the room in distressful meditation on the means of concealing from her father the extent of their calamity.
She determined to take upon herself the care of their little fund, under pretence that the trouble was too great for Montreville. He had of late shewn such listless indifference to all domestic concerns, that she hoped he might never inquire into the extent of his landlady's demand, or that his inquiries might be eluded. It seemed a light thing in Laura's eyes to suffer alone; or rather she thought not of her own sufferings, could she but spare her father the anguish of knowing himself and his child utterly destitute. She judged of his feelings by her own; felt, by sympathy, all the pangs with which he would witness wants which he could not supply; and she inwardly vowed to conceal from him every privation that she might endure,—every labour that she might undergo.
But, void of every resource, far from every friend, destitute amid boundless wealth, alone amid countless multitudes, whither should she turn for aid, or even for counsel? 'Whither,' cried she, dropping on her knees, 'except to Him who hath supplied me in yet more urgent want, who hath counselled me in yet more fearful difficulty, who hath fed my soul with angel's food, and guided it with light from heaven?' Laura rose from her devotions, more confiding in the care of Providence,more able to consider calmly of improving the means which still remained within her own power.
Before she could finish and dispose of a picture, weeks must elapse for which she could make no provision. To painting, therefore, she could not have immediate recourse. But sketches in chalk could be finished with expedition; the printseller might undertake the sale of them; and the lowness of the price might invite purchasers. Could she but hope to obtain a subsistence for her father, she would labour night and day, deprive herself of recreation, of rest, even of daily food, rather than wound his heart, by an acquaintance with poverty. 'And since his pride is hurt by the labours of his child,' said she, 'even his pride shall be sacred. He shall never know my labours.' And, so frail are even the best, that an emotion of pride swelled the bosom of Laura at the thought that the merit of her toils was enhanced by their secrecy.
The resolutions of Laura were ever the immediate prelude to action; and here was no time for delay. She again looked mournfully upon her little treasure, hopelessly re-examined the purse that contained it; again, with dismay, remembered that it was her all; then, hastily putting it into her pocket, she drew her portfolio towards her, and began to prepare for the work with the hurry of one to whom every moment seems precious. Invention was at present impossible; but she tried to recollect one of her former designs, and busied herself in sketching it till the hour of dinner arrived. She then went to summon her father from his chamber to the eating-room. 'This day,' thought she, 'I must share his precarious sustenance—another I shall be more provident. And is this then, perhaps, our last social meal?' and she turned for a moment from the door, to suppress the emotion that would have choked her utterance. 'Come in, my dear,' cried Montreville, who had heard her footstep; and Laura entered with a smile. She offered her arm to assist him in descending to the parlour. 'Why will you always urge me to go down stairs, Laura,' said he; 'you see I am unequal to the fatigue.' 'I shall not urge you to-morrow,' answered Laura: and Montreville thought the tears which stood in her eyes, were the consequence of the impatient tone in which he had spoken.
During the evening, Laura avoided all mention of restoring the purse to her father, and he appeared to have forgotten its existence. But, by no effort could she beguile those cheerless hours. Her utmost exertions were necessary to maintain the appearance of composure; and De Courcy's letter seemed to have consummated Montreville's feelings of solitude and desolation. Wilfully, and without effort, hesuffered his spirits to expire. His whole train of thinking had become habitually gloomy. He was wretched, even without reference to his situation, and the original cause of his melancholy was rather the excuse than the reason of his depression. But this only rendered more hopeless all attempts to cheer him; for the woes of the imagination have this dire pre-eminence over those which spring from real evils, that, while these can warm at times in benevolent joy, or even brighten for a moment to the flash of innocent gaiety, the selfishness of the former, chequered by no kindly feeling, reflects not the sunny smile; as the dark and noisome fog drinks in vain the beam of Heaven.
Montreville, when in health, had been always and justly considered a kind-hearted, good-natured man. He had been a most indulgent husband, an easy master, and a fond father. He was honourable, generous, and friendly. Those who had witnessed his patient endurance of Lady Harriet's caprice had given his philosophy a credit which was better due to his indolence: for the grand defect of Montreville's character was a total want of fortitude and self-command; and of these failings he was now paying the penalty. His health was injured by his voluntary inaction, his fancy aggravated his real disorder, and multiplied to infinity his imaginary ailments. He had habituated his mind to images of disaster, till it had become incapable of receiving any but comfortless and doleful impressions.