'My dear Jessy, I am the most miserable wretch upon earth. I wish I had been upon the rack the hour I met you. I am sure I have been so ever since. Do not curse me, dear Jessy! Upon my soul, I had far less thought of being the ruffian I have been to you, than I have at this moment of blowing out my own brains. I wish to heaven that I had been in your own station that I might have made you amends for the injury I have done. But you know it is impossible for me to marry you. I inclose a bank-bill for £100, and I will continue to pay you the same sum annually while you live, though you should never consent to see me more. If you make me a father, no expence shall be spared to provide the means of secrecy and comfort. No accommodation which a wife could have shall be withheld from you. Tell me if there be any thing more than I can do for you. I shall never forgive myself for what I have done. I abhor myself, and from this hour, I forswear all woman-kind for your sake. Once more, dear Jessy, pardon me I implore you.'
'My dear Jessy, I am the most miserable wretch upon earth. I wish I had been upon the rack the hour I met you. I am sure I have been so ever since. Do not curse me, dear Jessy! Upon my soul, I had far less thought of being the ruffian I have been to you, than I have at this moment of blowing out my own brains. I wish to heaven that I had been in your own station that I might have made you amends for the injury I have done. But you know it is impossible for me to marry you. I inclose a bank-bill for £100, and I will continue to pay you the same sum annually while you live, though you should never consent to see me more. If you make me a father, no expence shall be spared to provide the means of secrecy and comfort. No accommodation which a wife could have shall be withheld from you. Tell me if there be any thing more than I can do for you. I shall never forgive myself for what I have done. I abhor myself, and from this hour, I forswear all woman-kind for your sake. Once more, dear Jessy, pardon me I implore you.'
This letter was without signature; but the hand-writing was familiar to Laura, and could not be mistaken. It was Hargrave's. Shuddering at this new proof of his depravity, Laura inwardly offered a thanksgiving that she had escaped all connection with such a monster. 'You may trust my friend with the wretch's name,' said Harriet, anxious that Laura's conviction should be complete. 'She will make no imprudent use of it.' 'I should never have known it myself had it not been for this letter,' answered Margaret. 'But my poor child wished to answer it, and she was not able to carry the answer herself, so she was obliged to ask her father to go with it. And first she made us both promise on the Bible, never to bring him either to shame or punishment; and then she told us that it was thatsame Major Hargrave that used to speak her so fair. Here is the scroll that John took of her answer.'
'Sir, I return your money, for it can be of no use where I am going. I will never curse you; but trust I shall to the last have pity on you, who had no pity on me. I fear your sorrow is not right repentance; for, if it was, you would never think of committing a new sin by taking your own life, but rather of making reparation for the great evil you have done. Not that I say this in respect of wishing to be your wife. My station makes that unsuitable, more especially now when I should be a disgrace to any man. And I must say, a wicked person would be as unsuitable among my friends; for my parents are honest persons, although their daughter is so unhappy as to bring shame on them. I shall not live long enough to disgrace them any farther, so pray inquire no more of me, nor take the trouble to send me money, for I will not buy my coffin with the wages of shame; and I shall need nothing else. So, wishing that my untimely end may bring you to a true repentance, I remain, Sir, the poor dying disgraced,'Jessy Wilson.'
'Sir, I return your money, for it can be of no use where I am going. I will never curse you; but trust I shall to the last have pity on you, who had no pity on me. I fear your sorrow is not right repentance; for, if it was, you would never think of committing a new sin by taking your own life, but rather of making reparation for the great evil you have done. Not that I say this in respect of wishing to be your wife. My station makes that unsuitable, more especially now when I should be a disgrace to any man. And I must say, a wicked person would be as unsuitable among my friends; for my parents are honest persons, although their daughter is so unhappy as to bring shame on them. I shall not live long enough to disgrace them any farther, so pray inquire no more of me, nor take the trouble to send me money, for I will not buy my coffin with the wages of shame; and I shall need nothing else. So, wishing that my untimely end may bring you to a true repentance, I remain, Sir, the poor dying disgraced,
'Jessy Wilson.'
'Ah, Miss,' continued Margaret, wiping from the paper the drops which had fallen on it, 'my poor child's prophecy was true. She always said she would just live till her child was born, and then lay her dishonoured head and her broken heart in the grave. My Lady and Miss Harriet there were very kind, and my young master himself was so good as to promise that he would act the part of a father to the little orphan. And he used to argue with her that she should submit to the chastisement that was laid upon her, and that she might find some comfort still; but she always said that her chastisement was less than she deserved, but that she could never wish to live to be 'a very scorn of men, an outcast and an alien among her mother's children.' So the day that little Henry was born, she was doing so well that we were in hopes she would still be spared to us; but she knew better; and, when I was sitting by her, she pulled me close to her and said, 'Mother,' says she, looking pleased like, 'the time of my release is at hand now,' and then she charged me never to give poor little Henry to his cruel father. I had not the power to say a word to her, but sat hushing the baby, with my heart like to break. So, by and by, she said to me again; but very weak and low like, 'my brothers lie side by side in the churchyard, lay me at their feet; it is good enough for me.' Soshe never spoke more, but closed her eyes, and slipped quietly away, and left her poor old mother.'
A long paused followed Margaret's melancholy tale. 'Are you convinced, my friend,' said Mrs Bolingbroke at length. 'Fully,' answered Laura, and returned to silent and thankful meditation. 'My master,' said Margaret, 'has made good his promise to poor Jessy. He has shewn a father's kindness to her boy. He paid for his nursing, and forces John to take a board for him that might serve any gentleman's son; and now it will be very hard if the end of all his goodness is to get himself ill spoken of; and nobody saying a word against him that was the beginning of all this mischief. But that is the way of the world.' 'It is so,' said Laura. 'And what can better warn us that the earth was never meant for our resting-place. The "raven" wings his way through it triumphant. The "dove" finds no rest for the sole of her foot, and turns to the ark from whence she came.'
Mrs Bolingbroke soon after took leave of her nurse, and the ladies proceeded in their walk towards Walbourne. Harriet continued to express the warmest detestation of the profligacy of Hargrave, while Laura's mind was chiefly occupied in endeavouring to account for De Courcy's desire to conceal from her the enormity which had just come to her knowledge. Unable to divine his reason, she applied to Harriet. 'Why my dear,' said she, 'should your brother have silenced you on a subject which could only be mentioned to his honour?' 'He never told me his reasons,' said Harriet smiling, 'but if you will not be angry I may try to guess them.' 'I think,' said Laura, 'that thus cautioned, I may contrive to keep my temper; so speak boldly.' 'Then, my dear,' said Harriet, 'I may venture to say that I think he suspected you of a partiality for this wretch, and would not shock you by a full disclosure of his depravity. And I know,' added she, in a voice tremulous with emotion, 'that in him this delicacy was virtue; for the peace of his life depends on securing your affectionate, your exclusive preference.' 'Ah, Harriet, you have guessed right.—Yes! I see it all. Dear generous De Courcy!' cried Laura, and burst into tears. Harriet had not time to comment upon this agitation; for the next moment De Courcy himself was at her side. For the first time, Laura felt embarrassed and distressed by his presence. The words she had just uttered still sounded in her ear, and she trembled lest they had reached that of De Courcy. She was safe. Her exclamation was unheard by Montague,—but he instantly observed her tears, and they banished from his mind every other idea than thatof Laura in sorrow. He paid his compliments like one whose attention was distracted, and scarcely answered what his sister addressed to him. Mrs Bolingbroke inwardly enjoying his abstraction and Laura's embarrassment, determined not to spoil an opportunity which she judged so favourable to her brother's suit. 'This close walk,' said she with a sly smile, 'was never meant for a trio. It is just fit for a pair of lovers. Now I have letters to write, and if you two will excuse me'—De Courcy colouring crimson, had not presence of mind to make any reply, while Laura, though burning with shame and vexation, answered with her habitual self-command, 'Oh, pray my dear, use no ceremony. Here are none butfriends.' The emphasis which she laid upon the last word, wrung a heavy sigh from De Courcy; who, while his sister was taking leave, was renewing his resolution not to disappoint the confidence of Laura.
The very circumstances which Mrs Bolingbroke had expected should lead to a happy eclaircissement, made this interview the most reserved and comfortless which the two friends had ever had. Laura was too conscious to talk of the story which she had just heard, and she was too full of it to enter easily upon any other subject. With her gratitude for the delicacy which De Courcy had observed towards her, was mingled a keen feeling of humiliation at the idea that he had discovered her secret before it had been confided to him; for we can sometimes confess a weakness which we cannot without extreme mortification see detected. Her silence and depression infected De Courcy; and the few short constrained sentences which were spoken during their walk, formed a contrast to the general vivacity of their conversations. Laura however recovered her eloquence as soon as she found herself alone with Lady Pelham. With all the animation of sensibility, she related the story of the ill-fated Jessy; and disclosing in confidence the name of her destroyer, drew, in the fulness of her heart, a comparison between the violator of laws human and divine, owing his life to the mercy of the wretch whom he had undone, and the kind adviser of inexperienced youth, the humane protector of forsaken infancy. Lady Pelham quietly heard her to an end; and then wrinkling her eyelids, and peeping through them with her glittering blue eyes, she began, 'Do you know, my dear, I never met with prejudices so strong as yours? When will you give over looking for prodigies? Would any mortal but you expect a gay young man to be as correct as yourself? As for your immaculate Mr De Courcy, with his sage advices, I think it is ten to one that he wanted to keep the girl forhimself. Besides, I'll answer for it, Hargrave would have bid farewell to all his indiscretions if you would have married him.' 'Never name it, Madam,' cried Laura warmly, 'if you would not banish me from your presence. His marriage with me would have been itself a crime; a crime aggravated by being, as if in mockery, consecrated to heaven. Formyconnection with such a person no name is vile enough.' 'Well, well,' said Lady Pelham, shrugging her shoulders, 'I prophesy that one day you will repent having refused to share a title with the handsomest man in England.' 'All distinctions between right and wrong,' returned Laura, 'must first be blotted from my mind. The beauty of his person is no more to me than the shining colours of an adder; and the rank which your Ladyship prizes so highly, would but render me a more conspicuous mark for the infamy in which his wife must share.'
Awed by the lightnings of Laura's eye, Lady Pelham did not venture to carry the subject farther for the present. She had of late been watching an opportunity of procuring the re-admission of Hargrave to the presence of his mistress; but this fresh discovery had served, if possible, to widen the breach. Hargrave's fiery temper submitted with impatience to the banishment which he had so well deserved, and he constantly urged Lady Pelham to use her authority on his behalf. Lady Pelham, though conscious that this authority had no existence, was flattered by having power ascribed to her, and promised at some convenient season to interfere. Finding herself, however, considerably embarrassed by a promise which she could not fulfil without hazarding the loss of Laura, she was not sorry that an opportunity occurred of evading the performance of her agreement. She therefore acquainted Hargrave with Laura's recent discovery, declaring that she could not ask her niece to overlook entirely so great an irregularity. From a regard to the promise of secrecy which she had given to Laura, as well as in common prudence, Lady Pelham had resolved not to mention the De Courcy family as the fountain from which she had drawn her intelligence. Principle and prudence sometimes governed her Ladyship's resolutions, but seldom swayed her practice. In the first interview with Hargrave which followed this rational determination, she was led by the mere vanity of a babbler to give such hints as not only enabled him to trace the story of his shame to Norwood, but inclined him to fix the publishing of it upon Montague.
From the moment when Hargrave first unjustly suspected Laura ofa preference for De Courcy, his heart had rankled with an enmity which a sense of its ingratitude served only to aggravate. The cool disdain with which De Courcy treated him—a strong suspicion of his attachment,—above all, Laura's avowed esteem and regard—inflamed this enmity to the bitterest hatred. Hopeless as he was of succeeding in his designs by any fair or honourable means, he might have entertained thoughts of relinquishing his suit; and of seeking, in a match of interest, the means of escape from his embarrassments: but that Laura, with all her unequalled charms, should be the prize of De Courcy, that in her he should obtain all that beauty, affluence, and love could give, was a thought not to be endured. Lady Pelham, too, more skilled to practise on the passions of others than to command her own, was constantly exciting him, by hints of De Courcy's progress in the favour of Laura; while Lambert, weary of waiting for the tedious accomplishment of his own scheme, continually goaded him, with sly sarcasms on his failure in the arts of persuasion, and on his patience in submitting to be baffled in his wishes by a haughty girl. In the heat of his irritation, Hargrave often swore that no power on earth should long delay the gratification of his love and his revenge. But to marry a free-born British woman against her consent, is, in these enlightened times, an affair of some difficulty; and Hargrave, in his cooler moments, perceived that the object of three years eager pursuit was farther than ever from his attainment.
Fortune seemed in every respect to oppose the fulfilment of his designs, for his regiment at this time received orders to prepare to embark for America; and Lord Lincourt, who had discovered his nephew's ruinous connection with Lambert, had influence to procure, from high authority, a hint that Hargrave would be expected to attend his duty on the other side of the Atlantic.
The news of this arrangement Hargrave immediately conveyed to Lady Pelham, urging her to sanction any means which could be devised for making Laura the companion of his voyage. Lady Pelham hesitated to carry her complaisance so far; but she resolved to make the utmost use of the time which intervened to promote the designs of her favourite. Her Ladyship was not at any time much addicted to the communication of pleasurable intelligence, and the benevolence of her temper was not augmented by a prospect of the defeat of a plan in which her vanity was so much interested. She therefore maliciously withheld from her niece a piece of information so likely tobe heard with joy. It reached Laura, however, by means of one who was ever watchful for her gratification. De Courcy no sooner ascertained the truth of the report, than he hastened to convey it to Laura.
He found her alone, and was welcomed with all her accustomed cordiality. 'I am sorry,' said he, with a smile which contradicted his words, 'I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news to you; but I could not deny myself the edification of witnessing your fortitude—Do you know that you are on the point of losing the most assiduous admirer that ever woman was blessed with? In three weeks Colonel Hargrave embarks for America. Nay, do not look incredulous. I assure you it is true.' 'Thank Heaven,' cried Laura, 'I shall once more be in peace and safety!' 'Oh, fie! Is this your regret for so ardent a lover? Have you no feeling?' 'Just such a feeling as the poor man had when he escaped from beneath the sword that hung by a hair. Indeed, Mr De Courcy, I cannot tell you to what a degree he has embittered the two last years of my life. But I believe,' continued she, blushing very deeply, 'I need not explain to you any of my feelings towards Colonel Hargrave, since I find you have I know not what strange faculty of divining them.' Assisted by a conversation which he had had with his sister, De Courcy easily understood Laura's meaning. Respectfully taking her hand, 'Pardon me,' said he, in a low voice, 'if I have ever ventured to guess what it was your wish to conceal from me.' 'Oh, believe me,' cried Laura, with a countenance and manner of mingled candour and modesty, 'there is not a thought of my heart that I wish to conceal from you; since from you, even my most humbling weaknesses are sure of meeting with delicacy and indulgence. But since you are so good an augur,' added she, with an ingenuous smile, 'I trust you perceive that I shall need no more delicacy or indulgence upon the same score.' The fascinating sweetness of her looks and voice, for the first time beguiled De Courcy of his promised caution. 'Dear, dear Laura,' he cried, fondly pressing her hand to his breast, 'it is I who have need of indulgence, and I must—I must sue for it. I must repeat to you that—' Laura's heart sprung to her lips, and unconsciously snatching away her hand, she stood in breathless expectation of what was to follow. 'Madman, that I am!' cried De Courcy, recalled to recollection by her gesture,—'whither am I venturing!' That was precisely what of all things Laura was most desirous to know; and she remained with her eyes fixed on the ground, half dreading the confidence, half the timidity of her lover. Amomentary glance at the speaking countenance of Laura, glowing with confusion, yet brightened with trembling pleasure, awakened the strongest hopes that ever had warmed De Courcy's bosom. 'Beloved Laura,' said he, again tenderly approaching her, 'remember I am but human. Cease to treat me with this beguiling confidence. Cease to bewitch me with these smiles, which are so like all that I wish, or suffer me to—' Laura started, as her attention was drawn by some one passing close to the ground window near which they were standing. 'Ah!' cried she, in a tone of vexation, 'there is my evil genius. Colonel Hargrave is come into the house. He will be here this instant. Excuse me for driving you away. I beseech you do not remain a moment alone with him.'
Laura was not mistaken. She had scarcely spoken, ere, with a dark cloud on his brow, Hargrave entered. He bowed to Laura, who was advancing towards the door. 'I am afraid, Madam, I interrupt you,' said he, darting a ferocious scowl upon De Courcy. Laura, without deigning even a single glance in reply, left the room. Hargrave, as he passed the window, had observed the significant attitude of the lovers; and his jealousy and rage were inflamed to the uttermost by the scorn which he had endured in the presence of his rival. Fiercely stalking up to De Courcy, 'Is it to you, Sir,' said he, 'that I am indebted for this insolence?' 'No Sir,' answered De Courcy, a little disdainfully. 'I have not the honour of regulating Miss Montreville's civilities.' 'This is a paltry evasion,' cried Hargrave. 'Is it not to your misrepresentations of a youthful indiscretion that I owe Miss Montreville's present displeasure?' 'I am not particularly ambitious of the character of an informer,' answered De Courcy; and taking his hat wished Hargrave a stately good morning. 'Stay, Sir!' cried Hargrave, roughly seizing him by the arm. 'I must have some further conversation with you—You don't go yet.' 'I am not disposed to ask your permission,' returned De Courcy; and coolly liberating his arm, walked out of the house. Boiling with rage, Hargrave followed him. 'It is easy to see, Sir,' said he, 'from whence you borrow a spirit that never was natural to you—Your presumption builds upon the partiality of that fickle capricious woman. But observe, Sir, that I have claims on her; claims which she herself was too happy in allowing; and no man shall dare to interfere with them.' 'I shall dare,' returned De Courcy, anger kindling in his eyes, 'to inquire by what right you employ such expressions in regard to Miss Montreville; and whether my spirit be my own or not, you shall find itsufficient to prevent your holding such language in my presence.' 'In your presence, or the presence of all the devils,' cried De Courcy, 'I will maintain my right; and, if you fancy that it interferes with any claim of yours, you know how to obtain satisfaction. There is but one way to decide the business.' 'I am of your opinion,' replied De Courcy, 'that there is one way, provided that we can mutually agree to bide by it; and that is, an appeal to Miss Montreville herself.' Hargrave turned pale, and his lip quivered with rage. 'A mode of decision, no doubt,' said he, 'which your vanity persuades you will be all in your favour! No, no, Sir, our quarrel must be settled by means in which even your conceit cannot deny my equality.' 'By a brace of pistols, you mean of course,' said De Courcy, coolly; 'but I frankly tell you. Colonel Hargrave, that my notions must have changed before I can find the satisfaction of a gentleman in being murdered; and my principles, before I shall seek it in murdering you.' 'Curse on your hypocrisy!' cried Hargrave. 'Keep this canting to cozen girls, and let me avenge my wrongs like a man, or the world shall know you, Sir.' 'Do you imagine,' said De Courcy, with a smile of calm disdain, 'that I am to be terrified into doing what I tell you I think wrong, by the danger of a little misrepresentation? You may, if you think fit, tell the world that I will not stake my life in a foolish quarrel, nor wilfully send an unrepenting sinner to his great account; and, if you go on to ascribe for my forbearance any motive which is derogatory to my character, I may, ifIthink fit, obtain justice as a peacable citizen ought; or I may leave you undisturbed the glory of propagating a slander which even you yourself believe to be groundless.'
De Courcy's coolness served only to exasperate his adversary. 'Truce with this methodistical jargon!' cried he fiercely. 'It may impose upon women, but I see through it, Sir—see that it is but a miserable trick to escape what you dare not meet.' 'Dare not!' cried De Courcy, lightnings flashing from his eye. 'My nerves have failed me, then, since'—He stopped abruptly, for he scorned at such a moment to remind his antagonist of the courageous effort to which he owed his life. 'Since when!' cried Hargrave, more and more enraged, as the recollection which De Courcy had recalled, placed before him the full turpitude of his conduct.—'Do you think I owe you thanks for a life which you have made a curse to me, by cheating me of its dearest pleasures. But may tortures be my portion if I do not foil you!'
The latter part of this dialogue was carried on in a close shady lane which branched off from the avenue of Walbourne. The dispute was proceeding with increasing warmth on both sides when it was interrupted by the appearance of Laura. From a window she had observed the gentlemen leave the house together; had watched Hargrave's angry gestures, and seen De Courcy accompany him into the by-path. The evil which she had so long dreaded seemed now on the point of completion; and alarm leaving no room for reserve, she followed them with her utmost speed.
'Oh, Mr De Courcy,' she cried, with a look and attitude of most earnest supplication, 'for mercy leave this madman!—If you would not make me for ever miserable, carry this no further—I entreat—I implore you. Fear for me, if you fear not for yourself.' The tender solicitude for the safety of his rival, which Hargrave imagined her words and gestures to express, the triumphant delight which they called up to the eyes of De Courcy, exasperated Hargrave beyond all bounds of self-command. Frantic with jealousy and rage, he drew, and rushed fiercely on De Courcy; but Montague having neither fear nor anger to disturb his presence of mind, parried the thrust with his cane, closed with his adversary before he could recover, wrested the weapon from his hand; and having calmly ascertained that no person could be injured by its fall, threw it over the fence into the adjoining field. Then taking Hargrave aside, he whispered that he would immediately return to him; and, giving his arm to Laura, led her towards the house.
She trembled violently, and big tears rolled down her colourless cheeks, as, vainly struggling with her emotion, she said, 'Surely you will not endanger a life so precious, so'—She was unable to proceed; but, laying her hand on De Courcy's arm, she raised her eyes to his face, with such a look of piteous appeal as reached his very soul. Enchanted to find his safety the object of such tender interest, he again forgot his caution; and, fondly supporting with his arm the form which seemed almost sinking to the earth, 'What danger would I not undergo,' he cried, 'to purchase such concern as this! Be under no alarm, dear Miss Montreville. Even if my sentiments in regard to duelling were other than they are, no provocation should tempt me to implicate your revered name in a quarrel which would, from its very nature, become public.' Somewhat tranquillized by his words, Laura walked silently by his side till they reached the house, when, in a cheerful tone, he bade her farewell. 'A short farewell,' said he, 'for Imust see you again this evening.' Laura could scarcely prevail on herself to part from him. 'May I trust you?' said she, with a look of anxiety that spoke volumes. 'Securely, dearest Laura,' answered he. 'He whom you trust needs no other motive for rectitude.' He then hastened from her into the field, whither he had thrown Hargrave's sword; and having found it, sprung over into the lane where he had left its owner. Gracefully presenting it to him, De Courcy begged pardon for having deprived him of it, 'though,' added he, 'I believe you are now rather disposed to thank me for preventing the effects of a momentary irritation.' Hargrave took his sword, and, in surly silence walked on; then, suddenly stopping, he repeated that there was only one way in which the quarrel could be decided; and asked De Courcy whether he was determined to refuse him satisfaction. 'The only satisfaction,' returned De Courcy, 'which is consistent with my notions of right and wrong, I will give you now, on the spot. It is not to my information that you owe Miss Montreville's displeasure. Circumstances, which I own were wholly foreign to any consideration of your interests, induced me to keep your secret almost as if it had been my own; and it is from others that she has learnt a part of your conduct, which, you must give me leave to say, warrants, even on the ground of modern honour, my refusal to treat you as an equal.' 'Insolent!' cried Hargrave, 'Leave me—avoid me, if you would not again provoke me to chastise you, unarmed as you are.' 'My horses wait for me at the gate,' said De Courcy, coolly proceeding by his side, 'and your way seems to lie in the same direction as mine.'
The remainder of the way was passed in silence. At the gate, De Courcy mounting his horse, bid his rival good morning, which the other returned with an ungracious bow. De Courcy rode home, and Hargrave, finding himself master of the field, returned to Walbourne. There he exerted his utmost influence with Lady Pelham to procure an opportunity of excusing himself to Laura. Lady Pelham confessed that she could not venture to take the tone of command, lest she should drive Laura to seek shelter elsewhere; but she promised to contrive an occasion for an interview which he might prolong at his pleasure, provided such a one could be found without her apparent interference. With this promise he was obliged for the present to content himself, for, during his stay, Laura did not appear. She passed the day in disquiet. She could not rest. She could not employ herself. She dreaded lest the interview of the morning should have been only preparatory to one of more serious consequence. She toldherself a hundred times that she was sure of De Courcy's principles; and yet feared as if they had been unworthy of confidence. He had promised to see her in the evening, and she anxiously expected the performance of his promise. She knew that if he came while Lady Pelham was in the way, her Ladyship would be too vigilant a guard to let one confidential word be exchanged. She therefore, with a half-pardonable cunning, said not a word of De Courcy's promised visit; and as soon as her aunt betook herself to her afternoon's nap, stole from the drawing-room to receive him. Yet perhaps she never met him with less semblance of cordiality. She blushed and stammered while she expressed her hopes that the morning's dispute was to have no further consequences, and apologized for the interest she took in it, in language more cold than she would have used to a mere stranger. Scarcely could the expression of tenderness have delighted the lover like this little ill-concealed affectation, the first and the last which he ever witnessed in Laura Montreville. 'Ah, dearest Laura,' cried he, 'it is too late to retract—You have said that my safety was dear to you; owned that it was formeyou feared this morning, and you shall not cancel your confession.' Laura's colour deepened to crimson, but she made no other reply. Then, with a more timid voice and air, De Courcy said, 'I would have told youthenwhat dear presumptuous hopes your anxiety awakened, but that I feared to extort from your agitation what perhaps a cooler moment might refuse me. My long-loved, ever dear Laura, will you pardon me these hopes? Will you not speak to me?—Not one little word to tell me that I am not too daring.' Laura spoke not even that little word. She made a faint struggle to withdraw the hand which De Courcy pressed. Yet the lover read the expressions of her half-averted face, and was satisfied.
'Pray,' said Lady Pelham to her niece, 'what might you and your paragon be engaged in for the hour and a half you were together this evening?'
'We were discussing a very important subject, Madam,' answered Laura, mustering all her confidence.
'May I be permitted to inquire into the nature of it?' returned Lady Pelham, covering her spleen with a thin disguise of ceremony.
'Certainly, Madam,' replied Laura. 'You may remember I once told you that if ever I received addresses which I could with honour reveal, I should bespeak your Ladyship's patience for my tale. Mr De Courcy was talking of marriage, Madam; and—and I—'
'Oh, mighty well, Miss Montreville,' cried Lady Pelham, swelling with rage, 'I comprehend you perfectly. You may spare your modesty. Keep all these airs and blushes till you tell Colonel Hargrave, that all your fine high-flown passion for him has been quite at the service of the next man you met with!'
Laura's eyes filled with tears of mortification, yet she meekly answered, 'I am conscious that the degrading attachment of which I was once the sport merits your upbraidings; and indeed they have not been its least punishment.' She paused for a moment, and then added with an insinuating smile. 'I can bear that you should reproach me with my new choice, for inconstancy is the prescriptive right of woman, and nothing else can be objected to my present views.'
'Oh, far be it from me!' cried Lady Pelham, scorn and anger throwing her whole little person into active motion, 'far be it from me to make any objection to your immaculate swain! I would have you understand, however, that no part of my property shall go to enrich a parcel of proud beggars. It was indeed my intention, if you had madea proper match, to give you the little all that I have to bestow; but if you prefer starving with your methodist parson to being the heiress of five-and-forty thousand pounds, I have no more to say. However, you had better keep your own secret. The knowledge of it might probably alter Mr De Courcy's plans a little.'
'Your Ladyship,' answered Laura, with spirit, 'has good access to know that the love of wealth has little influence on my purposes; and I assure you that Mr De Courcy would scorn upon any terms to appropriate what he considers as the unalienable right of your own child. Though we shall not be affluent, we shall be too rich for your charity, and that is the only claim in which I could compete with Mrs Herbert.'
This mention of her daughter exasperated Lady Pelham to fury. In a voice half-choked with passion, she cried, 'Neither that rebellious wretch nor any of her abbettors or imitators shall ever have countenance or assistance from me. No! Not though they should beg with their starved bantlings from door to door.' To this intemperate speech Laura made no reply, but quietly began to pour out the tea. Lady Pelham continued to hurry up and down the room, chafing, and venting her rage in common abuse; for a scold in the drawing-room is not very unlike a scold at a green-stall. The storm meeting with no opposition, at length spent itself; or subsided into short growlings, uttered at the intervals of a surly silence. To these, as no answer was absolutely necessary, none was returned. Laura did not utter a syllable, till Lady Pelham's wrath beginning to give place to her curiosity, she turned to her niece, saying, 'Pray, Miss Montreville, when and where is this same wise marriage of yours to take place?'
'The time is not quite fixed, Madam,' answered Laura. 'As soon as you can conveniently spare me, I intend going to Scotland; and when you, and Mrs De Courcy wish me to return, Mr De Courcy will escort me back.'
'I spare you!' returned Lady Pelham with a sneer—'Oh, Ma'am, if that is all, pray don't let me retard your raptures. You may go tomorrow, or to-night, Ma'am if you please.—Spare you indeed! Truly while I can afford to pay a domestic, I need not be dependent on your assistance; and in attachment or gratitude any common servant may supply your place.'
The rudeness and ingratitude of this speech again forced the tears to Laura's eyes; but she mildly replied, 'Well, Madam, as soon as you find a substitute for me, I shall be ready to depart.' Then to escapefurther insult she quitted the room.
Lady Pelham's wrath at the derangement of her plan would not suffer her to rest till she had communicated the disaster to Colonel Hargrave. Early next morning, accordingly, she dispatched a note requiring his immediate presence at Walbourne. He obeyed the summons, and was as usual privately received by Lady Pelham. He listened to her intelligence with transports of rage rather than of sorrow. He loaded his rival with execrations, declaring that he would rather see Laura torn in pieces than know her to be the wife of De Courcy. He swore that he would circumvent their schemes, and that though his life should be the forfeit, he would severely revenge the sufferings he had endured.
Lady Pelham had not courage to encounter the evil spirit which she had raised. Subdued, and crouching before his violence, she continued to give a terrified assent to every extravagance he uttered, till he announced his resolution of seeing Laura on the instant, that he might know whether she dared to confirm this odious tale. Lady Pelham then ventured to represent to him that Laura might be so much offended by this breach of contract, as to take refuge with Mrs De Courcy, a measure which would oppose a new obstacle to any scheme for breaking off the intended marriage. She assured him that she would grant every reasonable assistance in preventing a connection so injurious to her niece's interest, though she knew Laura's obstinacy of temper too well to hope any thing from direct resistance. She hinted that it would be most prudent to give the desired interview the appearance of accident, and she promised to contrive the occasion as soon as Hargrave was sufficiently calm to consider of improving it to best advantage.
But calm was a stranger to the breast of Hargrave. The disquiet which is the appointed portion of the wicked, raged there beyond control. To the anguish of disappointment were added the pangs of jealousy, and the heart-burnings of hatred and revenge. Even the loss of the object of three years eager pursuit was less cutting than the success of De Courcy; and the pain of a forfeiture which was the just punishment of a former crime, was heightened to agony by the workings of such passions as consummate the misery of fiends.
The associates of the wicked must forego the consolations of honest sympathy. All Hargrave's tortures were aggravated by the sarcasms of Lambert; who, willing to hasten the fever to its crisis, goaded him with coarse comments upon the good fortune of his rival,and advices (which he well knew would act in a direction opposite to their seeming purpose) to desist from further competition. After spending four-and-twenty hours in alternate fits of rage and despair, Hargrave returned to Lady Pelham, informing her, that whatever were the consequences, he would no longer delay seeing Laura. Lady Pelham had foreseen this demand; and though not without fear of the event, had prepared for compliance. She had already arranged her scheme, and the execution was easy.
Laura's favourite walk in the shrubbery led to a little summer-house, concealed in a thicket of acacias. Thither Lady Pelham had conveyed some dried plants, and had requested Laura's assistance in classing them. Laura had readily agreed, and that very morning had been allotted for the task. Lady Pelham, having first directed Hargrave where to take his station, accompanied her unsuspecting niece to the summer-house, and there for a while joined in her employment. Soon, however, feigning a pretext for half an hour's absence, she quitted Laura, intending at first to loiter in the shrubbery, as a kind of safeguard against the ill consequences of her imprudent connivance; but meeting with a gardener who was going to transplant a bed of favourite auriculas, she followed him to watch over their safety, leaving her niece to guard her own.
Scarcely had Laura been a minute alone, ere she was startled by the entrance of Hargrave, and seriously alarmed by seeing him lock the door, and deliberately secure the key. 'What is it you mean, Sir?' said she, trembling.
'To decide your fate and mine!' answered Hargrave, with a look and voice that struck terror to her soul. 'I am told you are a bride, Laura,' said he, speaking through his clenched teeth. 'Say,' continued he, firmly grasping her arm. 'Speak! is it so?'
'I know no right,' said Laura, recovering herself, 'that you have to question me—nor meanly thus to steal—'
'No evasions!' interrupted Hargrave, in a voice of thunder. 'I have rights—rights which I will maintain while I have being. Now tell me, if you dare, that you have transferred them to that abhorred—'
He stopped,—his utterance choked by the frenzy into which he had worked himself. 'What has transported you to this fury, Colonel Hargrave?' said Laura, calmly. 'Surely you must be sensible, that whatever claims I might once have allowed you, have long since been made void by your own conduct. I will not talk to you of principle, though that were of itself sufficient to sever us forever; but askyourself what right you can retain over the woman whom you have insulted, and forsaken, and oppressed, and outraged?'
'Spare your taunts, Laura. They will only embitter the hour of retribution. And may hell be my portion, if I be not richly repaid for all the scorn you have heaped upon me. I will be revenged, proud woman. You shall be at my mercy, where no cool canting villain can wrest you from me!'
His threats, and the frightful violence with which they were uttered, filled Laura with mingled dread and pity. 'Command yourself, I beseech you, Colonel Hargrave,' said she. 'If you resent the pain which, believe me, I have most unwillingly occasioned, you are amply revenged. You have already caused me sufferings which mock description.'
'Yes, yes. I know it,' cried Hargrave in a milder voice. 'You were not then so hard. You could feel when that vile wanton first seduced me from you. Then think what I now endure, when this cold-blooded—but may I perish if I do not snatch his prize from him. And think not of resistance, Laura; for, by all that I have suffered, resistance shall be vain.'
'Why do you talk so dreadfully to me?' said Laura, making a trembling effort to release her arm, which he still firmly grasped. 'Why, why will you not cease to persecute me? I have never injured you. I have forgiven, pitied, prayed for you. How have I deserved this worse than savage cruelty?'
'Laura,' said Hargrave, moved by the pleadings of a voice which would have touched a murderer's heart, 'you have still a choice. Promise to be mine. Permit me only, by slow degrees, to regain what I have lost. Say that months—that years hence you will consent, and you are safe.'
'Impossible!' said Laura. 'I cannot bind myself. Nor could you trust a promise extorted by fear. Yet be but half what I once thought you, and I will esteem—'
'Esteem!' interrupted Hargrave, with a ghastly smile. 'Yes! And shrink from me, as you do now, while you hang on that detested wretch till even his frozen heart warm to passion. No!' continued he, with an awful adjuration, 'though the deed bring me to the scaffold, you shall be mine. You shall be my wife, too, Laura,—but not till you have besought me—sued at my feet for the title you have so often despised. I will be master of your fate, of that reputation, that virtue which you worship—and your minion shall know it, that he maywrithe under jealousy and disappointment.'
'Powers of Mercy!' cried Laura, raising her eyes in strong compunction, 'have I made this mine idol!' Then, turning on Hargrave a look of deep repentance, 'Yes,' she continued, 'I deserve to see thee as thou art, without mitigation vile; since on thee my sacrilegious heart bestowed such love as was due to the Infinite alone!'
'Oh, Laura,' cried Hargrave, softened by the remembrance of her youthful affection, 'let but one faint spark of that love revive, and I will forget all your scorns, and feel again such gentle wishes as blest our first hours of tenderness. Or only swear that you will renounce that bane of my existence—that you will shrink from him, shun him like a serpent!—Or give me your word only, and I will trust it. Your liberty, your person, shall be as sacred as those of angels. Promise them—'
'Why do you attempt to terrify me?' said Laura, her indignation rising as her alarm subsided. 'I have perhaps no longer the right—even if I had the inclination—to utter such a vow. I trust that, in this land of freedom, I am safe from your violence. My reputation, frail as it is, you cannot harm without permission from on high; and if, for wise purposes, the permission be given, I doubt not that I shall be enabled to bear unjust reproach,—nay, even to profit by the wrong.'
Hargrave suffered her to conclude; rage bereft him, for a time, of the power of utterance. Then, bursting into a torrent of reproach, he upbraided her in language the most insulting. 'Do you dare to own,' said he, 'that your base inclinations favour that abhorred—that this accursed marriage is your choice—your free choice?' He paused in vain for a reply. Laura would not irritate him further, and scorned to disguise the truth. 'Then, Laura,' said he, and he confirmed the sentence with a dreadful oath, 'you have sealed your fate. Think you that your De Courcy shall foil me? By Heaven, I will see you perish first. I will tear you from him, though I answer it with my life and soul. Let this be the pledge of my triumph'—and he made a motion to clasp her rudely in his arms. With a cry of dread and horror, Laura sprung from him, and, throwing open the casement, called loudly for assistance. Hargrave forced her back. 'Spare your alarms, my lovely proud one,' said he, with a smile, which made her blood run cold. 'You are safe till we meet where cries will be useless. What! may I not even kiss this pretty hand, as earnest that you shall soon be mine beyond the power of fate?' 'Silence, audacious!' cried Laura, burstinginto tears of mingled fear and indignation, while she struggled violently to disengage her hands. 'Nay, this rosy cheek will content me better,' cried Hargrave, and was again attempting to clasp her—when the door was burst suddenly open, and De Courcy appeared.
'Ruffian!' he exclaimed, approaching Hargrave, who, in his surprise, permitted his prey to escape. Her fears now taking a new direction, Laura flew to intercept De Courcy. 'Ah!' she cried, 'my folly has done this. Fly from this madman, I entreat you. I have nothing to fear but for you. Begone, I implore you.'
'And leave you to such treatment! Not while I have life! When you choose to go, I will attend you. For you, Sir!—But I must stoop below the language of a gentleman ere I find words to describe your conduct.'
'For Heaven's sake,' cried Laura, 'dear De Courcy, provoke him no further. Let us fly this place;' and clinging to De Courcy's arm, she drew him on; while, with the other, he defended her from Hargrave, who had advanced to detain her. Her expression of regard, her confiding attitude, exasperated the frenzy of Hargrave to the uttermost. Almost unconscious of his actions, he drew a pistol from his pocket and fired. Laura uttered a cry of terror, clasping her lover's arm more closely to her breast. 'Be not alarmed love,' whispered De Courcy. 'It is nothing!'—and staggering forward a few paces, he fell to the ground.
Laura, in desperation rushed from the summer-house, calling wildly for help; then struck with the fearful thought that Hargrave might complete his bloody work, she hastened back. During the few moments of her absence, De Courcy addressed his murderer, whose rage had given place to a mild stupor. 'I fear this is an unlucky stroke, Hargrave. Save yourself. My horse is at the gate.' Hargrave answered only with a groan; and, striking his clenched hand on his forehead, turned away. His crime was unpremeditated. No train of self-deceit had reconciled his conscience to its atrocity. The remembrance of the courage which had saved his life; the generous concern of De Courcy for his safety; humility, the last virtue which utterly forsakes us, all awakened him to remorse, keen and overwhelming, like every other passion of Hargrave. Not bearing to look upon his victim, he stood fixed and motionless; while Laura, on her knees, watched, in dismay, the changing countenance of De Courcy, and strove to staunch the blood which was streaming from his wound.
De Courcy once more tried to cheer Laura with words of comfort.'Were it not,' said he, 'for the pleasure this kind concern gives me, I might tell you that I do not suffer much pain. I am sure I could rise, if I could trust this slender arm,' laying his hand gently upon it. Laura eagerly offered her assistance as he attempted to raise himself; but the effort overpowered him, and he sunk back fainting.
In the strong language of terror, Laura besought Hargrave to procure help. Still motionless, his forehead resting against the wall, his hands clenched as in convulsion, Hargrave seemed not to heed her entreaties. 'Have you no mercy?' cried she, clasping the arm from which she had so lately shrunk in horror. 'He saved your life. Will you let him perish without aid?' 'Off, woman!' cried Hargrave, throwing her from him. 'Thy witchcraft has undone me;' and he distractedly hurried away.
Laura's terror was not the passive cowardice of a feeble mind. She was left alone to judge, to act, for herself—for more than herself. Immediate, momentous decision was necessary. And she did decide by an effort of which no mind enfeebled by sloth or selfishness would have been capable. She saw that loss of blood was the cause of De Courcy's immediate danger, a danger which might be irremediable before he could receive assistance from more skilful hands than her's. Such remedy, then, as she could command she hastened to apply.
To the plants which their beauty had recommended to Lady Pelham, Laura had added a few of which the usefulness was known to her. Agaric of the oak was of the number, and she had often applied it where many a hand less fair would have shrunk from the task. Nor did she hesitate now. The ball had entered near the neck; and the feminine, the delicate Laura herself disengaged the wound from its coverings; the feeling, the tender Laura herself performed an office from which false sensibility would have recoiled in horror.
She was thus employed when she was found by a woman whom Hargrave had met and sent to her assistance, with an indistinct message, from which Laura gathered that he was gone in search of a surgeon. The woman no sooner cast her eyes on the bloody form of De Courcy, and on the colourless face of Laura, more death-like than his, than, with noisy imbecility, she began to bewail and ejaculate. Laura, however, instantly put a stop to her exclamations by dispatching her for cordials and assistance. In a few minutes all the household was assembled round De Courcy; yet such was the general curiosity, horror, or astonishment, that he would have remained unaided but for the firmness of her who was most interested in thescene. She dismissed every one whose presence was unnecessary, and silenced the rest by peremptory command. She administered a cordial to recruit the failing strength of De Courcy; and causing him to be raised to the posture which seemed the least painful, made her own trembling arms his support.
Nothing further now remained to be done, and Laura began to feel the full horrors of her situation; to weigh the fearful probability that all her cares were vain; to upbraid herself as the cause of this dire tragedy. Her anguish was too great to find relief in tears. Pale and cold as marble, chilly drops bursting from her forehead, she sat in the stillness of him who waits the sentence of condemnation, save when a convulsive shudder expressed her suffering.
The mournful quiet was interrupted by the entrance of Lady Pelham, who, quite out of breath, began a string of questions, mixed with abundance of ejaculation. 'Bless my soul!' she cried, 'how has all this happened? For heaven's sake, Laura, tell me the meaning of all this. Why don't you speak, girl? Good Lord! could you not have prevented these madmen from quarrelling? What brought De Courcy here? How did he find you out? Why don't you speak. Mercy on me! Is the girl out of her senses?'
The expression of deep distress with which Laura now raised her eyes, reminded Lady Pelham of the sensibility requisite upon such an occasion, which her Ladyship's curiosity had hitherto driven from her recollection. Approaching, therefore, to De Courcy, she took a hasty look at this dismal spectacle; and exclaiming, 'Oh what a sight is here! Unfortunate Laura! Dear wretched girl!' she began first to sob, and then to scream violently. Laura motioned to the attendants to lead her away; and she suffered them to do so without resistance; but she had no sooner crossed the threshold, than, perceiving the spectators whom curiosity had collected in the shrubbery, she redoubled her shrieks, struggled, beat herself; and, but for the untoward strength of her nerves, would have soon converted her pretended fit into reality. Wearied with her efforts, she was beginning to relax them, when the surgeon appeared, and her Ladyship was more vociferous than ever. Mr Raby, a quiet sensible man, undertook her care before he proceeded to his more serious business; and, either guided by his previous acquaintance with his patient, or by his experience in similar cases, gave a prescription which, though simple was perfectly efficacious. He directed that the lady should be instantly secluded in her own chamber, with only one attendant; andthe remedy proved so beneficial, that her Ladyship enjoyed a night of tranquil repose.
He next turned his attention to De Courcy; and judging it proper to extract the ball without delay, advised Laura to retire. Without opposition she prepared to obey; and, seeing De Courcy about to speak, put her hand on his lips to save him the exertion, and herself the pain of a farewell. Yet, as she resigned her charge, raising her eyes to heaven, once more to commend De Courcy to the divine protection, the fervour of her supplication burst into words. 'Oh if it be possible! if it be possible!'—she cried. 'Yes it is possible,' said De Courcy, comprehending the unfinished sentence. 'Your firmness, noble creature, has made it possible.' Reproaching herself with having allowed De Courcy to perceive her alarm, she hastened away; and seating herself on the steps that led to the door, awaited in silence the event of the operation.
Here, as she sorrowfully called to mind the various excellencies of De Courcy, his piety, his integrity, his domestic virtues, so lately known, so soon to be lost to her, she suddenly recollected the heavier calamity of the mother deprived of such a son, and perceived the inhumanity of permitting the stroke to fall without preparation. Having access to no messenger more tender than a common servant, she determined, though with unspeakable reluctance, herself to bear the tidings to Mrs De Courcy. 'I will know the worst,' thought she, 'and then'—
She started at a faint noise that sounded from the summer-house. Steps approached the door from within. She sprung up, and the surgeon appeared. 'I have the happiness to tell you,' said he, 'that, if no fever take place, our friend is safe. The chief danger has been from loss of blood; and your presence of mind—Ah!—Do you feel faint?'—
The awful interest which had supported the spirits of Laura thus suddenly withdrawn, the tide of various feeling overpowered them; and she sunk into one of those long and deep faintings which were now unhappily become in some degree constitutional with her. Mr Raby having given directions for her recovery, placed De Courcy in Lady Pelham's carriage, and himself attended him to Norwood; where he mitigated Mrs De Courcy's horror and distress by assuring her of her son's safety, which he again delighted Montague by ascribing to the cares of Laura.
It was late in the evening before Laura was sufficiently collected toreview with composure the events of the day! As soon, however, as she was capable of considering all the circumstances, a suspicion occurred that her unfortunate interview with Hargrave had been sanctioned, if not contrived by Lady Pelham. That he should know the place and the hour in which he might surprise her alone;—that to this place, which because of its loneliness she had of late rather deserted, she should be conducted by her aunt;—that at this moment she should upon a trivial pretence be left in solitude,—seemed a coincidence too strong to be merely accidental. She recollected some symptoms of private communication between Lady Pelham and Hargrave. Suspicions of connivance in the infamous strategem of her arrest again revived in her mind. Lady Pelham, she perceived, had afforded her a protection at best imperfect, perhaps treacherous. Hargrave's late threats too, as she revolved them in her thoughts, appeared more like the intimations of settled design than the vague ravings of passion. Prudence, therefore, seemed to require that she should immediately provide for her own safety: and indignation at her aunt's breach of confidence, hastened the purpose which she formed, to leave Walbourne without delay. She determined to go the next morning to Norwood, there to remain till De Courcy shewed signs of convalescence, and then perform her long-projected journey to Scotland.
In order to avoid unpleasant altercation, she resolved to depart without warning Lady Pelham of her intention; merely announcing by letter the reasons of her conduct. The affectionate Laura would not have parted from the meanest servant without a kindly farewell; but her innate abhorrence of treachery steeled her heart, and she rejoiced that it was possible to escape all present intercourse with her deceitful kinswoman.
As soon as the dawn appeared she arose; and on her knees thankfully acknowledged the protecting care which had watched over her, since first as a destitute orphan she applied to Lady Pelham. She blessed the goodness which had softened in her favour a heart little subject to benevolent expressions, which had restored her in sickness, consoled her in sorrow, delivered her from the snares of the wicked, and opened to her the joys of virtuous friendship. And where is the wretch so miserable that he may not in the review of eighteen months find subjects of gratitude still more numerous! Laura began no important action of her life without imploring a blessing on the event; and she now proceeded to commend herself and her future prospectsto the same care of which she had glad experience.
The proper business of the morning ended, she had begun to make arrangements for her immediate departure; when she heard Lady Pelham's bell ring, and the next instant heard a noise like that occasioned by the fall of something heavy. She listened for a while, but all was again still. The rest of the family were yet buried in sleep, and Laura hearing no one stirring to answer Lady Pelham's summons, began to fear that her aunt was ill, perhaps unable to make any further effort to procure assistance. At this idea, all her just indignation subsiding in a moment, she flew to Lady Pelham's chamber.
Lady Pelham was lying on the floor, having apparently fallen in an attempt to rise from her bed. She was alive though insensible; and her face, though altered, was still florid. Laura soon procuring help, raised her from the ground; and guessing that apoplexy was her disorder, placed her in an upright posture, loosened her night-clothes, and having hurried away a servant for Mr Raby, ventured, until his arrival, upon such simple remedies as she knew might be safely administered. In little more than an hour the surgeon arrived; and having examined his patient, declared her to be in extreme danger. Before he left her, however, he succeeded in restoring her to some degree of recollection; yet, far from changing his first opinion, he advised Laura to lose no time in making every necessary use of an amendment which he feared would be only transient.
From Lady Pelham, he went to Norwood; and returning to Walbourne in the evening, brought the pleasing intelligence that De Courcy continued to do well. This second visit produced no change in his sentiments, and he remained persuaded that though Lady Pelham might continue to linger for a time, the shock had been too great to allow of complete recovery. Laura now rejoiced that she had not executed her purpose of leaving Walbourne; since, had her aunt's illness succeeded to the rage which her departure would have excited, she could never have ceased to blame herself as the cause. She looked with profound compassion, too, upon the condition of an unfortunate being, whose death-bed was neither smoothed by affection, nor cheered by pious hope. 'Unhappy woman!' thought she, as she sat watching an unquiet slumber into which her aunt had fallen, 'to whom the best gifts of nature and of fortune have, by some fatality, been useless, or worse than useless; whose affluence has purchased no higher joys than half-grudged luxuries; whose abilitieshave dazzled others and bewildered herself, but lent no steady light to guide her way; whose generosity has called forth no gratitude, whose kindness has awakened no affection; to whom length of days has brought no reverence, and length of intimacy no friends! Even the sacred ties of nature have been to her unblessed. Her only child, driven from her in anger, dares not approach to share the last sad offices with me, who, in performing them, must forgive as well as pity. Favourite of fortune! what has been wanting to thee save that blessing which "bringeth no sorrow with it." But that blessing was light in thine esteem; and amidst the glitter of thy toys, the "pearl of great price" was disregarded.'
For some days Lady Pelham continued much in the same situation. She suffered no pain, yet gave no signs of amendment. On the sixth morning from her first attack she grew suddenly and materially worse. It was soon discovered that her limbs were paralyzed, and the surgeon declared that her end could not be very distant. Her senses, however, again returned, and she continued free from pain. She shewed little apprehension of her own danger; and Laura debated with herself whether she should permit her aunt to dream away the last precious hours of probation, or endeavour to awaken her to a sense of her condition.
Laura had no faith in death-bed repentance. She knew that resolution of amendment which there is no longer time to practise, and renunciation of sin made under the immediate prospect of punishment, are at best suspicious. She knew that, in the ordinary course of providence, the grace which has been long despised is at length justly withdrawn. Yet she saw that she had no right to judge Lady Pelham as wholly impenitent; and she considered a death-bed as highly suitable to the renewal, though not to the beginning of repentance. She knew too, that the callmightbe made effectual at the 'eleventh hour;' and the bare chance was worth the toil of ages. She felt how little she herself would have valued the mistaken pity which could suffer her to enter on the 'dark valley' without a warning to cling closer to the 'staff and rod' of comfort:—She therefore ventured to hint gently to Lady Pelham the opinion of her medical friends, and to remind her of the duty of preparing for the worst.
Lady Pelham at first appeared a good deal shocked; and lay for some time apparently meditating upon her situation. At last, recovering her spirits, she said, 'Your nerves, Laura, were always so coarse, that you seemed to me to take a pleasure in thinking ofshocking things; but I am sure it is abominably barbarous in you to tease me with them now I am ill. Do keep your horrid fancies to yourself, or keep away till you are cured of the vapours—I dare say it is your dismal face that makes me dream so unpleasantly.'
Laura, however, was not to be so discouraged. She took occasion to represent that no harm could ensue from preparing to meet the foe; since his march was not to be retarded by shutting our eyes on his advances, nor hastened by the daring which watched his approach. She at length thought she had succeeded in convincing her aunt of her danger. Lady Pelhamsaidthat she feared she was dying, and she believed that she said the truth. But Lady Pelham had had sixty years practice in self-deceit. The fear might flutter in her imagination, but was not strong enough to touch her heart. Laura, however, made use of her acknowledgement to press upon her the duties of forgiveness and charity towards all mindkind, and especially towards her child; reminding her of the affecting parity of situation between offending man and his disobedient offspring. Lady Pelham at first answered impatiently that she would not be argued on this subject; but as her spirits began to fail under the first confinement which she had ever endured, she became more tractable. 'God knows,' said she to Laura, one day, 'we all have much need to be forgiven; and therefore we must forgive in our turn. For my part I am sure I die in charity with all mankind, and with that creature among the rest. However, I shall take my friend the Spectator's advice, and remember the difference between giving andforgiving.'
Laura often begged permission to send for Mrs Herbert; but Lady Pelham sometimes postponed it till she should get better, sometimes till she should grow worse. Laura was in the meantime her constant attendant; bearing with her peevishness, soothing her caprice, and striving to rouse in her feelings suitable to her condition. Finding, however, that she made but little progress in her pious work, she begged that she might be allowed to take the assistance of a clergyman. 'A clergyman, child!' cried Lady Pelham. 'Do you imagine me to be a papist? Or do you think me capable of such weak superstitution as to place more reliance on a parson's prayers than on yours, or my maid Betty's? No, no! I trust I have been no worse than other people; and I hope, though I may be weak, I shall never be fanatical. Besides, I have too high a sense of the Divine Justice to think that our Maker would first give us ungovernable passions, and then punish us for yielding to them. A phlegmatic being like you, mayindeed be called to strict account; but people of strong feelings must be judged by a different standard.' 'Oh, Madam,' said Laura, 'be assured that our Maker gives us no unconquerable passions. If we ourselves have made them so, it becomes us to be humbled in the dust, not to glory in the presumptuous hope that He will soften the sanctions of his law to favour our remissness.'
Driven from the strong hold of justice, rather by the increase of her bodily languor, than by the force of truth, the dying sinner had recourse to mercy,—a mercy, however, of her own composing. 'It is true,' said she one day to Laura, 'that I have done some things which I have reason to regret, and which, I must confess, deserve punishment. But Divine Mercy towards believers, we are told, is infinite; and though I may at times have doubted, I have never disbelieved.' Laura, shuddering at this awful blindness, was striving to frame a useful reply, when she saw her aunt's countenance change. It was distorted by a momentary convulsion, and then fixed for ever in the stillness of death.