Self control Part 3

One morning, after the gentlemen had left them alone together, Mrs Douglas, meditating on the best means of introducing the subject she had so much at heart, had fallen into a long silence; when, looking up, she perceived that Laura had let fall her work, and was sitting with her eyes fixed, and her arms dropped, in the att.i.tude of one whose thoughts had no connection with present objects. At the heavy sigh with which Mrs Douglas surveyed her, she started, and was rousing her attention to some indifferent subject, when Mrs Douglas, kindly taking her hand, said, 'My dear child, whatever may be necessary with others, I beseech you to be under no constraint with me. I am far from wishing to intrude into your confidence, but do not add the pain of constraint to anguish that already seems so oppressive.'

Large tears stole from under Laura's downcast eyelids; but she spoke not. Mrs Douglas continued--'If my best advice, my most affectionate sympathy, can be of use to you, I need not say you may command them.'

Laura threw herself into the arms of her friend, and for some moments sobbed with uncontrolled emotion; but soon composing herself, she replied: 'If advice could have profited, if consolation could have reached me, where should I have sought them unless from you, respected friend of my youth;--but the warning voice of wisdom comes now too late, and even your sympathy would be bestowed in vain.'

'Heaven forbid that my dearest Laura should be beyond the reach of comfort. That is the lot of guilt alone.'

'I am grateful to Heaven,' said Laura, 'that I have been less guilty than imprudent. But, my best friend, let us quit this subject. This wretchedness cannot, shall not last. Only let me implore you not to notice it to my father. You know not what horrors might be the consequence.'

Mrs Douglas shook her head. 'Ah! Laura,' said she, 'that path is not the path of safety in which you would elude a father's eye.' Laura's glance met that of her friend; and she read suspicion there. The thought was so painful to her, that she was on the point of disclosing all; but she remembered that the reasons which had at first determined her to silence, were not altered by any one's suspicions, and she restrained herself. Colonel Hargrave had cruelly wronged and insulted her--she ought therefore to be doubly cautious how she injured him. Sympathy, in her case, she felt, would be a dangerous indulgence; and, above all, she shrunk with horror from exposing her lover, or his actions, to detestation or contempt. 'Perhaps the time may come,' said she, pursuing her reflections aloud, 'when you will be convinced that I am incapable of any clandestine purpose. At present your compa.s.sion might be a treacherous balm to me, when my best wisdom must be to forget that I have need of pity.'

Mrs Douglas looked on the open candid countenance of Laura, and her suspicions vanished in a moment; but they returned when her young friend reiterated her intreaties that she would not hint the subject to her father. Laura was, however, fortified in her resolutions of concealment, by an opinion she had often heard Mrs Douglas express, that the feelings of disappointed love should by women be kept inviolably a secret. She was decisively giving a new turn to the conversation, when it was interrupted by the entrance of the gentlemen; and Mrs Douglas, a little hurt at the steadiness of her young friend, more than half determined to renew the subject no more.

A letter lay on the table, which the post had brought for Captain Montreville; he read it with visible uneasiness, and immediately left the room. Laura perceived his emotion; and, ever alive to the painful subject nearest her heart, instantly concluded that the letter brought a confession from Hargrave. She heard her father's disordered steps pacing the apartment above, and earnestly longed, yet feared to join him.

Anxiety at length prevailed; and she timidly approached the door of Captain Montreville's chamber. She laid her hand upon the lock; paused again, with failing courage, and was about to retire, when her father opened the door. 'Come in, my love,' said he, 'I wish to speak with you.' Laura, trembling, followed him into the room. 'I find,' said he, 'we must shorten our visit to our kind friends here, and travel homewards, I must prepare,' continued he, and he sighed heavily, 'I must prepare for a much longer journey.'

Laura's imagination took the alarm; and, forgetting how unlikely it was that Captain Montreville should disclose such a resolution to her, she thought only of his intending to prepare for a journey whence there is no return, before he should stake his life against that of Hargrave. She had not power to speak; but, laying her hand on her father's arm, she cast on him a look of imploring agony. 'Do not be alarmed, my love,'

said he: 'I shall, in a few days, convey your commands to London; but I do not mean to be long absent.'

Laura's heart leapt light. 'To London, Sir?' said she, in a tone of cheerful inquiry.

'Yes, my dear child; I must go, and leave you alone at home--while yet I have a home to shelter you. Had you resembled any other girl of your age, I should have said no more of this--but I will have no concealments from you. Read this letter.'

It was from Captain Montreville's agent, and briefly stated, that the merchant in whose hands he had lately vested his all, in an annuity on his daughter's life, was dead; and that, owing to some informality in the deed, the heirs refused to make any payment. Having read the letter, Laura continued for some moments to muse on its contents, with her eyes vacantly fixed on the civil expression of concern with which it concluded. 'How merciful it is,' she exclaimed, 'that this blow fell not till my mother was insensible of the stroke.'

'For myself,' said Captain Montreville, 'I think I could have borne it well; but this was the little independence I thought I had secured for you, dear darling of my heart; and now'--The father's lip quivered, and his eyes filled; but he turned aside, for he could _be_ tender--but would not _seem_ so.

'Dearest father,' said Laura, 'think not of me. Could you have given me millions, I should still have been dependent on the care of Providence, even for my daily bread. My dependence will now only be a little more perceptible. But perhaps,' added she cheerfully, 'something may be done to repair this disaster, Warren's heirs will undoubtedly rectify this mistake, when they find it has been merely accidental. At all events, a journey to London will amuse you; and I shall manage your harvest so actively in your absence.'

Captain Montreville had, from Laura's infancy, been accustomed to witness instances of her fort.i.tude, to see her firm under unmerited and merciless chastis.e.m.e.nt, and patient under intense bodily suffering--but her composure on this occasion, so far surpa.s.sed his expectations, that he was inclined to attribute it less to fort.i.tude than to inconsideration. 'How light-hearted is youth,' thought he, as he quitted her. 'This poor child has never seen the harsh features of poverty, but when distance softened their deformity, and she now beholds his approach without alarm.' He was mistaken. Laura had often taken a near survey of poverty. She had entered the cabins of the very poor--seen infancy squalid, and youth spiritless--manhood exhausted by toil, and age pining without comfort. In fancy she had subst.i.tuted herself in the place of these victims of want; felt by sympathy their varieties of wretchedness; and she justly considered poverty among the heaviest of human calamities. But she was sensible that her firmness might support her father's spirits, or her weakness serve to aggravate his distress; and she wisely pushed aside the more formidable mischief, which she could not surmount, to attend to the more immediate evil, which she felt it in her power to alleviate.

The moment she was alone, Laura fell on her knees: 'Oh! Heavenly Providence,' she cried, 'save, if it be thy will, my dear father's age from poverty, though, like my great Master, I should not have where to lay my head.' She continued to pray long and fervently, for spirits to cheer her father under his misfortune; and for fort.i.tude to endure her own peculiar sorrow, in her estimation so much more bitter. Having implored the blessing of Heaven on her exertions, she next began to practice them. She wandered out to court the exhilarating influence of the mountain air; and, studiously turning her attention to all that was gay, sought to rouse her spirits for the task she had a.s.signed them. She was so successful, that she was that evening the life of the little friendly circle. She talked, sang, and recited--she exerted all the wit and vivacity of which she was mistress--she employed powers of humour which she herself had scarcely been conscious of possessing. Her gaiety soon became contagious. Scarcely a trace appeared of the anxious fears of Mrs Douglas, or the parental uneasiness of Captain Montreville, and fewer still of the death-stroke which disappointed confidence had carried to the peace of poor Laura. But, retired to the solitude of her chamber, her exhausted spirits found relief in tears. She felt, that long to continue her exertion would be impossible; and, in spite of reason, which told of the danger of solitude, antic.i.p.ated, with pleasure, the moment when total seclusion should leave her free to undisguised wretchedness.

Laura was not yet, however, destined to the hopeless task of combating misplaced affection in entire seclusion. On the following morning she found a stranger at the breakfast-table. He seemed a man of information and accomplishments. An enthusiast in landscape, he was come to prosecute his favourite study amidst the picturesque magnificence of Highland scenery; and the appearance and manners of a gentleman, furnished him with a sufficient introduction to Highland hospitality.

Relieved, by his presence, from the task of entertaining, Laura scarcely listened to the conversation, till the stranger, having risen from table, began to examine a picture which occupied a distinguished place in Mrs Douglas's parlour. It was the work of Laura, who was no mean proficient. She had early discovered what is called a genius for painting; that is to say, she had exercised much of her native invention, and habitual industry on the art. Captain Montreville added to his personal instructions, every facility which it was in his power to bestow. Even when her performances had little in them of wonderful but their number, her acquaintance p.r.o.nounced them wonderful; and they obtained the more useful approbation of a neighbouring n.o.bleman, who invited her to use, as copies, any part of his excellent collection. Her progress was now, indeed, marvellous to those who were new to the effects of unremitting industry, guided by models of exquisite skill.

Having long and sedulously copied, from pieces of acknowledged merit, she next attempted an original; and having, with great care composed, and with incredible labour finished her design, she dedicated to Mrs Douglas the first fruits of her improved talents, in the picture which the stranger was now contemplating. Willing that her young friend should reap advantage from the criticisms of a judicious artist, Mrs Douglas encouraged him to speak freely of the beauties and defects of the piece.

After remarking that there was some skill in the composition, much interest in the princ.i.p.al figure, and considerable freedom in the touch, he added: 'If this be, as I suppose, the work of a young artist, I shall not be surprised that he one day rise both to fame and fortune.'

Mrs Douglas was about to direct his praise to its rightful owner, but Laura silenced her by a look. The stranger's last expression had excited an interest which no other earthly subject could have awakened. Her labours might, it appeared, relieve the wants or increase the comforts of her father's age; and, with a face that glowed with enthusiasm, and eyes that sparkled with renovated hope, she eagerly advanced to question the critic as to the value of her work. In reply, he named a price so far exceeding her expectations, that her resolution was formed in a moment. She would accompany her father to London, and there try what pecuniary advantage was to be derived from her talent. On a scheme which was to repair all her father's losses, prudence had not time to pause; and, feeling company rather a restraint on her pleasure, Laura ran to her apartment, rather to enjoy than to reconsider her plan. Having spent some time in delighted antic.i.p.ation of the pleasure which her father would take in the new team and thrashing-mill with which she would adorn his farm, and the comfort he would enjoy in the new books and easy sofa with which her labours would furnish his library, she recollected a hundred questions that she wished to ask the stranger, concerning the best means of disposing of her future productions, and she ran down stairs to renew the conversation--but the parlour was empty, the stranger was gone. No matter. No trifle could at this moment have discomposed Laura; and, with steps as light as a heart from which, for a time, all selfish griefs were banished, she crossed the little lawn in search of her father.

The moment she overtook him, locking her arm in his, and looking smilingly up in his face, she began so urgent an entreaty to be admitted as the companion of his journey, that Captain Montreville, with some curiosity, inquired what had excited in her this sudden inclination to travel? Laura blushed and hesitated; for though her plan had, in her own opinion, all the charms which we usually attribute to the new born children of our fancy, she felt that an air of more prudence and forethought might be requisite to render it equally attractive in the eyes of Captain Montreville. She exerted, however, all the rhetoric she could at that moment command, to give her scheme a plausible appearance.

With respect to herself, she was entirely successful; and she ventured to cast a look of triumphant appeal on her father. Captain Montreville, unwilling to refuse the request of his darling, remained silent; but at the detail of her plan, he shook his head. Now, to a projector of eighteen, a shake of the head is, of all gestures, the most offensive; and the smile which usually accompanies it, miserably perverts the office of a smile. Tears, half of sorrow, half of vexation, forced their way to the eyes of Laura; and she walked silently on, without courage to renew the attack, till they were joined by Mrs Douglas. Disconcerted by her ill success with her father, Laura felt little inclination to subject her scheme to the animadversions of her friend; but Captain Montreville, expecting an auxiliary, by whose aid he might conquer the weakness of yielding without conviction, called upon Mrs Douglas, in a manner which shewed him secure of her reply, to give her opinion of Laura's proposal. Mrs Douglas, who had heard, with a degree of horror, of the intention to consign Laura to solitude in her present state of suppressed dejection, and who considered new scenes and new interests as indispensable to her restoration, interpreting the asking looks of the fair pet.i.tioner, surprised Captain Montreville by a decided verdict in her favour. Rapturously thanking her advocate, Laura now renewed her intreaties with such warmth, that her father, not possessed of that facility in refusing which results from practice, gave a half-reluctant acquiescence. The delight which his consent conveyed to Laura, which sparkled in her expressive features, and animated her artless gestures, converted his half-extorted a.s.sent into cordial concurrence; for to the defects of any scheme that gave her pleasure, he was habitually blind.

In the course of the evening, Captain Montreville announced that, in order to give his daughter time to prepare for her journey, it would be necessary for them to return to Glenalbert on the following morning.

While Mrs Douglas was a.s.sisting Laura to pack up her little wardrobe, she attempted to break her guarded silence on the subject of Hargrave, by saying, 'I doubt this same journey of your's will prevent Colonel Hargrave from trying the effects of perseverance, which I used to think the most infallible resort in love, as well as in more serious undertakings.' Laura began a most diligent search for something upon the carpet. 'Poor Hargrave,' Mrs Douglas resumed, 'he is a great favourite of mine. I wish he had been more successful.' Laura continued industriously cramming a bandbox. 'All these gowns and petticoats will crush your new bonnet to pieces, my dear.' Laura suddenly desisted from her employment, rose, and turning full towards Mrs Douglas, said--'It is unkind, it is cruel, thus to urge me, when you know that duty more than inclination keeps me silent.' 'Pardon me, my dear Laura,' said Mrs Douglas, 'I have no wish to persecute you; but you know I was ignorant that Colonel Hargrave was our interdicted subject.'

She then entered on another topic; and Laura, vexed at the partial disclosure she had inadvertently made, uneasy at being the object of constant scrutiny, and hurt at being obliged to thwart the habitual openness of her temper, felt less sorry than relieved as she sprung into the carriage that was to convey her to Glenalbert. So true is it, that concealment is the bane of friendship.

Other interests, too, quickened her desire to return home. She longed, with a feeling which could not be called hope, though it far exceeded curiosity, to know whether Hargrave had called or written during her absence; and the moment the chaise stopped, she flew to the table where the letters were deposited to wait their return. There were none for her. She interrupted Nanny's expression of joy at the sight of her mistress, by asking who had called while they were from home. 'n.o.body but Miss Willis.' Laura's eyes filled with tears of bitterness. 'I am easily relinquished,' thought she--'but it is better that it should be so;' and she dashed away the drops as they rose.

She would fain have vented her feelings in the solitude of her chamber; but this was her father's first return to a widowed home, and she would not leave him to its loneliness. She entered the parlour. Captain Montreville was already there; and, cheerfully welcoming him home, she shook up the cushion of an elbow-chair by the fire-side, and invited him to sit. 'No, love,' said he, gently compelling her, 'do you take that seat; it was your mother's.' Laura saw his lip quiver, and, suppressing the sob that swelled her bosom, she tenderly withdrew him from the room, led him to the garden, invited his attention to her new-blown carnations, and gradually diverted his regard to such cheerful objects, that, had Captain Montreville examined what was pa.s.sing in his own mind, he must have confessed that he felt the loss of Lady Harriet less as a companion than an antagonist. She was more a customary something which it was unpleasant to miss from its place, than a real want which no subst.i.tute could supply. Laura's conversation, on the contrary, amusing without effort, ingenious without constraint, and rational without stiffness, furnished to her father a real and constant source of enjoyment; because, wholly exempt from all desire to shine, she had leisure to direct to the more practicable art of pleasing, those efforts by which so many others vainly attempt to dazzle.

CHAPTER V

The three following days Laura employed in making arrangements for her journey. Desirous to enliven the solitude in which she was about to leave her only attendant, she consigned the care of the cottage, during her absence, to the girl's mother, who was likewise her own nurse; and cautious of leaving to the temptations of idleness, one for whose conduct she felt herself in some sort accountable, she allotted to Nanny the task of making winter clothing for some of the poorest inhabitants of Glenalbert; a task which her journey prevented her from executing herself. Nor were the materials of this little charity subtracted from her father's scanty income, but deducted from comforts exclusively her own.

Though, in the bustle of preparation, scarcely a moment remained unoccupied, Laura could not always forbear from starting at the sound of the knocker, or following with her eyes the form of a horseman winding through the trees. In vain she looked--in vain she listened. The expected stranger came not--the expected voice was unheard. She tried to rejoice at the desertion: 'I am glad of it,' she would say to herself, while bitter tears were bursting from her eyes. She often reproached herself with the severity of her language at her last interview with Hargrave. She asked herself what right she had to embitter disappointment by unkindness, or to avenge insult by disdain. Her behaviour appeared to her, in the retrospect, ungentle, unfeminine, unchristian. Yet she did not for a moment repent her rejection, nor waver for a moment in her resolution to adhere to it. Her soul sickened at the thought, that she had been the object of licentious pa.s.sion merely; and she loathed to look upon her own lovely form, while she thought that it had seduced the senses, but failed to touch the soul of Hargrave.

Amidst these employments and feelings the week had closed; and the Sabbath evening was the last which Laura was to spend at Glenalbert.

That evening had long been her chosen season of meditation, the village church-yard the scene where she loved to 'go forth to meditate.' The way which led to it, and to it alone, was a shady green lane, gay with veronica and hare-bell, undefaced by wheels, but marked in the middle with one distinct track, and impressed towards the sides with several straggling half-formed footpaths. The church itself stood detached from the village, on a little knoll, on the west side of which the burial-ground sloped towards the woody bank that bounded a brawling mountain stream. Thither Laura stole, when the sun, which had been hid by the rugged hill, again rolling forth from behind the precipitous ascent, poured through the long dale his rays upon this rustic cemetery; the only spot in the valley sufficiently elevated to catch his parting beam.

'How long, how deep is the shadow--how glorious in brightness the reverse,' said she, as she seated herself under the shade of the newly raised grave-stone that marked the place of her mother's rest; and turning her mind's eye from what seemed a world of darkness, she raised it to scenes of everlasting light. Her fancy, as it soared to regions of bliss without alloy, looked back with something like disgust on the labours that were to prepare her for their enjoyment, and a feeling almost of disappointment and impatience accompanied the recollection, that her pilgrimage was to all appearance only beginning. But she checked the feeling as it rose, and, in penitence and resignation, raised her eyes to heaven. They rested as they fell upon a stone marked with the name and years of one who died in early youth. Laura remembered her well--she was the beauty of Glenalbert; but her lover left her for a richer bride, and her proud spirit sunk beneath the stroke. The village artist had depicted her want of resignation in a rude sculpture of the prophet's lamentation over his withered gourd. 'My gourd, too, is withered,' said Laura. 'Do I well to be angry even unto death? Will the giver of all good leave me even here without comfort? Shall I refuse to find pleasure in any duties but such as are of my own selection: Because the gratification of one pa.s.sion--one misplaced pa.s.sion, is refused, has this world no more to offer? this fair world, which its great Creator has stamped with his power, and stored by his bounty, and enn.o.bled by making it the temple of his worshippers, the avenue to heaven! Shall I find no balm in the consolations of friendship, the endearments of parental love--no joy in the sweets of benevolence, the stores of knowledge, the miracles of grace! Oh! may I ever fearlessly confide in the fatherly care, that s.n.a.t.c.hed me from the precipice from which my rash confidence was about to plunge me to my ruin--that opened my eyes on my danger ere retreat was impossible.'

The reflections of Laura were disturbed by the noise of some one springing over the fence; and, the next moment, Hargrave was at her side. Laura uttered neither shriek nor exclamation--but she turned; and, with steps as precipitate as would bear the name of walking, proceeded towards the gate. Hargrave followed her. 'Am I indeed so happy as to find you alone?' said he. Laura replied not, by word or look. 'Suffer me to detain you for a few moments.' Laura rather quickened her pace. 'Will you not speak to me Miss Montreville?' said Hargrave, in a tone of tender reproach. Laura continued to advance. 'Stay but one moment,' said he, in a voice of supplication. Laura laid her hand upon the gate.

Hargrave's patience was exhausted. 'By heaven you _shall_ hear me!' he cried, and, throwing his arm round her, compelled her to be seated on the stone-bench at the gate. Laura coldly withdrew herself. 'By what right, Sir,' said she, 'do you presume to detain me?' 'By the right of wretchedness--of misery not to be endured. Since I last saw you, I have never known rest or peace. Surely, Laura, you are now sufficiently avenged--surely your stubborn pride may now condescend to hear me.'--'Well, Sir,' said Laura, without attempting to depart; 'what are your commands?' 'Oh, Laura, I cannot bear your displeasure--it makes me supremely miserable. If you have any pity, grant me your forgiveness.'

'If my forgiveness is of any value to you, I give it you, I trust, like a Christian--from the heart. Now, then, suffer me to go.'

'What--think you it is the frozen forgiveness of duty that will content me? Torn, as I am, by every pa.s.sion that can drive man to frenzy, think you that I will accept--that I will endure this heartless, scornful pardon? Laura, you loved me once. I have doated on you--pined for you--and pa.s.sion--pa.s.sion only--will I accept, or bear from you.'

Laura shrunk trembling from his violence. 'Colonel Hargrave,' said she, 'if you do not restrain this vehemence, I must, I will be gone. I would fain spare you unnecessary pain; but while you thus agitate yourself, my stay is useless to you, and to me most distressing.' 'Say, then, that you accept my vows--that, hopeless of happiness but with me, you bind yourself to me alone, and for ever. Speak, heavenly creature, and bless me beyond the fairest dreams of hope!'

'Colonel Hargrave,' said Laura, 'you have my forgiveness. My--what shall I say--my esteem you have cast from you--my best wishes for your happiness shall ever be yours--more I cannot give. In pity to yourself, then--in pity to me--renounce one who can never be yours.'

Hargrave's eyes flashed fire, while his countenance faded to ghastly paleness. 'Yes;' he exclaimed, 'cold, pitiless, insensible woman--yes I renounce you. In the haunts of riot, in the roar of intemperance, will I forget that form, that voice--and, when I am lost to fame, to health, to usefulness--my ruin be on your soul.' 'Oh! Hargrave,' cried the trembling Laura, 'talk not so wildly; Heaven will hear my prayers for you.--Amidst the pursuits of wisdom--amidst the attractions of others, you will forget me.'

'Forget you! Never. While I have life, I will follow you--supplicate--persecute you.--Mine you shall be, though infamy and death ensue. Dare not,' said he, grasping her arm,--'dare not to seek the protection of another.--Dare but to give him one smile, and his life shall be the forfeit.'

'Alas! Alas!' cried Laura, wringing her hands in anguish, 'this is real frenzy. Compose yourself, I implore you--there is no other--there never can be'--

Her tears recalled Hargrave to something like composure. 'Dearest Laura,' said he, 'I wish to soften--I only terrify you. Fear not, beloved of my soul--speak to me without alarm. I will hear you, if it be possible, with calmness--but say not, oh! say not, that you reject me!'

Laura averted her face. 'Why prolong this distressing interview,' said she,--'You have heard my determination. I know that it is right, and I cannot relinquish it.'

The triumph of self-conquest gave firmness to her voice; and Hargrave, driven again from composure by her self-command, sprang from her side.

'It is well, Madam,' he cried; 'triumph in the destruction of my peace; but think not I will so tamely resign you. No; by Heaven. I will go this moment to your father--I will tell him my offence; and ask if he thinks it deserves such punishment. Let him take my life--I abhor it.'

'Is your promise, then, of such small avail?' said Laura, sternly.

'Shall a promise bind me to a life of wretchedness? Shall I regard the feelings of one who takes an inhuman pleasure in my sufferings?' At this moment Laura's eyes fell on her father, who was entering the little avenue. Hargrave's glance followed hers, and he prepared to join Captain Montreville. In an agony of terror, Laura grasped his arm. 'Spare me, spare me,' she said, 'and do with me what you will!' Captain Montreville saw that the walk was occupied; he turned from it, and Laura had again time to breathe. 'Say, then,' said Hargrave, softened by her emotion,--'say that, when years of penitence have atoned my offence, you will yet be mine.' Laura covered her face with her hands. 'Let me not hear you--let me not look upon you,' said Laura;--'leave me to think, if it be possible,'--and she poured a silent prayer to Heaven for help in this her sorest trial. The effort composed her, and the majesty of virtue gave dignity to her form, and firmness to her voice, while she said,--'My father's life is in the hands of Providence--it will still be so, when I have repeated to you, that I dare not trust to principles such as yours the guardianship of this the infancy of my being. I dare not incur certain guilt to escape contingent evil. I cannot make you the companion of this uncertain life, while your conduct is such, as to make our eternal separation the object of my dreadful hope.'

Hargrave had trusted that the tenderness of Laura would seduce, or his ardour overpower her firmness; but he read the expression of her pale determined countenance, and felt a.s.sured that she was lost to him forever. Convinced that all appeal to her feelings would be hopeless, he would deign to make none; but in a voice made almost inarticulate by the struggle of pride and anguish, he said,--'Miss Montreville, your father's life is safe from me--I will not lift my hand against it. That he should take mine is of small importance, either to you or myself. A violent death,' continued he, his pale lip quivering with a smile of bitterness,--'may perhaps procure me your tardy pity.'

From the storm of pa.s.sion, Laura had shrunk with terror and dismay; but the voice of suppressed anguish struck her to the soul. 'Oh! Hargrave,'

she cried, with tears no longer to be restrained, 'you have my tenderest pity--would to Heaven that the purity of your future life would restore me to the happiness of esteeming you!'