Self control Part 8

'Well, Mamma,' continued she, when Laura was gone, 'what do you think of my brother's beauty?' 'I think,' said Mrs De Courcy, 'that Montague's praises did her no more than justice. She is the most lovely, the most elegant woman I ever saw,' 'She is no doubt beautiful and interesting,'

returned Harriet; 'but I must still think she has too much of the buckram of the old school to be elegant.' Montague bit his lip, and tried, before he spoke, to ascertain that he was not angry. 'You are too severe, Harriet,' said Mrs De Courcy. 'Miss Montreville's reserve is not stiffness--it is not "buckram;" it is rather the graceful drapery, embellishing what it veils.' 'Mother,' cried Montague, grasping her hand, 'you have more candour, sense, and taste, than all the misses in England.' 'Oh! pray, except Miss Montreville and the present company,'

said Harriet, laughing. 'She, you know, is all perfection; and _I_ have really candour, sense, and taste enough to admire her more than ever I did any woman, except my little self.' De Courcy threw his arm around her--'I see by that good-natured smile,' said he, 'that my dear Harriet has at least candour enough to pardon the folly of a wayward brother.'

And, for the rest of the evening, he treated her with even more than his usual attentive kindness.

From this day Miss De Courcy frequently accompanied her brother on his visits to the Montrevilles, and Laura was a welcome guest in Audley Street. By degrees Mrs De Courcy and she discovered the real worth of each other's character, and their mutual reserve entirely disappeared.

Between Laura and De Courcy, almost from the first hour of their acquaintance, there seemed (to use the language of romance) a sympathy of souls;--an expression which, if it has any meaning, must mean the facility with which simple, upright, undesigning minds become intelligible to each other. Even the sarcastic Harriet found, in the chaste propriety of Laura's character, something to command respect; and in her gentleness and warmth of heart, something to engage affection; while, in her ideas, which solitude had slightly tinged with romance, though strong sense had preserved them from absurdity, and in her language, which sometimes rose to the very verge of poetry, she found constantly somewhat to interest and amuse.

Meanwhile Montreville's dejection seemed to increase; and Laura's health and spirits, in spite of her efforts to support them, daily declined.

Hargrave did not appear, and vainly did she endeavour to account for his absence. She at first conjectured that he had found it impossible to leave Scotland at the time he proposed; but a second letter from Mrs Douglas had mentioned his departure, and repeated the a.s.surance that, however obtained, he had information of Laura's address, since he had undertaken to be the bearer of a letter from a neighbouring gentleman to Captain Montreville.

She next supposed that he had stopped on the road, or quitted it on some errand of business or pleasure--but a newspaper account of a fete champetre at Lady Bellamer's elegant villa at Richmond, was graced, among other fashionable names, with that of the handsome Colonel Hargrave, nephew and heir of Lord Lincourt. No supposition remained to be made, except the mortifying one, that three months of absence had erased her image from the fickle heart of Hargrave. She, who had herself consigned her lover to a banishment of two years, could not bear that he should voluntarily undergo one of a few weeks. Nay, she had once herself resigned him; but to be herself resigned without effort, was more than she could endure. Her appet.i.te, her sleep forsook her; her ordinary employments became irksome; and even the picture, the price of which was so soon to be necessary, she had not the spirits to finish.

But one who was accustomed every night to examine the thoughts and actions of the day, was not likely to remain long a prey to inactive melancholy. Not satisfied with languid efforts in the discharge of duty, she reproached herself for every failure. She upbraided herself as a wicked and slothful servant, who, when the means of usefulness were put in her power, suffered them to remain unimproved; as a rebel who had deserted the service of her rightful master, to bow to the worse than Egyptian bondage of her pa.s.sions. She accused herself of having given up her love, her wishes, her hopes and fears, almost her worship, to an idol; and no sooner did this thought occur to the pious mind of Laura, than she became resigned to her loss. She even felt grateful--with such grat.i.tude as the wretch feels under the knife which amputates the morbid limb.

Unused to let her self-reproaches pa.s.s without improvement, she resolved, by vigorous efforts, to become herself again. She even called in the aid of a decent pride. 'Shall I,' she cried, 'who have vowed to overcome the world--I who have called myself by that glorious name, a Christian, sink from these honours into a love-sick girl? Shall all my happiness, all my duties, the comfort of my father, the very means of his support, be sacrificed to a selfish pa.s.sion? Or is a love, whose transient duration has proved its degenerate nature, of such value to me, that I must repay it with my whole heart and soul?'

These reflections were not made at once, nor were they at once effectual; but, when made, they were called in as oft as the image of Hargrave intruded unbidden; and constant and regular occupation was again employed to second their operation. The picture was again resorted to; but, as it afforded rather an unsocial employment, and as Laura's company was more than ever necessary to her father, it proceeded but slowly.

De Courcy was now a daily visitor. Sometimes he brought books, and would spend hours in reading aloud, an accomplishment in which he excelled.

Sometimes he would amuse the Captain and his daughter by experiments in his favourite science. With a gentleness peculiar to himself, he tried to prevent the little annoyances to which hypochondriacs are subject.

He invented a hundred little indulgences for the invalid; and no day pa.s.sed in which Montreville was not indebted for some comfort, or some amus.e.m.e.nt, to the considerate kindness of De Courcy. At times he would gently rally the Captain on his imaginary ailments, and sometimes prevailed on him to take the air in Mrs De Courcy's carriage: though to such a height had fancy worked upon him, that Montague found it impossible to persuade him that he was able to endure the fatigue of walking.

To Laura, De Courcy's behaviour, uniformly respectful and attentive, was sometimes even tender. But, accustomed to see love only in the impa.s.sioned looks of Hargrave, to hear its accents only in his words of fire, she did not recognize it in a new form; and to consider De Courcy as a lover, never once entered her imagination. Captain Montreville was more clear-sighted, and hence arose much of the pleasure which he took in De Courcy's visits. Not that he was more knowing in the mysteries of love than his daughter; but he took it for granted, that no mortal could withstand her attractions; and he was persuaded that Laura would not withhold her heart, where she so freely expressed approbation. This opinion was a proof of the justice of the Captain's former confession, 'that women were creatures he did not understand.' Laura had never praised Hargrave. She never shrunk from De Courcy's eye,--she never felt embarra.s.sed by his presence,--she treated him with the frankness of a sister; and though she reserved her commendations for his absence, she waited only for that to bestow them with all the warmth which his own merit and his attentions to her father could demand.

Meanwhile the Captain did not, by a premature disclosure of his hopes, endanger their completion; and De Courcy continued unconsciously to foster in his bosom, a pa.s.sion that was destined to destroy his peace.

CHAPTER XIII

The picture at last was finished, and Laura herself accompanied it to the print-shop. Wilkins immediately delivered to her the price, which, he said, had been for some time in his hands. It now occurred to Laura to ask who had been the purchaser of her work. 'Why, Ma'am,' said Wilkins, 'the gentleman desired me not to mention his name.' 'Indeed!'

said Laura surprised. 'These were his orders. Ma'am, but I shouldn't think there could be any great harm in telling it just to you Ma'am.' 'I have no wish to hear it,' said Laura, with a look which compelled the confident to unwilling discretion; and again thanking him for the trouble he had taken, she returned home. The truth was, that De Courcy had foreseen the probability of Laura's question; and averse to be known to her under a character that savoured of patronage and protection, had forbidden the shopkeeper to mention who had purchased the pictures.

Again did Laura, delighted, present to her father the produce of her labours, her warm heart glowing with the joys of usefulness. But not as formerly did he with pleasure receive the gift. With the fretfulness of disease, he refused to share in her satisfaction. Through the gloom of melancholy, every object appeared distorted; and Captain Montreville saw in his daughter's well-earned treasure only the wages of degrading toil.

'It is hard, very hard,' said he with a deep sigh, 'that you, my lovely child, should be dependent on your daily labour for your support.' 'Oh call it not hard, my dear father,' cried Laura. 'Thanks, a thousand thanks to your kind foresight, which, in teaching me this blessed art, secured to me the only real independence, by making me independent of all but my own exertions.' 'Child,' said Montreville, fretfully, 'there is an enthusiasm about you that will draw you into ten thousand errors--you are quite mistaken in fancying yourself independent. Your boasted art depends upon the taste, the very caprice of the public for its reward; and you, of course, upon the very same caprice for your very existence.' 'It is true,' answered Laura mildly, 'that my success depends upon taste, and that the public taste is capricious; but some, I should hope, would never be wanting, who could value and reward the labours of industry--you observe,' added she with a smile, 'that I rest nothing upon genius.' 'Be that as it may,' returned Captain Montreville, with increasing querulousness, 'I cannot endure to see you degraded into an artist, and, therefore, I desire there may be no more of this traffic.'

This was the first time that Montreville had ever resorted to the method well known and approved by those persons of both s.e.xes, who, being more accustomed to the exercise of authority than of argument, choose to wield the weapon in the use of which practice has made them the most expert. Laura looked at him with affectionate concern--'Alas!' thought she, 'if bodily disease is pitiable, how far more deplorable are its ravages on the mind.' But even if her father had been in perfect health, she would not have chosen the moment of irritation for reply. Deeply mortified at this unexpected prohibition, she yet endeavoured to consider it as only one of the transient caprices of illness, and to find pleasure in the thought, that the hour was come, when De Courcy's daily visit would restore her father to some degree of cheerfulness.

But De Courcy's visit made no one cheerful. He was himself melancholy and absent. He said he had only a few minutes to spare, yet lingered above an hour; often rose to go, yet irresolutely resumed his seat. At last, starting up, he said, 'the longer I remain here, the more unwilling I am to go; and yet I _must_ go, without even knowing when I may return.' 'Are _you_ going to leave us?' said Montreville, in a tone of despondency, 'then we shall be solitary indeed.' 'I fear,' said Laura, looking with kind solicitude in De Courcy's face, 'that something distressing calls you away.' 'Distressing indeed,' said De Courcy. 'My excellent old friend Mr Wentworth has lost his only son, and I must bear the news to the parents.' 'Is there no one but you to do this painful office?' asked Montreville. 'None,' answered De Courcy, 'on whom it could with such propriety fall. Wentworth was one of my earliest friends, he was my father's early friend. I owe him a thousand obligations; and I would fain, if it be possible, soften this heavy blow. Besides,' added he, endeavouring to speak more cheerfully, 'I have a selfish purpose to serve,--I want to see how a Christian bears misfortune.' 'And can you fix no time for your return?' asked the Captain, mournfully. De Courcy shook his head. 'You will not return while your presence is necessary to Mr Wentworth,' said Laura, less anxious to regain De Courcy's society, than that he support the character of benevolence with which her imagination had justly vested him. Grieved by the prospect of losing his companion, fretted by an indefinite idea that he was wrong in his ungracious rejection of his daughter's efforts to serve him, ashamed of his distempered selfishness, yet unable to conquer it, Captain Montreville naturally became more peevish; for the consciousness of having acted wrong, without the resolution to repair the fault, is what no temper can stand. 'Your charity is mighty excursive Laura,' said he. 'If Mr De Courcy delays his return long, I shall probably not live to profit by it.' Laura, whose sweetness no captious expressions could ruffle, would have spoken to turn her father's view to brighter prospects; but the rising sob choked her voice, and courtesying hastily to De Courcy, she left the room. De Courcy now no longer found it difficult to depart. He soon bade the Captain farewell, promising to return as soon as it was possible, though he had no great faith in Montreville's dismal prediction, uttered in the true spirit of hypochondriasis, that he would come but to lay his head in his grave.

As he was descending the stairs, Laura, who never forgot in selfish feeling to provide for the comfort of others, followed him, to beg that when he had leisure, he would write to her father. Laura blushed and hesitated as she made this request, not because she had in making it any selfish motive whatever, but purely because she was unused to ask favours. Flattered by the request, but much more by her confusion, De Courcy glowed with pleasure. 'Certainly I shall write,' said he with great animation, 'if you--I mean if Captain Montreville wish it.' These words, and the tone in which they were uttered, made Laura direct a look of inquiry to the speaker's face, where his thoughts were distinctly legible; and she no sooner read then, than, stately and displeased, she drew back. 'I believe it will give my father pleasure to hear from you, sir,' said she, and coldly turned away. 'Is there no man,' thought she, 'exempt from this despicable vanity--from the insignificant Warren to the respectable De Courcy?' Poor Montague would fain have besought her forgiveness for his presumption in supposing it possible that she could have any pleasure in hearing of him; but the look with which she turned from him, left him no courage to speak to her again, and he mournfully pursued his way to Audley Street.

He was scarcely gone when Warren called, and Laura, very little displeased for his company, took shelter in her own room. Her father, however, suffered no inconvenience from being left alone to the task of entertaining his visitor, for Warren found means to make the conversation sufficiently interesting.

He began by lamenting the Captain's long detention from his home, and condoled with him upon the effects which London air had produced upon his health. He regretted that Mr Williams's absence from town had r.e.t.a.r.ded the final settlement of Montreville's business; informed him that Mr Baynard's executors had appointed an agent to inspect his papers; and finally, surprised him by an unconditional offer to sign a new bond for the annuity. He could not bear, he said, to think of the Captain's being detained in London to the prejudice of his health, especially as it was evident that Miss Montreville's suffered from the same cause. He begged that a regular bond might be drawn up, which he would sign at a moment's notice, and which he would trust to the Captain's honour to destroy, if it should be found that the 1500, mentioned as the price of the annuity, had never been paid.

At this generous proposal, surprise and joy almost deprived Montreville of the power of utterance; gratefully clasping Warren's hand, 'Oh, sir,'

he exclaimed, 'you have, I hope, secured an independence for my child. I thank you--with what fervour, you can never know till you are yourself a father.' Seemingly anxious to escape from his thanks, Warren again promised that he would be ready to sign the bond on the following day, or as soon as it was ready for signature. Captain Montreville again began to make acknowledgements, but Warren, who appeared rather distressed than gratified by them, took his leave, and left the Captain to the joyful task of communicating the news to Laura.

She listened with grateful pleasure. 'How much have I been to blame,'

said she, 'for allowing myself to believe that a little vanity necessarily excluded every kind and generous feeling. What a pity it is that this man should condescend to such an effeminate attention to trifles!' Lost to the expectation, almost to the desire of seeing Hargrave, she had now no tie to London, but one which was soon to be broken, for Mrs and Miss De Courcy were about to return to Norwood. With almost unmixed satisfaction, therefore, she heard her father declare, that in less than a week he should be on his way to Scotland. With pleasure she looked forward to revisiting her dear Glenalbert, and antic.i.p.ated the effects of its quiet shades and healthful air upon her father. Already she beheld her home, peaceful and inviting, as when, from the hill that sheltered it, she last looked back upon its simple beauties. She heard the ripple of its waters; she trod the well-known path; met the kind familiar face, and listened to the cordial welcome, with such joy as they feel who return from the land of strangers.

Nor was Montreville less pleased with the prospect of returning to his accustomed comforts and employments--of feeling himself once more among objects which he could call his own. His own! There was magic in the word, that transformed the cottage at Glenalbert into a fairy palace--the garden and the farm into a little world. To leave London interfered indeed with his hopes of De Courcy as a lover for his daughter; but he doubted not that the impression was already made, and that Montague would follow Laura to Scotland.

His mind suddenly relieved from anxiety, his spirits rose, all his const.i.tutional good nature returned, and he caressed his daughter with a fondness that seemed intended to atone for the captious behaviour of the morning. At dinner he called for wine, a luxury in which he rarely indulged, drank to their safe arrival at Glenalbert, and obliged Laura to pledge him to the health of Warren. To witness her father's cheerfulness was a pleasure which Laura had of late tasted so sparingly, that it had the most exhilarating effect upon her spirits; and neither De Courcy nor Hargrave would have been much gratified, could they have seen the gaiety with which she supported the absence of the one, and the neglect of the other.

She was beginning to enjoy one of those cheerful domestic evenings which had always been her delight, when Miss Dawkins came to propose that she should accompany her and her mother on a visit to Mrs Jones. Laura would have excused herself, by saying, that she could not leave her father alone; but the Captain insisted upon her going, and declared that he would himself be of the party. She had therefore no apology, and, deprived of the amus.e.m.e.nt which she would have preferred, contentedly betook herself to that which was within her reach. She did not sit in silent contemplation of her own superiority, or of the vulgarity of her companions; nor did she introduce topics of conversation calculated to ill.u.s.trate either; but having observed that even the most ignorant have some subject on which they can talk with ease and pleasure, and even be heard with advantage, she suffered others to lead the discourse, rightly conjecturing that they would guide it to the channel which they judged most favourable to their own powers. She was soon engaged with Mrs Dawkins in a dissertation on various branches of household economy, and to the eternal degradation of her character as a heroine, actually listened with interest to the means of improving the cleanliness, beauty, and comfort of her dwelling.

Mrs Jones was highly flattered by the Captain's visit, and exerted herself to entertain him, her husband being inclined to taciturnity by a reason which Bishop Butler has p.r.o.nounced to be a good one. Perceiving that Montreville was an Englishman, she concluded that nothing but dire necessity could have exiled him to Scotland. She inquired what town he lived in; and being answered that his residence was many miles distant from any town, she held up her hands in pity and amazement. But when she heard that Montreville had been obliged to learn the language of the Highlands, and that it was Laura's vernacular tongue, she burst into an exclamation of wonder. 'Mercy upon me,' cried she, 'can you make that outlandish spluttering so as them savages can know what you says? Well, if I had been among them a thousand years, I should never have made out a word of their gibberish.'

'The sound of it is very uncouth to a stranger,' said Captain Montreville, 'but now I have learnt to like it.' 'And do them there wild men make you wear them little red and green petticoats?' asked Mrs Jones, in a tone of compa.s.sionate inquiry. 'Oh no,' said Captain Montreville, 'they never interfered with my dress. But you seem quite acquainted with the Highlands. May I ask if you have been there?' 'Aye, that I have, to my sorrow,' said Mrs Jones; and forthwith proceeded to recount her adventures, pretty nearly in the same terms as she had formerly done to Laura. 'And what was the name of this unfortunate place,' inquired the captain, when, having narrated the deficiency of hot rolls, Mrs Jones made the pause in which her auditors were accustomed to express their astonishment and horror. 'That was what I asked the waiter often and often,' replied she, 'but I could never make head or tail of what he said. Sometimes it sounded like _A rookery_; sometimes like one thing, sometimes like another. So I takes the roadbook, and looks it out, and it looked something like A rasher, only not right spelt. So, thinks I, they'll call it _A rasher_, because there is good bacon here; and I asked the man if they were famous for pigs; and he said, no, they got all their pigs from the manufactory in Glasgow, and that they weren't famous for any thing but fresh herrings, as are catched in that black Loch-Lomond, where they wanted me to go.'

'Kate,' said Mr Jones, setting down his tea-cup, and settling his hands upon his knees, 'you know I think you're wrong about them herrings.' 'Mr Jones,' returned the lady, with a look that shewed that the herrings had been the subject of former altercation, 'for certain the waiter told me that they came out of the loch, and to what purpose should he tell lies about it.' 'I tells you, Kate, that herrings come out of the sea,' said Mr Jones. 'Well, that loch is a great fresh water sea,' said Mrs Jones.

'Out of the salt sea,' insisted Mr Jones. 'Aye,' said Mrs Jones, 'them salt herrings as we gets here, but it stands to reason, Mr Jones, that the fresh herrings should come out of fresh water.' 'I say, cod is fresh, and does'n't it come out of the sea? answer me that, Mrs Jones.'

'It is no wonder the cod is fresh,' returned the lady, 'when the fishmongers keep fresh water running on it day and night.' 'Kate, it's of no use argufying, I say herrings come out of the sea. What say you, Sir?' turning to Captain Montreville. The Captain softened his verdict in the gentleman's favour, by saying, that Mrs Jones was right in her account of the waiter's report, though the man, in speaking of 'the loch,' meant not Loch-Lomond, but an arm of the sea. 'I know'd it,' said Mr Jones triumphantly, 'for haven't I read it in the newspaper as Government offers a reward to any body that'll put most salt upon them Scotch herrings, and is'n't that what makes the salt so dear?' So having settled this knotty point to his own satisfaction, Mr Jones again applied himself to his tea.

'Did you return to Glasgow by the way of Loch-Lomond?' inquired Captain Montreville. 'Ay,' cried Mrs Jones, 'that was what the people of the inn wanted us to do; but then I looked out, and seed a matter of forty of them there savages, with the little petticoats and red and white stockings, loitering and lolling about the inn-door, doing nothing in the varsal world, except wait till it was dark to rob and murder us all, bless us! So, thinks I, let me once get out from among you in a whole skin, and catch me in the Highlands again; so as soon as the chaise could be got, we just went the way we came.' 'Did you find good accommodation in Glasgow,' said the Captain. 'Yes,' replied Mrs Jones; 'but after all, Captain, there's no country like our own;--do you know, I never got so much as a b.u.t.tered m.u.f.fin all the while I was in Scotland?'

The conversation was here interrupted by an exclamation from Mrs Dawkins, who, knowing that she had nothing new to expect in her daughter's memoirs of her Scotish excursion, had continued to talk with Laura apart. 'Goodness me!' she cried, 'why Kate, as sure as eggs, here's Miss never seed a play in all her life!' 'Never saw a play! Never saw a play!' exclaimed the landlord and landlady at once. 'Well, that's so odd; but to be sure, poor soul, how should she, among them there hills.' 'Suppose,' said Mrs Jones, 'we should make a party, and go tonight.--We shall be just in time.' Laura was desirous to go: her father made no objection; and Mr Jones, with that feeling of good-natured self-complacency which most people have experienced, arising from the discovery that another is new to a pleasure with which he himself is familiar, offered, as he expressed it, 'to do the genteel thing, and treat her himself.'

The party was speedily arranged, and Laura soon found herself seated in the pit of the theatre. The scene was quite new to her; for her ignorance of public places was even greater than her companions had discovered it to be. She was dazzled with the glare of the lights, and the brilliancy of the company, and confused with the murmur of innumerable voices; but the curtain rose, and her attention was soon confined to the stage. The play was the Gamester, the most domestic of our tragedies; and, in the inimitable representation of Mrs Beverly, Laura found an illusion strong enough to absorb for the time every faculty of her soul. Of the actress she thought not; but she loved and pitied Mrs Beverly with a fervour that made her insensible to the amus.e.m.e.nt which she afforded to her companions. Meanwhile her countenance, as beautiful, almost as expressive, followed every change in that of Mrs Siddons. She wept with her; listened, started, rejoiced with her; and when Mrs Beverly repulsed the villain Stukely, Laura's eyes too flashed with 'heaven's own lightnings.' By the time the representation was ended, she was so much exhausted by the strength and rapidity of her emotions, that she was scarcely able to answer to the questions of 'How have you been amused?' and 'How did you like it?' with which her companions all at once a.s.sailed her. 'Well,' said Miss Julia, when they were arrived at home, 'I think nothing is so delightful as a play. I should like to go every night--shouldn't you?' 'No,' answered Laura. 'Once or twice in a year would be quite sufficient for me. It occupies my thoughts too much for a mere amus.e.m.e.nt.'

In the course of the two following days, Laura had sketched more than twenty heads of Mrs Siddons, besides completing the preparations for her journey to Scotland. On the third, the Captain, who could now smile at his own imaginary debility, prepared to carry the bond to receive Mr Warren's signature. The fourth was to be spent with Mrs De Courcy; and on the morning of the fifth, the travellers intended to depart.

On the appointed morning, Captain Montreville set out on an early visit to Portland Street, gaily telling his daughter at parting that he would return in an hour or two, with her dowery in his pocket. When he knocked at Mr Warren's door, the servant informed him that his master had gone out, but that expecting the Captain to call, he had left a message to beg that Montreville would wait till he returned, which would be very soon.

The Captain was then shewn into a back parlour, where he endeavoured to amuse himself with some books that were scattered round the room. They consisted of amatory poems and loose novels, and one by one he threw them aside in disgust, lamenting that one who was capable of a kind and generous action should seek pleasure in such debasing studies. The room was hung with prints and pictures, but they partook of the same licentious character; and Montreville shuddered, as the momentary thought darted across his mind, that it was strange that the charms of Laura had made no impression on one whose libertinism in regard to her s.e.x was so apparent. It was but momentary. 'No!' thought he, 'her purity would awe the most licentious; and I am uncandid, ungrateful, to harbour even for a moment such an idea of the man who has acted towards her and me with the most disinterested benevolence.'

He waited long, but Warren did not appear; and he began to blame himself for having neglected to fix the exact time of his visit. To remedy this omission, he rang for writing materials, and telling the servant that he could stay no longer, left a note to inform Mr Warren that he would wait upon him at twelve o'clock next day. The servant, who was Mr Warren's own valet, seemed unwilling to allow the Captain to depart, and a.s.sured him that he expected his master every minute; but Montreville, who knew that there was no depending upon the motions of a mere man of pleasure, would be detained no longer.

He returned home, and finding the parlour empty, was leaving it to seek Laura in her painting-room, when he observed a letter lying on the table addressed to himself. The hand-writing was new to him. He opened it--the signature was equally so. The contents were as follows:--

'Sir,

The writer of this letter is even by name a stranger to you. If this circ.u.mstance should induce you to discredit my information, I offer no proof of my veracity but this simple one, that obviously no selfish end can be served by my present interference. Of the force of my motive you cannot judge, unless you have yourself lured to destruction the heart that trusted you,--seen it refuse all comfort,--reject all reparation,--and sink at last in untimely decay. From a fate like this, though not softened like this by anxious tenderness, nor mourned like this by remorseless pity, but aggravated by being endured for one incapable of any tender or generous feeling, it is my purpose, Sir, to save your daughter. I was last night one of a party where her name was mentioned;--where she was described as lovely, innocent, and respectable; yet the person who so described her, scrupled not to boast of a plan for her destruction. In the hope (why should I pretend a better motive) of softening the pangs of late but bitter self-reproach, by saving one fellow-creature from perhaps reluctant ruin, one family from domestic shame, I drew from him your address, and learnt that to ingratiate himself with you, and with his intended victim, he has pretended to offer as a gift, what he knew that he could not long withhold. He means to take the earliest opportunity of inveigling her from your care, secure, as he boasts, of her pardon in her attachment. Ill, indeed, does her character, even as described by him, accord with such a boast; yet even indifference might prove no guard against fraud, which, thus warned, you may defy. A fear that my intention should be frustrated by the merited contempt attached to anonymous information, inclines me to add my name, though aware that it can claim no authority with a stranger.

'I am, SIR, 'Your obedient Servant, 'PHILIP WILMOT.'

Captain Montreville read this letter more than once. It bore marks of such sincerity that he knew not how to doubt of the intelligence it gave; and he perceived with dismay, that the business which he had considered as closed, was as far as ever from a conclusion; for how could he accept a favour which he had been warned to consider as the wages of dishonour. For Laura he had indeed no fear. She was no less safe in her own virtue and discretion, than in the contemptuous pity with which she regarded Warren. This letter would put her upon her guard against leaving the house with him, which Captain Montreville now recollected that he had often solicited her to do, upon pretence of taking the air in his curricle.

But must he still linger in London; still be cheated with vain hopes; still fear for the future subsistence of his child; still approach the very verge of poverty; perhaps be obliged to defend his rights by a tedious law-suit? His heart sank at the prospect, and he threw himself on a seat, disconsolate and cheerless.

He had long been in the habit of seeking relief from every painful feeling in the tenderness of Laura,--of finding in her enduring spirit a support to the weakness of his own; and he now sought her in the conviction that she would either discover some advantage to be drawn from this disappointment, or lighten it to him by her affectionate sympathy. He knocked at the door.--She did not answer. He called her.--All was silent. He rang the bell, and inquired whether she was below, and was answered that she had gone out with Mr Warren in his curricle two hours before. The unfortunate father heard no more. Wildly striking his hand upon his breast, 'She is lost!' he cried, and sunk to the ground. The blood burst violently from his mouth and nostrils, and he became insensible.

The family were soon a.s.sembled round him; and a surgeon being procured, he declared that Montreville had burst a blood vessel, and that nothing but the utmost care and quiet could save his life. Mrs Dawkins, with great humanity, attended him herself, venting in whispers to the surgeon her compa.s.sion for Montreville, and her indignation against the unnatural desertion of Laura, whom she abused as a methodistical hypocrite, against whom her wrath was the stronger because she could never have suspected her.

Montreville no sooner returned to recollection, than he declared his resolution instantly to set off in search of his child. In vain did the surgeon expostulate, and a.s.sure him that his life would be the forfeit: his only answer was, 'Why should I live? She is lost.' In pursuance of his design, he tried to rise from the bed on which he had been laid; but exhausted nature refused to second him, and again he sunk back insensible.