Self-control: A Novel. Mary Brunton
a hundred regularly handsome countenances, could be satisfied with none that bore not some affinity to her only standard of manly beauty.
To add to the pleasure with which Laura surveyed the completion of her labours, she had that day received a letter from Mrs Douglas, in which mention was made of Hargrave.
In her first letters to Laura, Mrs Douglas had entirely avoided this subject. Almost a month Laura had waited, with sickening impatience, for some hint from which she might gather intelligence of Hargrave's motions – in vain. Her friend had been provokingly determined to believe that the subject was disagreeable to her correspondent. Laura at last ventured to add, to one of her letters, a postscript, in which, without naming the Colonel, she inquired whether the – regiment was still at Perth. She blushed as she glanced over this postscript. She thought it had an air of contrivance and design. She was half tempted to destroy the letter; but she could not prevail on herself to make a more direct inquiry; and to forbear making any was almost impossible. An answer had this day arrived; and Laura read no part of it with such interest, as that which, with seeming carelessness, informed her that the Colonel had been several times at the parsonage: and that Mrs Douglas understood from report, that he was soon to visit London.
Again and again did Laura read this passage, and ponder every word of it with care. I am playing the fool, said she to herself, and laid the letter aside; took it up again to ascertain some particular expression, and again read the paragraph which spoke of Hargrave, and again paused upon his name. She was so employed when her father entered, and she made an instinctive motion to conceal the paper; but the next moment she held it out to him, saying, 'This is from Mrs Douglas.' 'Well, my love,' said the Captain, 'if there are no secrets in it, read it to me. I delight in Mrs Douglas's simple affectionate style.' Laura did as she was desired; but when she reached the sentence which began with the name of Hargrave, she blushed, hesitated for a moment, and then, passing over it, began the next paragraph.
Without both caution and self-command, the most upright woman will be guilty of subterfuges, where love is in question. Men can talk of the object of their affections – they find pleasure in confiding, in describing, in dwelling upon their passion – but the love of woman seeks concealment. If she can talk of it, or even of any thing that leads to it, the fever is imaginary, or it is past. 'It is very strange,' said the Captain, when Laura had concluded, 'that Mrs Douglas never mentions Hargrave, when she knows what an interest I take in him.' Laura coloured crimson, but remained silent. 'What do you think can be her reason?' asked the Captain. This was a question for which Laura could find no evasion short of actual deceit; and, with an effort far more painful than that from which her little artifice had saved her, her lovely face and neck glowing with confusion, she said: 'She does mention – only I – I. Please to read it yourself;' and she pointed it out to her father, who, prepared by her hesitation to expect something very particular, was surprised to find the passage so unimportant. 'Why, Laura,' said he, 'what was there to prevent you from reading this?' To this question Laura could make no reply; and the Captain, after gazing on her for some moments in vain hope of an explanation, dismissed the subject, saying, with a shrug of his shoulders, 'Well, well – women are creatures I don't pretend to understand.'
Laura had often and deeply reflected upon the propriety of confiding to her father her engagement with Hargrave. Vague as it was, she thought a parent had an indisputable right to be informed of it. Her promise too had been conditional, and what judge so proper as her father to watch over the fulfilment of its conditions? What judge so proper as her father to examine the character, and to inspect the conduct, of the man who might one day become her husband? But, amidst all the train of delightful visions which this thought conjured up, Laura felt that Hargrave's conduct had been such as she could not endure that her father should remember against his future son. Captain Montreville was now at a distance from Hargrave. Before they could possibly meet, her arguments, or her entreaties, might have so far prevailed over the subsiding passions of her father, as to dissuade him from a fashionable vindication of her honour. But what was to restore her lover to his present rank in the Captain's regard? What would blot from his recollection the insult offered to his child? Without mention of that insult, her tale must be almost unintelligible; and she was conscious that, if she entered on the subject at all, her father's tenderness, or his authority, might unlock every secret of her breast. The time when her engagement could produce any consequence was distant. Ere it arrived, something unforeseen might possibly remove her difficulties; or, at the worst, she hoped that, before she permitted her father to weigh the fault of Hargrave, she should be able to balance against it the exemplary propriety of his after conduct. She was not just satisfied with this reasoning; but weaker considerations can dissuade us from what we are strongly disinclined to do; and to unveiling her own partiality, or the unworthiness of its object, Laura's disinclination was extreme. She determined therefore to put off the evil hour; and withdrew her father's attention from the subject of the letter, by inquiring whether he had seen Warren, and whether he had settled his business satisfactorily? The Captain replied, that though it was not absolutely settled, he hoped it was now in a fair way of being so; and informed her of Warren's promise. 'Yet,' added he, 'any one of a thousand trifles may make such an animal forget or neglect the most important concern.' 'What sort of man did he seem?' inquired Laura. 'Man!' repeated the Captain, contemptuously. 'Why, child, he is a creature entirely new to you. He talks like a parrot, looks like a woman, dresses like a monkey, and smells like a civet-cat. You might have lived at Glenalbert for half a century, without seeing such a creature.' 'I hope he will visit us,' said Laura, 'that we may not return home without seeing at least one of the curiosities of London.'
CHAPTER IX
The next day, as Captain Montreville sat reading aloud to his daughter, who was busy with her needle, Mr Warren was announced.
Laura, who concluded that he had business with her father, rose to retire; but her visitor, intercepting her, took both her hands, saying, 'Pray, Ma'am, don't let me frighten you away.' With a constitutional dislike to familiarity, Laura coolly disengaged herself, and left the room, without uttering a syllable; but not before Warren had seen enough of her to determine, that, if possible, he should see her again. He was struck with her extraordinary beauty, which was heightened by the little hectic his forwardness had called to her cheek; and he prolonged his visit to an unfashionable length, in the hope of her return. He went over all the topics which he judged proper for the ear of a stranger of his own sex; – talked of the weather, the news, the emptiness of the town, of horses, ladies, cock-fights, and boxing-matches. He informed the Captain, that he had given directions to his agent to examine into the state of the annuity; inquired how long Miss Montreville was to grace London with her presence; and was told that she was to leave it the moment her father could settle the business, on account of which alone he had left Scotland. When it was absolutely necessary to conclude his visit, Mr Warren begged permission to repeat it, that he might acquaint Captain Montreville with the success of his agent; secretly hoping, that Laura would another time be less inaccessible.
Laura meanwhile thought his visit would never have an end. Having wandered into every room to which she had access, and found rest in none of them, she concluded, rather rashly, that she should find more comfort in the one from which his presence excluded her. That disease of the mind in which by eager anticipations of the future many are unfitted for present enjoyment, was new to the active spirit of Laura. The happiness of her life, (and in spite of the caprices of her mother, it had, upon the whole, been a happy one), had chiefly arisen from a constant succession of regular, but varied pursuits. The methodical sequence of domestic usefulness, and improving study, and healthful exercise, afforded calm yet immediate enjoyment; and the future pleasure which they promised was of that indefinite and progressive kind which provokes no eager desires, no impatient expectation. Laura, therefore, had scarcely known what it was to long for the morrow; but on this day, the morrow was anticipated with wishful solicitude, – a solicitude which banished from her mind even the thoughts of Hargrave. Never did youthful bridegroom look forward to his nuptial hour with more ardour, than did Laura to that which was to begin the realization of her prospects of wealth and independence. The next day was to be devoted to the sale of her picture. Her father was on that day to visit Mr Baynard at Richmond, whither he had been removed for the benefit of a purer air; and she hoped on his return, to surprize her beloved parent with an unlooked-for treasure. She imagined the satisfaction with which she should