Self-control: A Novel. Mary Brunton
most agreeably; and Laura was sorry when the hour of separation arrived. Mrs De Courcy courteously thanked her for her visit, and begged her to repeat it; but Harriet sportively objected: 'No, no,' said she, 'if you come back, you will not leave a heart among all the household – even old John's seems in danger.'
'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 assurance 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 fête champêtre 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 appetite, 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 passions. 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 gratitude as the wretch feels under the knife which amputates the morbid limb.
Unused to let her self-reproaches pass 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 passion? 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 passed in which Montreville was not indebted for some comfort, or some amusement, 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 impassioned 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 embarrassed 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 passion 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