Self-control: A Novel. Mary Brunton
of protesting against any communication with Colonel Hargrave; but instantly recollecting the explanation that would be necessary, 'I will go to him this instant,' she exclaimed with an eagerness that astonished her father.
'Surely, you will first smooth these reddish locks of yours,' said he, fondly stroaking his hand over her dark auburn hair. 'I fear so much haste may make the Colonel vain.'
Laura coloured violently; for, amidst all her fears of a discovery, she found place for a strong feeling of resentment, at the easy security of forgiveness that seemed intimated by a visit so immediately succeeding the offence. Having employed the few moments she passed at her toilette in collecting her thoughts, she descended to the parlour, fully resolved to give no countenance to the hopes her lover might have built on her supposed weakness.
The Colonel was alone; and as she opened the door, eagerly advanced towards her. 'My adored Laura,' cried he, 'this condescension – .' Had he staid to read the pale, but resolute countenance of his 'adored' Laura, he would have spared his thanks for her condescension.
She interrupted him. 'Colonel Hargrave,' said she, with imposing seriousness, 'I have a request to make to you. Perhaps the peace of my life depends upon your compliance.'
'Ah, Laura! what request can I refuse, where I have so much to ask?'
'Promise me, that you will never make known to my father – that you will take every means to conceal from him the – ,' she hesitated, 'the – our meeting last night,' she added, rejoiced to have found a palliative expression for her meaning.
'Oh! dearest Laura! forget it; – think of it no more.'
'Promise – promise solemnly. If indeed,' added she shuddering, while an expression of anguish crossed her features, 'if indeed promises can weigh with such a one as you.'
'For pity's sake, speak not such cutting words as those.'
'Colonel Hargrave, will you give me your promise?'
'I do promise – solemnly promise. Say, but that you forgive me.'
'I thank you, Sir, for so far ensuring the safety of my father, since he might have risked his life to avenge the wrongs of his child. You cannot be surprised, if I now wish to close our acquaintance, as speedily as may be consistent with the concealment so unfortunately necessary.'
Impatient to conclude an interview which tasked her fortitude to the utmost, Laura was about to retire. Hargrave seized her hand. 'Surely, Laura, you will not leave me thus. You cannot refuse forgiveness to a fault caused by intemperate passion alone. The only atonement in my power, I now come to offer: my hand – my fortune – my future rank.'
The native spirit, and wounded delicacy of Laura, flashed from her eyes, while she replied: 'I fear, Sir, I shall not be suitably grateful for your generosity, while I recollect the alternative you would have preferred.'
This was the first time that Laura had ever appeared to her lover, other than the tender, the timid girl. From this character she seemed to have started at once into the high-spirited, the dignified woman; and, with a truly masculine passion for variety, Hargrave thought he had never seen her half so fascinating. 'My angelic Laura,' cried he, as he knelt before her, 'lovelier in your cruelty, suffer me to prove to you my repentance – my reverence – my adoration; – suffer me to prove them to the world, by uniting our fates for ever.'
'It is fit the guilty should kneel,' said Laura, turning away, 'but not to their fellow mortals. Rise, Sir, this homage to me is but mockery.'
'Say, then, that you forgive me; say, that you will accept the tenderness, the duty of my future life.'
'What! rather than control your passions, will you now stoop to receive as your wife, her whom so lately you thought vile enough for the lowest degradation? Impossible! yours I can never be. Our views, our principles, are opposite as light and darkness. How shall I call heaven to witness the prostitution of its own ordinances? How shall I ask the blessing of my Maker, on my union with a being at enmity with him?'
'Good heavens, Laura, will you sacrifice to a punctilio – to a fit of Calvinistic enthusiasm, the peace of my life, the peace of your own? You have owned that you love me – I have seen it – delighted seen it a thousand times – and will you now desert me for ever?'
'I do not act upon punctilio,' returned Laura calmly; – 'I believe I am no enthusiast. What have been my sentiments, is now of no importance; to unite myself with vice would be deliberate wickedness – to hope for happiness from such an union would be desperate folly.'
'Dearest Laura, bound by your charms, allured by your example, my reformation would be certain, my virtue secure.'
'Oh, hope it not! – Familiar with my form, my only hold on your regard, you would neglect, forsake, despise me; and who should say that my punishment was not just.'
'And will you then,' cried Hargrave, in an agony; 'Will you then cut me off forever? Will you drive me for ever from your heart?'
'I have now no choice – leave me – forget me – seek some woman less fastidious; or rather endeavour, by your virtues, to deserve one superior far. Then honoured, beloved, as a husband, as a father' – The fortitude of Laura failed before the picture of her fancy, and she was unable to proceed. Determined to conceal her weakness from Hargrave, she broke from him, and hurried towards the door; – but, melting into tenderness at the thought that this interview was perhaps the last, she turned. 'Oh, Hargrave,' she cried, clasping her hands as in supplication, 'have pity on yourself – have pity on me – forsake the fatal path on which you have entered, that, though for ever torn from you here, I may yet meet you in a better world.'
She then darted from the room, leaving her lover in dumb amazement, at the conclusion of an interview so different from his expectations. For the resentment of Laura he had been prepared; but upon her determined refusal, he had never calculated, and scarcely could he now admit the reality. Could he give her credit for the professed motive of her rejection? Colonel Hargrave had nothing in himself that made it natural for him to suppose passion sacrificed to reason and principle. Had he then deceived himself, – had she never really loved him? – the suggestion was too mortifying to be admitted. Had resentment given rise to her determination? She had spoken from the first with calmness, – at last with tenderness. Was all this but a scene of coquetry, designed to enhance her favours? The simple, the noble, the candid Laura guilty of coquetry? – impossible! While these thoughts darted with confused rapidity through his mind, one idea alone was distinct and permanent – Laura had rejected him. This thought was torture. Strong resentment mingled with his anguish; and to inflict, on the innocent cause of it, pangs answering to those he felt, would have afforded to Hargrave the highest gratification. Though his passion for Laura was the most ardent of which he was capable, its effects, for the present, more resembled those of the bitterest hatred. That she loved him, he would not allow himself to doubt; and, therefore, he concluded that neglect would inflict the surest, as well as the most painful wound. Swearing that he would make her feel it at her heart's core, he left the cottage, strode to the village inn, surlily ordered his horses, and, in a humour compounded of revenge, impatient passion, and wounded pride, returned to his quarters at – . His scheme of revenge had all the success that such schemes usually have or deserve; and while, for one whole week, he deigned not, by visit or letter, to notice his mistress, the real suffering which he inflicted, did not exactly fall on her for whom he intended the pain.
CHAPTER III
To an interview which he presumed would be as delightful as interesting, Captain Montreville chose to give no interruption; and therefore he had walked out to superintend his hay-making: But, after staying abroad for two hours, which he judged a reasonable length for a tête-à-tête, he returned, and was a little surprised to find that the Colonel was gone. Though he entertained not a doubt of the issue of the conference, he had some curiosity to know the particulars, and summoned Laura to communicate them.
'Well, my love,' said he, as the conscious Laura shut the parlour door, 'is Colonel Hargrave gone?'
'Long ago, Sir.'
'I thought he would have waited my return.'
Laura made no answer.
'When