.
young lady in her eighteenth year.
She sat down in her now solitary parlour—suffered dinner to be placed before her and removed, without knowing of what it consisted; and when the servant who brought it disappeared, began, like a true heroine, to vent her disappointment in tears. But soon recollecting that, though she had no joyful surprize awaiting her father, she might yet gladden it with a smiling welcome, she started up from her melancholy posture—bathed her eyes—placed the tea equipage—ordered the first fire of the season to displace the faded fennel in the chimney—arranged the apartment in the nicest order—and had just given to everything the greatest possible appearance of comfort, when her father arrived. She had need, however, of all her firmness, and of all the elation of conscious self-control, to resist the contagious depression of countenance and manner with which Captain Montreville accosted her. He had good reason for his melancholy. Mr. Baynard, his early acquaintance, almost the only person known to him in this vast city, had that morning breathed his last. All access to his papers was of course at present impossible; and until a person could be chosen to arrange his affairs, it would be impracticable for Captain Montreville to ascertain whether there existed any voucher for the payment of the price of the annuity. Harassed by his repeated disappointments, and unendowed by nature with the unbending spirit that rises in disaster, he now declared to Laura his resolution to remain in London only till a person was fixed upon for the management of Mr. Baynard's affairs—to lay before him the circumstances of his case—and then to return to Scotland, and trust to a correspondence for concluding the business.
At this moment nothing could have been further from Laura's wish than to quit London. She was unwilling to forfeit her remaining hope that her picture might find a purchaser, and a still stronger interest bound her to the place which was so soon to be the residence of Hargrave. But she saw the prudence of her father's determination—she felt the necessity of relinquishing a mode of life so unsuitable to his scanty income, and she cheerfully acquiesced in his proposal of returning home. Still some time must elapse, before their departure; and she indulged a hope, that ere that time expired, the produce of her labours might lighten their pecuniary difficulties.
Captain Montreville retired early; and Laura, wearied out with the toils and the disappointments of the day, gladly resigned herself to the sleep of innocence.
Laura was indebted partly to nature, but more to her own exertion, for that happy elasticity of spirit which easily casts off lighter evil, while it readily seizes, and fully enjoys, pleasure of moderate intensity, and of frequent attainment. Few of the lesser sorrows of youth can resist the cheering influence of early morn; and the petty miseries which, in the shades of evening, assume portentous size and colour, diminish wonderfully in the light of the new-risen sun. With recovered spirits, and reviving hopes, Laura awoke to joys which the worldly know not—the joys of pious gratitude—of devout contemplation—of useful employment; and so far was her persevering spirit from failing under the disappointments of the preceding day, that she determined to begin a new picture from the moment she was settled at Glenalbert, to compose it with more care, and finish it with greater accuracy, than the former; and to try its fate at the exhibition. She did not think the season of her father's depression a fit one for relating her mortifying adventures, and she found means to amuse him with other topics till he left her, with an intention to call in Portland Street.
He had not been gone long, when Mr. Warren's curricle stopped at the door, and the young gentleman, on being informed that the Captain was abroad, inquired for Miss Montreville. After paying his compliments like one secure of a good reception, he began—'How could you be so cruel as to refuse me the pleasure of seeing you the other day—do you know I waited here a devilish long time just on purpose, though I had promised to take the Countess of Bellamer out an airing, and she was off with Jack Villars before I came.' 'I am sorry,' said Laura, 'that I deprived her Ladyship of your company.' 'I should not have minded it much, if you had but come at last—though the Countess is the prettiest creature in London—curse me if she isn't—the present company always excepted.' 'Do you mean the exception for me, or for yourself?' said Laura. 'Oh now, how can you ask such a question?—I am sure you know that you are confoundedly handsome.' Laura gravely surveyed her own face in an opposite looking-glass, and then, with the nonchalance of one who talks of the most indifferent thing in nature, replied—'Yes, I think my features are uncommonly regular.' Warren was a little embarrassed by so unusual an answer to what he intended for a compliment. 'The girl,' thought he, 'must be quite a fool to own that she thinks herself so handsome.' However, after some consideration, he said—'It is not so much the features, as a certain je ne sçai quoi—a certain charm—one does not know well what to call it, that makes you look so divine.' 'I should suppose,' said Laura, 'from the subject you have chosen to amuse me, that the charm, whatever it is, has no great connection with intellect.' Warren hesitated; for he began to have some suspicions that she was laughing at him, in spite of the immoveable gravity of her countenance. 'It—it isn't—Demme, it isn't so much to amuse you; but when I see a pretty woman, I never can help telling her of it—curse me if I can.' 'And do you often find that your intelligence has the advantage of novelty?' said Laura; an arch smile beginning to dimple her cheek. 'No, 'pon honour,' replied the beau, 'the women are getting so insufferably conceited, they leave one nothing new to tell them.' 'But some gentlemen,' said Laura, 'have the happy talent of saying old things so well, that the want of novelty is not felt.' The moment the words had passed her lips, she perceived, by the gracious smile which they produced, that Mr. Warren had applied them to himself; and the thought of being guilty of such egregious flattery, brought the colour to her face. Any explanation, however, would have been actual rudeness; and while the consciousness of her involuntary duplicity kept her silent, her companion enjoyed her confusion; which, together with the compliment, he interpreted in a way most satisfactory to his vanity, and thankfully repaid with a torrent of praises in his very best style.
So little value did Laura affix to his commendations, that she was beginning to find extreme difficulty in suppressing a yawn, when it occurred to her that it might save her father a journey to Portland Street, if she could detain Mr. Warren till he arrived. Having made an observation, which has been more frequently made than profited by, that most people prefer talking to listening, she engaged her companion in a description of some of the fashionable places of public resort, none of which she had seen; in which he acquitted himself so much to his own satisfaction, that, before they separated, he was convinced that Laura was one of the most penetrating judicious women of his acquaintance; and having before remarked, that, with the help of a little rouge, and a fashionable riding-habit, she would look better in a curricle than any woman in London, he resolved, that if it depended on him, her residence in town should not be a short one. In this laudable resolution, he was confirmed by a consideration of the insolence and extravagance of a certain female, to whose place in his establishment he had some vague idea of advancing Miss Laura, though there was a stateliness about both her and her father, which he suspected might somewhat interfere with his designs in her favour. Soon after the Captain arrived, he took his leave, having no new intelligence to communicate, nor indeed any other purpose in his visit, except that which had been served by his interview with Laura.
As soon as he was gone, Laura went down stairs to beg that Miss Dawkins would accompany her after dinner to the print-shop, to inquire what had been the fate of her picture. More than one person, she was told, had admired it, and expressed a desire to become the owner; but the price had been a formidable obstacle, and it remained unsold.
Almost every evening did Laura, with Mrs. Dawkins or her daughter for an escort, direct her steps to the print-shop, and return from her fruitless walk with fainter and fainter hope.
CHAPTER X
Montague de Courcy had dined tête-à-tête with an old uncle from whom he had no expectations, and was returning home to sup quietly with his mother and sister, when his progress was arrested by a group occupying the whole breadth of the pavement, and he heard a female voice which, though unusually musical, had in it less of entreaty than of command, say, 'Pray, Sir, allow us to pass.' 'Not till I have seen the face that belongs to such a figure,' answered