Self-control: A Novel

As soon as Hargrave was gone, Montreville returned to his chamber; and there Laura ordered his small but delicate repast to be served, excusing herself from partaking of it, by saying that she could dine more conveniently in the parlour. Having in the morning bestowed on the beggar the meagre fare that should have supplied her own wants, she employed the time of her father's meal, in the labour which was to purchase him another; pondering meanwhile on the probability that he would again enter on the discussion of Hargrave's pretensions. To this subject she felt unconquerable repugnance; and though she knew that it must at last be canvassed, and that she must at last assign a reason for her conduct, she would fain have put off the evil hour.

She delayed her evening visit to her father, till he grew impatient for it, and sent for her to his apartment. The moment she entered the room, he began, as she had anticipated, to inquire into the particulars of her interview with Hargrave. The language of Laura's reply was not very perspicuous; the manner of it was more intelligible: and Montreville, instantly comprehended the nature of her conference with the Colonel. 'He has then given you an opportunity of repairing your former rashness,' said Montreville, with eagerness, – 'and your answer?' 'Colonel Hargrave had his answer long ago, Sir', replied Laura, trembling at this exordium. Montreville sighed heavily, and, fixing his eyes mournfully upon her, remained silent. At last, affectionately taking her hand, he said, 'My dear child, the time has been, when even your caprices on this subject were sacred with your father. While I had a shelter, however humble – an independence, however small, to offer you, your bare inclination determined mine. But now your situation is changed – fatally changed; and no trivial reasons would excuse me for permitting your rejection of an alliance so unexceptionable, so splendid. Tell me, then, explicitly, what are your objections to Colonel Hargrave?'

Laura remained silent, for she knew not how to frame her reply. 'Is it possible that he can be personally disagreeable to you?' continued Montreville. 'Disagreeable!' exclaimed Laura, thrown off her guard by astonishment. 'Colonel Hargrave is one whom any woman might – whom no woman could know without – ' 'Without what?' said Montreville, with a delighted smile. But Laura, shocked at the extent of her own admission, covered her face with her hands, and almost in tears, made no reply.

'Well, my love,' said Montreville, more cheerfully than he had spoken for many a day. 'I can interpret all this, and will not persecute you. But you must still suffer me to ask what strange reasons could induce you to reject wealth and title, offered by a man not absolutely disagreeable?' Laura strove to recollect herself, and deep crimson dying her beautiful face and neck, she said without venturing to lift her eyes, 'You yourself have told me, Sir, that Colonel Hargrave is a man of gallantry, and, believe me, with such a man I should be most miserable.'

'Come, come, Laura,' said Montreville, putting his arm around her, 'confess, that some little fit of jealousy made you answer Hargrave unkindly at first, and that now a little female pride, or the obstinacy of which we used to accuse you fifteen years ago, makes you unwilling to retract.'

'No, indeed,' returned Laura, with emotion, 'Colonel Hargrave has never given me cause to be jealous of his affection. But jealousy would feebly express the anguish with which his wife would behold his vices, degrading him in the eyes of men, and making him vile in the sight of Heaven.'

'My love,' said Montreville, 'your simplicity and ignorance of the world make you attach far too great importance to Hargrave's little irregularities. I am persuaded that a wife whom he loved would have no cause to complain of them.'

'She would at least have no right to complain,' returned Laura, 'if, knowing them, she chose to make the hazardous experiment.'

'But I am certain,' said Montreville, 'that a passion such as he evidently feels for you, would ensure his perfect reformation; and that a heart so warm as Hargrave's, would readily acknowledge all the claims upon a husband's and a father's love.'

Laura held down her head, and, for a moment, surrendered her fancy to prospects, rainbow-like, bright but unreal. Spite of the dictates of sober sense, the vision was cheering; and a smile dimpled her cheek while she said, 'But since this reformation is so easy and so certain, would it be a grievous delay to wait for its appearance.'

'Ah Laura!' Montreville began, 'this is no time for – ' 'Nay, now,' interrupted Laura, sportively laying her hand upon his mouth, 'positively I will be no more lectured tonight. Besides I have got a new book for you from the library, and the people insisted upon having it returned to-morrow.' 'You are a spoiled girl,' said Montreville, fondly caressing her, and he dropped the subject with the less reluctance, because he believed that his wishes, aided as he perceived they were, by an advocate in Laura's own breast, were in a fair train for accomplishment. He little knew how feeble was the influence of inclination over the decisions of her self-controlling spirit.

To prevent him from returning to the topic he had quitted, she read aloud to him till his hour of rest; and then retired to her chamber to labour as formerly, till the morning was far advanced.

CHAPTER XVII

Laura had it now in her power to discharge her debt to the surgeon, and she was resolved that it should immediately be paid. When, therefore, he called in the morning to make his daily visit, she met him before he entered Montreville's chamber, and requested to speak with him in the parlour.

She began by saying, she feared that medicine could be of little use to her father, to which Dr Flint readily assented, declaring, in his dry way, that generous food and open air would benefit him more than all the drugs in London. Laura begged him to say explicitly so to the Captain, and to give that as a reason for declining to make him any more professional visits. She then presented him a paper containing four guineas, which she thought might be the amount of his claim. He took the paper, and deliberately unfolding it, returned one-half of its contents; saying, that his account had been settled so lately, that the new one could not amount to more than the sum he retained. Laura, who having now no favour to beg, no debt that she was unable to pay, was no longer ashamed of her poverty, easily opened to Dr Flint so much of her situation as was necessary to instruct him in the part he had to act with Montreville. He made no offer to continue his visits, even as an acquaintance, but readily undertook all that Laura required of him, adding, 'Indeed, Miss Montreville, I should have told your father long ago that physic was useless to him, but whimsical people must have something to amuse them, and if he had not paid for my pills, he would for some other man's.' He then went to Montreville, and finding him in better spirits than he had lately enjoyed, actually succeeded in persuading him, for that day at least, that no new prescription was necessary, and that he could continue to use the old without the inspection of a surgeon.

Laura's mind was much relieved by her having settled this affair to her wish; and when the Doctor was gone, she sat down cheerfully to her drawing. Her meeting with Hargrave had lightened her heart of a load which had long weighed upon it more heavily than she was willing to allow; and, spite of poverty, she was cheerful. 'I have now only hunger and toil to endure,' thought she, smiling as gaily as if hunger and toil had been trifles; 'but light will be my labours, for by them I can in part pay back my debt of life to my dear kind father. I am no more forlorn and deserted, for he is come who is sunshine to Laura's soul. The cloud that darkened him has passed away, and he will brighten all my after life. Oh fondly beloved! with thee I would have been content to tread the humblest path; but, if we must climb the steeps, together we will court the breeze, together meet the storm. No time shall change the love I bear thee. Thy step, when feeble with age, shall still be music to Laura's ear. When the lustre of the melting eyes is quenched, when the auburn ringlet fades to silver, dearer shalt thou be to me than in all the pride of manly beauty. And when at last the dust shall cover us, one tree shall shelter our narrow beds, and the wind that fans the flowers upon thy grave, shall scatter their fallen leaves upon mine.'

Casting these thoughts into the wild extempore measures which are familiar to the labourers of her native mountains,1 Laura was singing them to one of the affecting melodies of her country, her sweet voice made more sweet by the magic of real tenderness, when the door opened, and Hargrave himself entered.

He came, resolved to exert all his influence, to urge every plea which the affection of Laura would allow him, in order to extort her consent to their immediate union; and he was too well convinced of his power to be very diffident of success. Laura ceased her song in as much confusion as if her visitor had understood the language in which it was composed, or could have known himself to be the subject of it. He had been listening to its close, and now urged her to continue it, but was unable to prevail. He knew that she was particularly sensible to the charms of music. He had often witnessed the effect of her own pathetic voice upon her feelings; and he judged that no introduction could be more proper to a conference in which he intended to work on her sensibility. He therefore begged her to sing a little plaintive air with which she had often drawn tears from his eyes. But Laura knew that, as her father was still in bed, she could not without rudeness avoid a long tête à tête with Hargrave, and therefore she did not choose to put her composure to any unnecessary test. She excused herself from complying with his request, but glad to find any indifferent way to pass the time, she offered to sing, if he would allow her to choose her own song, and then began a lively air, which she executed with all the vivacity that she could command. The style of it was quite at variance with Hargrave's present humour and design. He heard it with impatience; and scarcely thanking her said, 'Your spirits are high this morning, Miss Montreville.'

'They are indeed,' replied Laura, gaily, 'I hope you have no intention to make them otherwise.'

'Certainly not; though they are little in unison with my own. The meditations of a restless, miserable night, have brought me to you.'

'Is it the usual effect of a restless night to bring you abroad so early the next morning?' said Laura, anxious to avoid a trial of strength in a sentimental conference.

'I will be heard seriously,' said Hargrave, colouring with anger, 'and seriously too I must be answered.'

'Nay,' said Laura, 'if you look so tremendous I shall retreat without hearing you at all.'

Hargrave, who instantly saw that he had not chosen the right road to victory, checked his rising choler – 'Laura,' said he, 'you have yourself made me the victim of a passion ungovernable – irresistible; and it is cruel – it is ungenerous in you to sport with my uneasiness.'

'Do not give the poor passion such hard names,' said Laura, smiling. 'Perhaps you have never tried to resist or govern it.'

'As soon might I govern the wind,' cried Hargrave, vehemently, – 'as soon resist the fires of Heaven. And why attempt to govern it?'

'Because,' answered Laura, 'it is weak, it is sinful, to submit unresisting to the bondage of an imperious passion.'

'Would that you too would submit unresisting to its bondage!' said Hargrave, delighted to have made her once more serious. 'But if this passion is sinful,' continued he, 'my reformation rests with you alone. Put a period to my lingering trial. Consent to be mine, and hush all these tumults to rest.'

'Take care how you furnish me with arguments against yourself,' returned Laura, laughing. 'Would it be my interest, think you, to lull all these transports to such profound repose?'

'Be serious Laura, I implore you. Well do you know that my love can end only with my existence, but I should no longer be distracted with these tumultuous hopes and fears if – ' 'Oh,' cried Laura, interrupting him, 'hope is too pleasing a companion for you to wish to part with that; and,' added she, a smile and a blush contending upon her cheek, 'I begin to believe that your fears are not very troublesome.' 'Ah Laura,' said Hargrave sorrowfully, 'you know not what you say. There are moments when I feel as if you were already lost to me – and the bare thought is distraction. Oh if you have pity for real suffering,' continued he, dropping on his knees, 'save me from the dread of losing you; forget the hour of madness in which I offended you. Restore to me the time when you owned that I was dear to you. Be yet more generous, and give me immediate, unalienable right to your love.'

'You forget, Colonel Hargrave,' said Laura, again taking sanctuary in an appearance of coldness; 'you forget that six months ago I fixed two years of rectitude as the test of your repentance, and that you were then satisfied with my decision.'

'I would then have blessed you for any sentence that left me a hope, however distant; but now the time when I may claim your promise seems at such a hopeless distance – Oh Laura, let me but prevail with you; and I will bind myself by the most solemn oaths to a life of unsullied purity.'

'No oaths,' replied Laura with solemnity, 'can strengthen the ties that already bind you to a life of purity. That you are of noble rank, calls you to be an example to others; and the yet higher distinction of an immortal spirit bids you strive after virtues that may never meet the eye of man. Only convince me that such are the objects of your ambition, and I shall no longer fear to trust with you my improvement and my happiness.'

As she spoke unusual animation sparkled in her eyes, and tinged her delicate cheek with brighter colouring. 'Lovely, lovely creature!' cried Hargrave, in transport, 'give but thyself to these fond arms, and may Heaven forsake me if I strive not to make thee blest beyond the sweetest dreams of youthful fancy.'

'Alas!' said Laura, 'even your affection would fail to bless a heart conscious of acting wrong.'

'Where is the wrong,' said Hargrave, gathering hope from the relenting tenderness of her voice, 'Where is the wrong of yielding to the strongest impulse of nature – or, to speak in language more like your own, where is the guilt of submitting to an ordinance of Heaven's own appointment?'

'Why,' replied Laura, 'will you force me to say what seems unkind? Why compel me to remind you that marriage was never meant to sanction the unholy connection of those whose principles are discordant?'

'Beloved of my heart,' said Hargrave, passionately kissing her hand, 'take me to thyself, and mould me as thou wilt. I swear to thee that not even thine own life shall be more pure, more innocent than mine. Blest in thy love, what meaner pleasure could allure me. Oh yield then, and bind me for ever to virtue and to thee.'

Laura shook her head. 'Ah Hargrave,' said she, with a heavy sigh, 'before you can love and practice the purity which reaches the heart, far other loves must warm, far other motives inspire you.'

'No other love can ever have such power over me,' said Hargrave with energy. 'Be but thou and thy matchless beauty the prize, and every difficulty is light, every sacrifice trivial.'

'In little more than a year,' said Laura, 'I shall perhaps ask some proofs of the influence you ascribe to me; but till then' —

'Long, long before that time,' cried Hargrave, striking his forehead in agony, 'you will be lost to me for ever,' and he paced the room in seeming despair. Laura looked at him with a pity not unmixed with surprise. 'Hear me for a moment,' said she, with the soothing voice and gentle aspect, which had always the mastery of Hargrave's feelings, and he was instantly at her side, listening with eagerness to every tone that she uttered, intent on every variation of her countenance.

'There are circumstances,' she continued, her transparent cheek glowing with bright beauty, tears in her downcast eyes trembling through the silken lashes – 'There are circumstances that may change me, but time and absence are not of the number. Be but true to yourself, and you have nothing to fear. After this assurance, I trust it will give you little pain to hear that, till the stipulated two years are ended, if we are to meet, it must not be without witnesses.'

'Good Heavens! Laura, why this new, this intolerable restriction – What can induce you thus wilfully to torment me?'

'Because,' answered the blushing Laura, with all her natural simplicity, 'because I might not always be able to listen to reason and duty rather than to you.'

'Oh that I could fill thee with a love that should for ever silence the cold voice of reason!' cried Hargrave, transported by her confession; and, no longer master of himself, he would have clasped her in his arms. But Laura, to whose mind his caresses ever recalled a dark page in her story, recoiled as from pollution, the glow of ingenuous modesty giving place to the paleness of terror.

No words envenomed with the bitterest malice, could have stung Hargrave to such frenzy as the look and the shudder with which Laura drew back from his embrace. His eyes flashing fire, his pale lips quivering with passion, he reproached her with perfidy and deceit; accused her of veiling her real aversion under the mask of prudence and principle; and execrated his own folly in submitting so long to be the sport of a cold-hearted, tyrannical, obdurate woman. Laura stood for some minutes gazing on him with calm compassion. But displeased at his groundless accusations, she disdained to soothe his rage. At last, wearied of language which, for the present, expressed much more of hatred than of love, she quietly moved towards the door. 'I see you can be very calm, Madam,' said Hargrave, stopping her, 'and I can be as calm as yourself,' added he, with a smile like a moon-beam on a thunder cloud, making the gloom more fearful.

'I hope you soon will be so,' replied Laura coldly. 'I am so now,' said Hargrave, his voice half-choked with the effort to suppress his passion. 'I will but stay to take leave of your father, and then free you for ever from one so odious to you.'

'That must be as you please, Sir,' said Laura, with spirit; 'but, for the present, I must be excused from attending you.' She then retired to her own chamber, which immediately adjoined the painting-room; and with tears reflected on the faint prospects of happiness that remained for the wife of a man whose passions were so ungovernable. Even the ardour of his love, for which vanity would have found ready excuse in many a female breast, was to Laura subject of unfeigned regret, as excluding him from the dominion of better motives, and the pursuit of nobler ends.

Hargrave was no sooner left to himself than his fury began to evaporate. In a few minutes he was perfectly collected, and the first act of his returning reason was to upbraid him with his treatment of Laura. 'Is it to be wondered that she shrinks from me,' said he, the tears of self-reproach rising to his eyes, 'when I make her the sport of all my frantic passions? But she shall never again have cause to complain of me – let but her love this once excuse me, and henceforth I will treat her with gentleness like her own.'

There is no time in the life of a man so tedious, as that which passes between the resolution to repair a wrong, and the opportunity to make the reparation. Hargrave wondered whether Laura would return to conduct him to her father; feared that she would not – hoped that she would – thought he heard her footstep – listened – sighed – and tried to beguile the time by turning over her drawings.

Almost the first that met his eye, was a sketch of features well known to him. He started and turned pale. He sought for a name upon the reverse; there was none, and he again breathed more freely. 'This must be accident,' said he; 'De Courcy is far from London – yet it is very like;' and he longed more than ever for Laura's appearance. He sought refuge from his impatience in a book which lay upon the table. It was the Pleasures of Hope, and marked in many parts of the margins with a pencil. One of the passages so marked was that which begins,

'Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought'Some cottage home, from towns and toil remote,'Where love and lore may claim alternate hours,' &c.

And Hargrave surrendered himself to the pleasing dream that Laura had thought of him, while she approved the lines. 'Her name, written by her own snowy fingers, may be here,' said he, and he turned to the title-page, that he might press it, with a lover's folly, to his lips – The title-page was inscribed with the name of Montague De Courcy.

The glance of the basilisk was not more powerful. Motionless he gazed on the words, till all the fiends of jealousy taking possession of his soul, he furiously dashed the book upon the ground 'False, false siren,' he cried, 'is this the cause of all your coldness – your loathing?' And without any wish but to exclude her for ever from his sight, he rushed like a madman out of the house.

He darted forward, regardless of the snow that was falling on his uncovered head, till it suddenly occurred to him that he would not suffer her to triumph in the belief of having deceived him. 'No,' cried he, 'I will once more see that deceitful face; reproach her with her treachery; enjoy her confusion, and then spurn her from me for ever.'

He returned precipitately to the house; and, flying up stairs, saw Laura, the traces of melancholy reflection on her countenance, waiting for admission at her father's door. 'Madam', said he, in a voice scarcely articulate, 'I must speak with you for a few minutes.' 'Not for a moment, Sir,' said Laura, laying her hand upon the lock. 'Yes, by Heaven, you shall hear me,' cried Hargrave; and rudely seizing her, he forced her into the painting-room, and bolted the door.

'Answer me,' said he fiercely, 'how came that book into your possession?' pointing to it as it still lay upon the floor. 'When have you this infernal likeness? Speak!'

Laura looked at the drawing, then at the book, and at once understood the cause of her lover's frenzy. Sincere compassion filled her heart; yet she felt how unjust was the treatment which she received; and, with calm dignity, said, 'I will answer all your questions, and then you will judge whether you have deserved that I should do so.'

'Whom would not that face deceive?' said Hargrave, gnashing his teeth in agony. 'Speak sorceress – tell me, if you dare, that this is not the portrait of De Courcy – that he is not the lover for whom I am loathed and spurned.'

'That is the portrait of De Courcy,' replied Laura, with the simple majesty of truth. 'It is the sketch from which I finished a picture for his sister. That book too is his,' and she stooped to lift it from the ground. 'Touch not the vile thing,' cried Hargrave in a voice of thunder. With quiet self-possession, Laura continued, 'Mr De Courcy's father was, as you know, the friend of mine. Mr De Courcy himself was, when an infant, known to my father; and they met, providentially met, when we had great need of a considerate friend. That friend Mr De Courcy was to us, and no selfish motive sullied his benevolence; for he is not, nor ever was, nor, I trust, ever will be, known to me as a lover!'

The voice of sober truth had its effect upon Hargrave, and he said, more composedly, 'Will you then give me your word, that De Courcy is not, nor ever will be, dear to you?'

'No!' answered Laura, 'I will not say so, for he must be loved wherever his virtues are known; but I have no regard for him that should disquiet you. It is not such,' continued she, struggling with the rising tears – 'it is not such as would pardon outrage, and withstand neglect, and humble itself before unjust aspersion.'

'Oh Laura,' said Hargrave, at once convinced and softened, 'I must believe you, or my heart will burst.'

'I have a right to be believed,' returned Laura, endeavouring to rally her spirits. 'Now, then, release me, after convincing me that the passion of which you boast so much, is consistent with the most insolent disrespect, the most unfounded suspicion.' But Hargrave was again at her feet, exhausting every term of endearment, and breathing forth the most fervent petitions for forgiveness.