Self-control: A Novel

De Courcy's manner more than his words recalled a suspicion which she had oftener than once driven from her mind. She was impressed, she scarcely knew why, with a conviction that she was beloved. For some minutes this idea alone filled her thoughts; the next that succeeded was recollection that she ought sincerely to lament a passion which she could not return. It was her duty to be sorry, very sorry indeed, for such an accident; to be otherwise would have argued the most selfish vanity, the most hard-hearted ingratitude towards the best of friends, and the most amiable of mankind. Yet she was not very sorry; it was out of her power to convince herself that she was; so she imputed her philosophy under her misfortune to doubtfulness of its existence. 'But after all,' said she to herself, 'his words could not bear such a construction; and for his manner – who would build any thing upon a manner! While a woman's vanity is so apt to deceive her, what rational creature would give credit to what may owe so much to her own imagination! Besides, did not Mrs De Courcy more than hint that his affections were engaged. Did he not even himself confess to me that they were. And I taxed him with vanity! – Truly, if he could see this ridiculous freak of mine he might very justly retort the charge. And see it he will. What could possess me with my absurd prudery to take offence at his expecting that I, who owe him ten thousand kind offices, should be anxious for his safety? – How could I be so false, so thankless as to say I considered him as a common acquaintance? – The friend of my father, my departed father! the friend who supported him in want, and consoled him in sorrow! No wonder that he seemed shocked! What is so painful to a noble heart as to meet with ingratitude? But he shall never again have reason to think me vain or ungrateful;' and Laura hastened down stairs that she might lose no time in convincing De Courcy that she did not suspect him of being her lover, and highly valued him as a friend. She found him in the drawing-room, pensively resting his forehead against the window sash; and approaching him, spoke some trifle with a smile so winning, so gracious, that De Courcy soon forgot both his wishes and his fears, enjoyed the present, and was happy.

The day of Harriet's marriage arrived; and for once she was grave and silent. She even forgot her bridal finery; and when Laura went to inform her of Mr Bolingbroke's arrival, she found her in the library, sitting on the ground in tears, her head resting on the seat of an old-fashioned elbow chair. She sprang up as Laura entered; and dashing the drops from her eyes, cried, 'I have been trying to grow young again for a few minutes, before I am made an old woman for life. Just there I used to sit when I was a little little thing, and laid my head upon my father's knee; for this was his favourite chair, and there old Rover and I used to lie at his feet together. I'll beg this chair of my mother, for now I love every thing at Norwood.' Laura drew her away, and she forgot the old elbow-chair when she saw the superb diamonds which were lying on her dressing-table. The ceremonial of the wedding was altogether adjusted by Mrs Penelope; and though, in compliance with Mr Bolingbroke's whims, she suffered the ceremony to be privately performed, she invited every creature who could claim kindred with the names of Bolingbroke or De Courcy to meet and welcome the young bride to her home. Mr Bolingbroke having brought a licence, the pair were united at Norwood. Mr Wentworth officiated, and De Courcy gave his sister away. Mrs Bolingbroke's own new barouche, so often beheld in fancy, now really waited to convey her to her future dwelling; but she turned to bid farewell to the domestics who had attended her infancy, and forgot to look at the new barouche.

Mr Bolingbroke was a great man, and could not be allowed to marry quietly. Bonfires were lighted, bells were rung, and a concourse of his tenantry accompanied the carriages which conveyed the party. The admiration of the company whom Mrs Penelope had assembled in honour of the day, was divided between Mrs Bolingbroke's diamonds and her bride-maid; and as the number of each sex was pretty equal, the wonders shared pretty equally.

'Did you ever see any thing so lovely as Miss Montreville?' said Sophia Bolingbroke to the young lady who sat next her. 'I never can think any body pretty who has red hair,' was the reply. 'If her hair be red,' returned Sophia, 'it is the most pardonable red hair in the world, for it is more nearly black. Don't you admire her figure?' 'Not particularly; she is too much of the May-pole for me; besides, who can tell what her figure is when she is so muffled up. I dare say she is stuffed, or she would shew a little more of her skin.' 'She has at least an excellent taste in stuffing, then,' said Sophia, 'for I never saw any thing so elegantly formed.' 'It is easy to see,' said the critic, 'that she thinks herself a beauty by her dressing so affectedly. To-night when every body else is in full dress, do but look at her's!' 'Pure, unadorned, virgin white,' said Miss Bolingbroke, looking at Laura; 'the proper attire of angels!' The name of Miss Montreville had drawn the attention of De Courcy to this dialogue. 'I protest,' cried he to Mr Wentworth, who stood by him. 'Sophy Bolingbroke is the most agreeable plain girl I ever saw.' He then placed himself by her side; and while she continued to praise Laura, gave her credit for all that is most amiable in woman.

The moment he left her she ran to rally Laura upon her conquest. 'I give you joy, my dear,' said she, 'De Courcy is certainly in love with you.' 'Nonsense,' cried Laura, colouring crimson; 'what can make you think so?' 'Why he will talk of nothing but you, and he looked so delighted when I praised you; and paid me more compliments in half an hour than ere I received in my whole life before.' 'If he was so complimentary,' said Laura, smiling, 'it seems more likely that he is in love with you.' 'Ah,' said Sophia, sighing, 'that is not very probable.' 'Full as probable as the other,' answered Laura; and turned away to avoid a subject which she was striving to banish from her thoughts.

During the few days which Laura and the De Courcys spent with the newly-married pair, Miss Bolingbroke's observations served to confirm her opinion; and merely for the pleasure of speaking of Montague, she rallied Laura incessantly on her lover. In weighing credibilities, small weight of testimony turns the scale; and Laura began alternately to wonder what retarded De Courcy's declaration, and to tax herself with vanity in expecting that he would ever make one. She disliked her stay at Orfordhall, and counted the hours till her return to Norwood. De Courcy's attentions she had long placed to the account of a regard which, while she was permitted to give it the name of friendship, she could frankly own that she valued above any earthly possessions. These attentions were now so familiar to her, that they were become almost necessary, and she was vexed at being constantly reminded that she ought to reject them. She had therefore a latent wish to return to a place where she would have a legitimate claim to his kindness, and where at least there would be no one to remind her that she ought to shrink from it. Besides, she was weary of the state and magnificence that surrounded her. While Harriet glided into the use of her finery as if she had been accustomed to it from her cradle, Laura could by no means be reconciled to it. She endured with impatience a meal of three hours long; could not eat while six footmen were staring at her; started, if she thoughtlessly leant her head against the white damask wall; and could not move with ease, where every gesture was repeated in endless looking-glasses. With pleasure, therefore, she saw the day arrive which was to restore her to easy hospitality, and respectable simplicity at Norwood; but that very day she received a summons to attend her aunt at Walbourne.

Unwilling as Laura was to quit her friends, she did not delay to comply with Lady Pelham's requisition. Mrs De Courcy judged it improper to urge her to stay; and Montague in part consoled himself for her departure, by reflecting, that he would now be at liberty to disclose his long-concealed secret. 'No doubt you are at liberty,' said Mrs De Courcy, when he spoke to her of his intentions, 'and I am far from pretending to advise or interfere. But, my dear Montague, you must neither be surprised, nor in despair, if you be at first unsuccessful. Though Laura esteems you, perhaps more than esteems you, she is convinced that she is invulnerable to love; and it may be so, but her fancied security is all in your favour.' Weary of suspense, however, De Courcy often resolved to know his fate; and often went to Walbourne, determined to learn ere he returned, whether a circle of pleasing duties was to fill his after life, or whether it was to be spent alone, 'loveless, joyless, unendeared;' but when he met the friendly smile of Laura, and remembered that, his secret told, it might vanish like the gleaming of a wintry sun, his courage failed, and the intended disclosure was again delayed. Yet his manner grew less and less equivocal, and Laura, unwilling as she was to own the conviction to herself, could scarcely maintain her wilful blindness.

She allowed the subject to occupy the more of her thoughts, because it came disguised in a veil of self-condemnation and humility. Sometimes she repeated to herself, that she should never have known the vanity of her own heart, had it not been visited by so absurd a suspicion; and sometimes that she should never have been acquainted with its selfishness and obduracy, had she not borne with such indifference, the thoughts of what must bring pain and disappointment to so worthy a breast. But, spite of Laura's efforts to be miserable, the subject cost her much more perplexity than distress; and, in wondering whether De Courcy really were her lover, and what could be his motive for concealing it if he were, she often forgot to deplore the consequences of her charms.

Meanwhile Hargrave continued his importunities; and Lady Pelham seconded them with unwearied perseverance. In vain did Laura protest that her indifference was unconquerable; in vain assure him that though a total revolution in his character might regain her esteem, her affection was irrecoverably lost. She could at any time exasperate the proud spirit of Hargrave, till in transports of fury he would abjure her for ever; but a few hours always brought the 'for ever' to an end, and Hargrave back, to supplicate, to importune, and not unfrequently to threaten. Though her unremitting coldness, however, failed to conquer his passion, it by degrees extinguished all of generous or kindly that had ever mingled with the flame; and the wild unholy fire which her beauty kept alive, was blended with the heart-burnings of anger and revenge. From such a passion Laura shrunk with dread and horror. She heard its expressions as superstitution listens to sounds of evil omen; and saw his impassioned glances with the dread of one who meets the eye of the crouching tiger. His increasing jealousy of De Courcy, which testified itself in haughtiness, and even ferocity of behaviour towards him, and Montague's determined though cool resistance of his insolence, kept her in continual alarm. Though she never on any other occasion voluntarily entered Hargrave's presence, yet if De Courcy found him at Walbourne, she would hasten to join them, fearing the consequences of a private interview between two such hostile spirits; and this apparent preference not only aggravated the jealousy of Hargrave, but aroused Lady Pelham's indefatigable spirit of remonstrance. The subject was particularly suited for an episode to her Ladyship's harangues in favour of Hargrave; and she introduced and varied it with a dexterity all her own. She taxed Laura with a passion for De Courcy; and in terms not eminently delicate, reproached her with facility in transferring her regards. While the charge was privately made, it appeared to Laura too groundless to affect her temper. But Lady Pelham, whose whole life might be said to form one grand experiment upon the powers of provocation, took occasion to rally her upon it before some of her companions; hinting not obscurely at the secret which Laura had so religiously kept, and confessed with so much pain. The attempt was partly successful, for Laura was really angry; but she commanded herself so far as to parry the attack, secretly vowing that her candour should never again commit her to the discretion of Lady Pelham.

Sometimes assuming the tone of a tender monitress, Lady Pelham would affect to be seriously convinced that her niece entertained a passion for De Courcy, and treating all Laura's denials as the effect of maiden timidity, would pretend to sympathize in her sufferings, advising her to use her strength of mind to conquer this unfortunate partiality; to transfer her affections from one to whom they appeared valueless to him who sued for them with such interesting perseverance. Above all, she entreated her to avoid the appearance of making advances to a man who probably never bestowed a thought on her in return; thus intimating that Laura's behaviour might bear so provoking a construction. Laura, sometimes irritated, oftener amused by these impertinences, could have endured them with tolerable patience; but they were mere interludes to Lady Pelham's indefatigable chidings on the subject of Hargrave. These were continued with a zeal and industry worthy of better success. And yet they could not be said to be wholly unsuccessful, while, though they could not persuade, they could torment. In vain did Laura recount the reasons which, even amidst the utmost strength of inclination, would have deterred her from a connection with a person of Hargrave's character. To reason with Lady Pelham was a labour at once severe and unavailing. She was so dexterous in the use of indefinite language, so practised in every art of shift and evasion, that the strongest argument failed to conquer; or if forced from her ground, she on the next occasion occupied it again, just as if she had always maintained it undisputed. Remonstrance and entreaty were not more successful. In defiance of both, Lady Pelham continued to ring endless changes on the same endless theme, till Laura's patience would have failed her, had she not been consoled by reflecting that the time now drew near when the payment of her annuity would enable her to escape from her unwearied persecutors. She heartily wished, however, that a change of system might make her residence with Lady Pelham endurable; for strong as was her attachment to Mrs Douglas, it was no longer her only friendship; and she could not without pain think of quitting, perhaps for ever, her valued friends at Norwood.

Winter advanced; Lady Pelham began to talk of her removal to town; and Laura was not without hopes, that when removed to a distance from Hargrave, her aunt would remit somewhat of her diligence in his cause. Laura expected that his duty would generally confine him to head-quarters, and she hoped to find in his absence a respite from one half of her plague. At all events, from London she thought she could easily procure an escort to Scotland, and she was determined rather finally to forfeit the protection of Lady Pelham, than submit to such annoyance as she had of late endured. Laura could not help wondering sometimes that her aunt, while she appeared so anxious to promote the success of Hargrave, should meditate a step which would place him at a distance from the object of his pursuit; but Lady Pelham's conduct was so generally inconsistent, that Laura was weary of trying to reconcile its contradictories. She endeavoured to hope that Lady Pelham, at last becoming sensible of the inefficacy of her efforts, was herself growing desirous to escape the Colonel's importunity; and she thought she could observe, that as the time of their departure approached, her Ladyship relaxed somewhat of her industry in teazing.

But the motives of Lady Pelham's removal did not at all coincide with her niece's hopes; and nothing could be further from her intention, than to resign her labours in a field so rich in controversy and provocation. She imagined that Laura's obstinacy was occasioned, or at least strengthened by the influence of the De Courcys, and she expected that a more general acquaintance with the world would remove her prejudices. At Walbourne, Laura, if offended, could always take refuge with Mrs De Courcy. In London, she would be more defenceless. At Walbourne, Lady Pelham acted under restraint, for there were few objects to divide with her the observation of her neighbours, and she felt herself accountable to them for the propriety of her conduct; but she would be more at liberty in a place where, each immersed in his own business or pleasure, no one had leisure to comment on the concerns of others. She knew that Hargrave would find means to escape the duty of remaining with his regiment, and indeed had concerted with him the whole plan of her operations.

Meanwhile Laura, altogether unsuspicious of their designs, gladly prepared for her journey, considering it as a fortunate instance of the instability of Lady Pelham's purposes. She paid a parting visit to Mrs Bolingbroke, whom she found established in quiet possession of all the goods of fortune. By the aid of Mrs De Courcy's carriage, she contrived, without molestation from Hargrave, to spend much of her time at Norwood, where she was always received with a kindness the most flattering, and loaded with testimonies of regard. De Courcy still kept his secret; and Laura's suspicions rather diminished when she considered that, though he knew she was to go without any certainty of returning, he suffered numberless opportunities to pass without breathing a syllable of love.

The day preceding that which was fixed for the journey arrived; and Laura begged Lady Pelham's permission to spend it entirely with Mrs De Courcy. Lady Pelham was rather unwilling to consent, for she remembered that her last excursion had been rendered abortive by a visit to Norwood; but, flattering herself that her present scheme was secure from hazard of failure, she assumed an accommodating humour, and not only permitted Laura to go but allowed the carriage to convey her, stipulating that she should return it immediately, and walk home in the evening. She found the De Courcys alone, and passed the day less cheerfully than any she had ever spent at Norwood. Mrs De Courcy, though kind, was grave and thoughtful; Montague absent, and melancholy. Harriet's never-failing spirits no longer enlivened the party, and her place was but feebly supplied by the infantine gaiety of De Courcy's little protegé Henry. This child, who was the toy of all his patron's leisure hours, had, during her visits to Norwood, become particularly interesting to Laura. His quickness, his uncommon beauty, his engaging frankness, above all, the innocent fondness which he shewed for her, had really attached her to him, and he repaid her with all the affections of his little heart. He would quit his toys to hang upon her; and, though at other times, as restless as any of his kind, was never weary of sitting quietly on her knee, clasping her snowy neck in his little sun-burnt arms. His prattle agreeably interrupted the taciturnity into which the little party were falling, till his grandfather came to take him away. 'Kiss your hand Henry, and bid Miss Montreville farewell,' said the old man as he was about to take him from Laura's arms. 'It will be a long time before you see her again.' 'Are you going away?' said the child, looking sorrowfully in Laura's face. 'Yes, far away,' answered Laura. 'Then Henry will go with you, Henry's dear pretty lady.' 'No no,' said his grandfather. 'You must go to your mammy; good boys love their mammies best.' 'Then you ought to be Henry's mammy,' cried the child, sobbing, and locking his arms round Laura's neck, 'for Henry loves you best.' 'My dear boy!' cried Laura, kissing him with a smile that half-consented to his wish; but, happening to turn her eye towards De Courcy, she saw him change colour, and, with an abruptness unlike his usual manner, he snatched the boy from her arms, and, regardless of his cries, dismissed him from the room.

This little incident did not contribute to the cheerfulness of the group. Grieved to part with her favourite, and puzzled to account for De Courcy's behaviour, Laura was now the most silent of the trio. She saw nothing in the childish expression of fondness which should have moved De Courcy; yet it had evidently stung him with sudden uneasiness. She now recollected that she had more than once inquired who were the parents of this child, and that the question had always been evaded. A motive of curiosity prompted her now to repeat her inquiry, and she addressed it to Mrs De Courcy. With a slight shade of embarrassment Mrs De Courcy answered, 'His mother was the only child of our old servant; a pretty, meek-spirited, unfortunate girl; and his father' – 'His father's crimes,' interrupted De Courcy, hastily, 'have brought their own punishment; a punishment beyond mortal fortitude to bear;' – and, catching up a book, he asked Laura whether she had seen it, endeavouring to divert her attention by pointing out some passages to her notice. Laura's curiosity was increased by this appearance of concealment, but she had no means of gratifying it, and the subject vanished from her mind when she thought of bidding farewell to her beloved friends, perhaps for ever.

When she was about to go, Mrs De Courcy affectionately embraced her. 'My dear child,' said she, 'second in my love and esteem only to my own Montague, almost the warmest wish of my heart is to retain you always with me; but, if that is impossible, short may your absence be, and may you return to us as joyfully as we shall receive you.' Weeping, and reluctant to part, Laura at last tore herself away. Hargrave had so often stolen upon her walks that the fear of meeting him was become habitual to her, and she wished to escape him by reaching home before her return could be expected. As she leant on De Courcy's arms, ashamed of being unable to suppress her sensibility, she averted her head, and looked sadly back upon a dwelling endeared to her by many an innocent, many a rational pleasure.

Absorbed in her regrets, Laura had proceeded a considerable way before she observed that she held a trembling arm; and recollected that De Courcy had scarcely spoken since their walk began. Her tears ceased suddenly, while confused and disquieted, she quickened her pace. Soon recollecting herself, she stopped; and thanking him for his escort, begged that he would go no further. 'I cannot leave you yet,' said De Courcy in a voice of restrained emotion, and again he led her onwards. A few short sentences were all that passed till they had almost reached the antique gate which terminated the winding part of the avenue. Here Laura again endeavoured to prevail upon her companion to return, but without success. With more composure than before, he refused to leave her. Dreading to encounter Hargrave while De Courcy was in such evident agitation, she besought him to go, telling him that it was her particular wish that he should proceed no farther. He instantly stopped, and, clasping her hand between his, 'Must I then leave you, Laura,' said he; 'you whose presence has so long been the charm of my existence!' The blood rushed violently into Laura's face, and as suddenly retired. 'And can I,' continued De Courcy, 'can I suffer you to go without pouring out my full heart to you?' Laura breathed painfully, and she pressed her hand upon her bosom to restrain its swelling. 'To talk to you of passion,' resumed De Courcy, 'is nothing. You have twined yourself with every wish and every employment, every motive, every hope, till to part with you is tearing my heart-strings.' Again he paused. Laura felt that she was expected to reply, and, though trembling and breathless, made an effort to speak. 'This is what I feared,' said she, 'and yet I wish you had been less explicit, for there is no human being whose friendship is so dear to me as yours; and now I fear I ought' – The sob which had been struggling in her breast now choked her utterance, and she wept aloud. 'It is the will of heaven,' said she, 'that I should be reft of every earthly friend.' She covered her face and stood labouring to compose herself; while, heart-struck with a disappointment which was not mitigated by all the gentleness with which it was conveyed, De Courcy was unable to break the silence.