Warren now began to suspect that De Courcy was the cause of Laura's contemptuous reception of his addresses, and, enraged at his interference, yet overawed by his manly appearance and decided manner, became sullen, and refused to answer Montague's expostulations. Nothing remained to be done, and De Courcy was obliged to communicate to Montreville the ill success of his negotiations.

Bereft of all hope of obtaining justice, which he had not the means to enforce, Montreville became more anxiously desirous to regain such a degree of health as might enable him to return home. In his present state, such a journey was impracticable, and he was convinced, that while he remained pent up in the polluted air of the city, his recovery could advance but slowly. Some weeks must at all events elapse before he could be in a condition to travel; and to accommodate his funds to this prolonged demand upon them, he saw that he must have recourse to some scheme of economy yet more humble than that which he had adopted.

He hoped, if he could recover strength sufficient for the search, to find in the suburbs some abode of purer air, and still more moderate expense than his present habitation. The former only of these motives he mentioned to De Courcy; for though Montreville did not affect to be rich, he never spoke of his poverty. Various circ.u.mstances, however, had led De Courcy to guess at his friend's pecuniary embarra.s.sment; and he too had a motive which he did not avow, in the offer which he made to secure a more healthful residence for Montreville.

Unwilling to describe the humble accommodation with which he meant to content himself, or the limited price which he could afford to offer for it, Montreville at first refused De Courcy's services; but they were pressed upon him with such warmth, that he was obliged to submit, and Montague lost no time in fulfilling his commission.

He soon discovered a situation that promised comfort. It was in the outskirts of the town, a small flower-garden belonged to the house, the apartments were airy and commodious, the furniture was handsome, and the whole most finically neat. The rent, however, exceeded that of Montreville's present lodgings; and De Courcy knew that this objection would be insurmountable. That Laura should submit to the inelegancies of a mean habitation, was what he could not bear to think of; and he determined, by a friendly little artifice, to reconcile Montreville's comfort with his economy. The surgeon had named two or three weeks as the time likely to elapse before Montreville could commence his journey.

De Courcy paid in advance above half the rent of the apartments for a month, charging the landlady to keep the real rent a secret from her lodgers.

As far as the author of these memoirs has been able to learn, this was the only artifice that ever Montague De Courcy practised in his life; and it led, as artifices are wont to do, to consequences which the contriver neither wished nor foresaw.

Much to his satisfaction, Montreville was soon settled in his new abode, where De Courcy continued to be his daily visitor. A certain delicacy prevented Laura from endeavouring to procure a reversal of her father's decree, issued in a moment of peevishness, that she should paint no more with a view to pecuniary reward. She felt that he had been wrong, and she shrunk from reminding him of it, till her labours should again become necessary. But, desirous to convey to Mrs De Courcy some token of her remembrance and grat.i.tude, she employed some of the hours which Montague spent with her father, in labouring a picture which she intended to send to Norwood. The subject was the choice of Hercules; and to make her gift the more acceptable, she presented in the hero a picture of De Courcy, while the form and countenance of Virtue, were copied from the simple majesty of her own. The figure of Pleasure was a fancied one, and it cost the fair artist unspeakable labour. She could not pourtray what she would have shrunk from beholding--a female voluptuary. Her draperies were always designed with the most chastened decency; and, after all her toil, even the form of Pleasure came sober and matronly from the hand of Laura.

Designing a little surprise for her friends, she had never mentioned this picture to De Courcy; and as she daily stole some of the hours of his visits to bestow upon it, it advanced rapidly. Montague bore these absences with impatience; but Montreville, who knew how Laura was employed, took no notice of them, and De Courcy durst not complain.

Three weeks had glided away since Montreville's removal to his new lodgings, and he remained as much as ever anxious, and as much as ever unable to guess the reason which induced De Courcy to conceal a pa.s.sion which evidently increased every day. He recollected that Montague had of late never met Laura but in his presence, and he thought it natural that the lover should wish to make his first application to his mistress herself. He had an idea, that the picture might be made to a.s.sist the denouement which he so ardently desired; and with this view he privately gave orders that when next Mr De Courcy came he should be ushered into the painting-room, which he knew would be empty, as Laura never quitted him till De Courcy arrived to take her place.

Next morning accordingly Montague was shewn into the room which he had himself destined for Laura, and, for that reason, supplied with many little luxuries which belonged not to its original furniture. He looked round with delight on the marks of her recent presence. There lay her book open as she had quitted it, and the pencil with which she had marked the margin. It was one which he himself had recommended, and he thought it should ever be dear to him. On a table lay her port-folio and drawing materials: in a corner stood her easel with the picture, over which was thrown a shawl which he had seen her wear.

Not conceiving that she could have any desire to conceal her work, he approached it, and, raising the cover, stood for a moment motionless with surprise. The next, a thousand sensations, vague but delightful, darted through his mind; but before he could give a shape or distinctness to any one of them, the step approached that ever aroused De Courcy to eager expectation, and letting drop the shawl, he flew towards the door to receive Laura.

With rapture in his eyes, but confusion on his tongue, De Courcy paid his compliments, and again turned towards the picture. Laura sprung forward to prevent him from raising the covering. 'Is this forbidden, then?' said he. 'Oh yes, indeed,' said Laura, blushing, 'you must not look at it.' 'Can you be so mischievous,' cried De Courcy, a delighted smile playing on his countenance, 'as to refuse me such a pleasure?' 'I am sure,' said Laura, blushing again, and still more deeply, 'it could give you no pleasure in its present state.' 'And I am sure,' said De Courcy, ardently, 'it would give me more than I have language to express.'

De Courcy's eagerness, and the consciousness of her own confusion, made Laura now more unwilling that Montague should discover the cause of both to be his own portrait, and actually trembling with emotion, she said, putting her hand on the shawl to prevent him from raising it, 'Indeed I cannot shew you this. There is my port-folio--look at any thing but this.' 'And what inference may I draw as to the subject of a picture that Miss Montreville will not shew to the most partial--the most devoted of her friends?' 'Any inference,' replied Laura, still holding the shawl, 'that friendship or charity will permit.' 'And must I not remove this perverse little hand?' said De Courcy, laying his upon it; for all prudence was forgotten in his present emotion. Laura, a little offended at his perseverance, gravely withdrew her hand, and turned away, saying, 'Since my wishes have no power, I shall make no other trial of strength.' 'No power!' cried De Courcy, following her, 'they have more force than a thousand arms.' 'Well,' said Laura, a little surprised by his manner, but turning upon him a smile of gracious reconciliation, 'your forbearance may hereafter be rewarded by a sight of this important picture; but lest you should forfeit your recompense, had we not better remove from temptation?'

She then led the way to the parlour, and De Courcy followed her in a state of agitation that could not be concealed. He was absent and restless. He often changed colour, seemed scarce sensible of what was addressed to him, or began to reply, and the unfinished sentence died upon his lips. At last, starting up, he pleaded sudden indisposition, and was hurrying away. 'Do not go away ill and alone,' said Laura, kindly detaining him. 'Walk round the garden--the fresh air will relieve you.' 'No air will relieve me!' said De Courcy, in a voice of wretchedness. 'What then can we do for you?' said Laura, with affectionate earnestness. 'What can _you_ do for me!' cried De Courcy, 'Oh nothing, nothing but suffer me to go, while yet I have the power.'

He then wrung Montreville's hand, and uttering something which his emotion made inarticulate, without venturing a glance towards Laura, he quitted the house, and returned home in a state bordering on distraction.

He shut himself up in his chamber to consider of his situation, if that can be called consideration, which was but a conflict of tumultuous feeling. That Laura should have painted his portrait in a group where it held such a relation to her own; that she should keep it concealed in an apartment exclusively appropriated to herself; her alarm lest he should examine it; her confusion, which had at last risen to the most distressing height, from the idea of what De Courcy might infer, should he discover that his own portrait was the cause of so many blushes; the confiding affectionate matter in which she treated him,--all conspired to mislead De Courcy. He felt a conviction that he was beloved, and, in spite of himself, the thought was rapture.

But what availed this discovery? Could he forget the justice of his sister's claims, sacrifice to his selfish wishes the comfort of his mother, or wed his half-worshipped Laura to the distresses of an embarra.s.sed fortune? 'Oh no,' he cried, 'let not my pa.s.sions involve in disaster all that I love.'

Or could he lay open to Laura his feelings and his situation, and sue for her love, even while their union must be delayed. Her attachment, he thought, was yet in its infancy, born of grat.i.tude, fostered by separation from other society, and, for the present, pleasing in its sensations, and transient in its nature. But he thought her capable of a love as fervent--as deep-rooted as that which she inspired; and should he wilfully awaken in her peaceful breast the cravings of such a pa.s.sion as tortured his own; see her spirits, her vigour of mind, her usefulness, perhaps her health, give way to the sickness of 'hope deferred!' No,--rather let her return to the indifference in which he found her. Or, should he shackle her with a promise, of which honour might extort a reluctant fulfilment, after the affection that prompted it was perhaps withdrawn from him? Or, should he linger on from day to day in vain endeavours to conceal his affection, dishonourably sporting with the tenderness of the woman he loved, his ill-suppressed feelings every hour offering a hope which must every hour be disappointed? No!

the generous heart of De Courcy would sooner have suffered a thousand deaths.

But could he return--could he see again this creature, now more than ever dear to him, and stifle the fondness--the anguish that would rend his bosom at parting? Impossible! He would see her no more. He would tear at once from his heart every hope--every joy--and dare at once all the wretchedness that awaited him. In an agony of desperation, he rang for his servant, ordered his horses, and in an hour was on his way to Norwood, with feelings which the criminal on the rack need not have envied.

CHAPTER XV

The next morning, while Montreville and his daughter were expecting, with some anxiety the arrival of their daily visitor, a note was brought which De Courcy had left in Audley Street, to be delivered after his departure. Though nearly illegible, from the agitation in which it was written, it contained nothing but the simple information, that he had been suddenly obliged to leave London. It a.s.signed no reason for his journey--it fixed no period for his absence; and Montreville endeavoured to hope that his return would not be distant. But day after day pa.s.sed heavily on, and De Courcy came not. Montreville again began to feel himself a solitary deserted being; again became dejected; again became the victim of real debility and fancied disease.

All Laura's endeavours failed to animate him to cheerfulness, or rouse him to employment. If he permitted her to remain by him, he seemed rather to endure than to enjoy her presence, repressed with a languid monosyllable her attempts at conversation, or pa.s.sed whole hours in listless silence. Laura, who forboded the worst consequences from the indulgence of this depression, endeavoured to persuade him that he might now safely attempt a voyage to Scotland, and predicted beneficial effects from the sea air. But Montreville answered her with displeasure, that such an exertion would certainly destroy him, and that those who were themselves in high health and spirits, could not judge of the feelings, nor sympathize with the weakness of disease. The reproach had no more justice than is usual with the upbraidings of the sickly; for Laura's spirits shared every turn of her father's, though her stronger mind could support with grace the burden that weighed him to the earth.

She desisted, however, from a subject which she saw that, for the present, he would not bear, and confined her endeavours to persuading him to undertake some light occupation, or to walk in the little garden that belonged to the house. But, even in these attempts she was commonly defeated; for Montreville would make no exertion, and the winter wind, now keen and biting, pierced through his wasted form.

None but they who have made the melancholy experiment, can tell how cheerless is the labour of supporting the spirit that will make no effort to sustain itself, of soliciting the languid smile, offering the rejected amus.e.m.e.nt, or striving, with vain ingenuity, to enliven the oft-repulsed conversation. They only know who have tried it, what it is to resist contagious depression--to struggle against the effects of the complaining voice, the languid motion, the hopeless aspect; what it is to suppress the sympathetic sigh, and restrain the little sally of impatience, so natural to those whose labours are incessant, yet unavailing. Such were the tasks that Laura voluntarily prescribed to herself. Incited by affection, and by strong sense of duty, she soothed the fretful humour, prompted the reluctant exertion, fanned the expiring hope, and seized the most favourable moment to soften by feminine tenderness, or exhilarate by youthful gaiety.

Many motives may lead to one great effort of virtue. The hope of reward, the desire of approbation, a sense of right, the natural benevolence which still affords a faint trait of the image in which man was made, all, or any of these, may produce single, or even oft-repeated acts deserving of praise; but one principle alone can lead to virtuous exertions persevering and unremitting though without success. That principle was Laura's; and even while her endeavours seemed unavailing, she was content to employ all her powers in the task selected for her by the bestower of them.

Montreville often reproached himself for the untimely burden which he was laying on the young heart of his daughter; but he could make no effort to lighten it, and self-reproach served only to embitter the spirit which it failed of stimulating to exertion. Fretful and impatient, yet conscious of his injustice, and unwilling that Laura should observe it, he would often dismiss her from her attendance, and spend whole hours in solitary gloom. These hours Laura devoted to her picture, stealing between whiles, on tiptoe, to the door of her father's apartment, to listen whether he was stirring; and sometimes venturing to knock gently for admittance.

The picture, which was far advanced when De Courcy left town, soon received the finishing touches; and Laura lost no time in transmitting it to Norwood. She wrote an affectionate letter to Harriet; in which, after thanking her for all her kindness, she offered her gift, and added, that to give her work a value which it would not otherwise have possessed, she had introduced the portrait of De Courcy; and that, glad of an opportunity of a.s.sociating the remembrance of herself with an object of interest, she had admitted her own resemblance into the group.

She apologized for the appearance of conceit which might attend her exhibiting her own form under the character of Virtue, by relating, with characteristic simplicity, that she had determined on her subject, chosen and half-finished her Hercules, before she designed the figures of his companions; that she had afterwards thought that her memorial would be more effectual if it contained the portrait of the giver. 'And you know,' added she, 'it would have been impossible to mould my solemn countenance into the lineaments of Pleasure.'

In the singleness of her heart, it never occurred to Laura, that any thing in the mutual relation of the figures of her piece stood in need of explanation. Had Hargrave furnished the model for her hero, she would probably have been a little more quick-sighted. As it was, she felt impatient to shew the De Courcy family, not excepting Montague himself, that she was not forgetful of their kindness; and she chose a day, when the influence of bright sunshine a little revived the spirits of Montreville, to leave him for an hour, and accompany the picture to the shop of the obliging print-seller, that it might be packed more skilfully than by herself.

After seeing it safely put up, she gave the address to Wilkins, who immediately exclaimed, 'So, Ma'am, you have found out the secret that you would not let me tell you?' 'What secret?' inquired Laura. 'The name of the gentleman, Ma'am, that bought your pictures.' 'Was it De Courcy, then?' 'Yes, Ma'am;--though to be sure it might'n't be the same. But I suppose you'll know him, Ma'am. A tall pleasant-looking gentleman, Ma'am. The pictures were sent home to Audley Street.' Laura's countenance brightened with satisfaction, and she suffered her informer to proceed. 'I am sure,' continued he, 'I managed that business to the very best of my power, and, as one might say, very dexterously.' 'Was there any occasion for management?' inquired Laura. 'Oh yes, Ma'am; for when he seemed very much taken with the first one, then I told him all about you just as I had it all from Mrs Dawkins, and how you were so anxious to have it sold; and then he said he'd have it, and paid the money into my hands; and then I told him how you looked the first day you brought it here, and that you were just ready to cry about it; and he said he must have a companion to it.'

The flush, both of pride and vexation, for once stained the transparent skin of Laura. Yet it was but for a moment; and her next feeling was pleasure at the confirmation of the benevolent character with which her imagination had invested De Courcy. He had purchased her work when she was quite unknown to him, only, as she thought, from a wish to reward industry; and because he had been led to believe that the price was an object to the artist. Had another been the purchaser, she might have allowed something for the merit of the piece, but Laura was not yet cured of first imagining characters, and then bending facts to suit her theory. Sooner than bate one iota from De Courcy's benevolence, she would have a.s.signed to her picture the rank of a sign-post.

She now remembered, that in her visits to Audley Street she had never seen her works; and in her approbation of the delicacy which prompted De Courcy to conceal that she was known to him as an artist, she forgot the little prejudice which this concealment implied. De Courcy, indeed, was himself unconscious that he entertained any such prejudice. He applauded Laura's exertions; he approved of the spirit that led a young woman of family to dare, in spite of custom, to be useful. Yet he could not help acting as if she had shared the opinion of the world, and been herself ashamed of her labours. But this was a shame that Laura knew not. She wished not indeed to intrude on the world's notice. Her choice was peaceful obscurity. But if she must be known, she would have far preferred the distinction earned by ingenious industry, to the notoriety which wealth and luxury can purchase.

On her return home, she found her father reading a letter which he had just received from De Courcy. It seemed written in an hour of melancholy. The writer made no mention of returning to town; on the contrary, he expressed a hope that Montreville might now be able to undertake a journey to Scotland. He besought the Captain to remember him, to speak of him often, and to write to him sometimes; and ended with these words--'Farewell, my friend; the dearest of my earthly hopes is, that we may one day meet again, though years, long years, must first intervene.'

'So ends my last hope,' said Montreville, letting his head sink mournfully on his breast; 'De Courcy comes not, and thou must be left alone and unprotected.' 'The protection of so young a man,' said Laura, avoiding to answer to a foreboding which she considered merely as a symptom of her father's disease, 'might not perhaps have appeared advantageous to me in the eyes of those who are unacquainted with Mr De Courcy.' 'It would have given comfort to my dying hour,' said Montreville, 'to consign thee to such a guardian--such a husband.' 'A husband!' cried Laura, starting, and turning pale. 'Heaven be praised, that Mr De Courcy never harboured such a thought!' Montreville looked up in extreme surprise; and inquired the reason of her thankfulness. 'Oh Sir,' she replied, 'we owe so much to Mr De Courcy's friendship, that I should have hated myself for being unable to return his affection;--and pity would it have been that the love of so amiable a being should have been bestowed in vain.'

Montreville fixed his eyes upon her, as if to seek for further explanation, and continued to gaze on her face, when his thoughts had wandered from the examination of it. After some minutes of silence, he said--'Laura, you once rejected an alliance, splendid beyond my hopes, almost beyond my wishes, and that with a man formed to be the darling of your s.e.x; and now you speak as if even Montague De Courcy would have failed to gain you. Tell me, then, have you any secret attachment? Speak candidly, Laura;--you will not always have a father to confide in.'

Deep crimson dyed the cheeks of Laura; but, with the hesitation of a moment, she replied--'No, Sir, I have no wish to marry. I pretend not to lay open my whole heart to you; but I may with truth a.s.sure you, that there is not at this moment a man in being with whom I would unite myself. I know you would not be gratified by extorted confidence.'

'No, Laura,' said Montreville, 'I ask no more than you willingly avow. I confide, as I have always done, in your prudence and integrity. Soon, alas! you will have no other guides. But it was my heart's wish to see you united to a man who could value and protect your worth--of late, more especially, when I feel that I so soon must leave you.'

'My dearest father,' said Laura, throwing her arm affectionately round his neck, 'do not give way to such gloomy forebodings. Your spirits are oppressed by confinement--let us but see Glenalbert again, and all will be well.'

'I shall never see Glenalbert,' said Montreville;--'and left alone in such a place as this, without money, without friends, without a home;--where shall my child find safety or shelter?'

'Indeed, Sir,' said Laura, though a cold shuddering seized her, 'your fears have no foundation. Only yesterday Dr Flint told me that your complaints were without danger, and that a little exercise would make you quite strong again.'

Montreville shook his head. 'Dr Flint deceives you, Laura,' said he;--'you deceive yourself.' 'No, indeed,' said Laura, though she trembled; 'you look much better,--you are much better. It is only these melancholy thoughts that r.e.t.a.r.d your recovery. Trust yourself--trust me to the Providence that has. .h.i.therto watched over us.'

'I could die without alarm,' said Montreville; 'but to leave thee alone and in want--Oh! I cannot bear it.' 'Should the worst befal,' said Laura, turning pale as alabaster, 'think that I shall not be alone, I shall not want, for'--her voice failed, but she raised her eyes with an expression that filled up the enn.o.bling sentiment. 'I believe it, my love,' said Montreville, 'but you feel these consolations more strongly than I do. Leave me for the present, I am fatigued, and wish to be alone.'

Laura retired to her own room, and endeavoured herself to practise the trust which she recommended to her father. Her meditations were interrupted by the entrance of her landlady, Mrs Stubbs, who, with many courtesies and apologies, said that she was come to present her account.

Laura, who always had pleasure in cancelling a debt the moment it was incurred, and who conceived no apology to be necessary from those who came to demand only their own, received her landlady very graciously, and begged her to be seated, while she went to bring her father's purse.

Mrs Stubbs spread her bills upon the table; and Laura, after examining them, was obliged to ask an explanation.

'Why, ma'am,' returned the landlady, 'there are fourteen guineas for lodgings for six weeks, and 10, 15s. for victuals and other articles that I have furnished. I am sure I have kept an exact account.'

'I understood,' said Laura, 'that we were to have the lodgings for a guinea and a half a-week, and'--'A guinea and a half!' cried the landlady, colouring with wrath at this disparagement of her property.

'Sure, Miss, you did not think to have lodgings such as these for a guinea and a half a-week. No, no--these lodgings have never been let for less than four guineas, and never shall, as long as my name is Bridget.'

Laura mildly pleaded her ignorance of those matters, and urged De Courcy's information as an excuse for her mistake. 'To be sure, Ma'am,'

said the now pacified Mrs Stubbs, 'n.o.body that know'd any thing of the matter, would expect to have such rooms for less than four guineas; and that was what the gentleman said when he took them; so he paid me two guineas and a half advance for four weeks; and charged me not to let you know of it; but I can't abide them secret doings; and, besides, if I take only a guinea and a half from you, where was I to look for the rest of my rent for the last fortnight--for the young gentleman seems to have taken himself off.'