Self-control: A Novel

Mrs Jones was highly flattered by the Captain's visit, and exerted herself to entertain him, her husband being inclined to taciturnity by a reason which Bishop Butler has pronounced to be a good one. Perceiving that Montreville was an Englishman, she concluded that nothing but dire necessity could have exiled him to Scotland. She inquired what town he lived in; and being answered that his residence was many miles distant from any town, she held up her hands in pity and amazement. But when she heard that Montreville had been obliged to learn the language of the Highlands, and that it was Laura's vernacular tongue, she burst into an exclamation of wonder. 'Mercy upon me,' cried she, 'can you make that outlandish spluttering so as them savages can know what you says? Well, if I had been among them a thousand years, I should never have made out a word of their gibberish.'

'The sound of it is very uncouth to a stranger,' said Captain Montreville, 'but now I have learnt to like it.' 'And do them there wild men make you wear them little red and green petticoats?' asked Mrs Jones, in a tone of compassionate inquiry. 'Oh no,' said Captain Montreville, 'they never interfered with my dress. But you seem quite acquainted with the Highlands. May I ask if you have been there?' 'Aye, that I have, to my sorrow,' said Mrs Jones; and forthwith proceeded to recount her adventures, pretty nearly in the same terms as she had formerly done to Laura. 'And what was the name of this unfortunate place,' inquired the captain, when, having narrated the deficiency of hot rolls, Mrs Jones made the pause in which her auditors were accustomed to express their astonishment and horror. 'That was what I asked the waiter often and often,' replied she, 'but I could never make head or tail of what he said. Sometimes it sounded like A rookery; sometimes like one thing, sometimes like another. So I takes the roadbook, and looks it out, and it looked something like A rasher, only not right spelt. So, thinks I, they'll call it A rasher, because there is good bacon here; and I asked the man if they were famous for pigs; and he said, no, they got all their pigs from the manufactory in Glasgow, and that they weren't famous for any thing but fresh herrings, as are catched in that black Loch-Lomond, where they wanted me to go.'

'Kate,' said Mr Jones, setting down his tea-cup, and settling his hands upon his knees, 'you know I think you're wrong about them herrings.' 'Mr Jones,' returned the lady, with a look that shewed that the herrings had been the subject of former altercation, 'for certain the waiter told me that they came out of the loch, and to what purpose should he tell lies about it.' 'I tells you, Kate, that herrings come out of the sea,' said Mr Jones. 'Well, that loch is a great fresh water sea,' said Mrs Jones. 'Out of the salt sea,' insisted Mr Jones. 'Aye,' said Mrs Jones, 'them salt herrings as we gets here, but it stands to reason, Mr Jones, that the fresh herrings should come out of fresh water.' 'I say, cod is fresh, and does'n't it come out of the sea? answer me that, Mrs Jones.' 'It is no wonder the cod is fresh,' returned the lady, 'when the fishmongers keep fresh water running on it day and night.' 'Kate, it's of no use argufying, I say herrings come out of the sea. What say you, Sir?' turning to Captain Montreville. The Captain softened his verdict in the gentleman's favour, by saying, that Mrs Jones was right in her account of the waiter's report, though the man, in speaking of 'the loch,' meant not Loch-Lomond, but an arm of the sea. 'I know'd it,' said Mr Jones triumphantly, 'for haven't I read it in the newspaper as Government offers a reward to any body that'll put most salt upon them Scotch herrings, and is'n't that what makes the salt so dear?' So having settled this knotty point to his own satisfaction, Mr Jones again applied himself to his tea.

'Did you return to Glasgow by the way of Loch-Lomond?' inquired Captain Montreville. 'Ay,' cried Mrs Jones, 'that was what the people of the inn wanted us to do; but then I looked out, and seed a matter of forty of them there savages, with the little petticoats and red and white stockings, loitering and lolling about the inn-door, doing nothing in the varsal world, except wait till it was dark to rob and murder us all, bless us! So, thinks I, let me once get out from among you in a whole skin, and catch me in the Highlands again; so as soon as the chaise could be got, we just went the way we came.' 'Did you find good accommodation in Glasgow,' said the Captain. 'Yes,' replied Mrs Jones; 'but after all, Captain, there's no country like our own; – do you know, I never got so much as a buttered muffin all the while I was in Scotland?'

The conversation was here interrupted by an exclamation from Mrs Dawkins, who, knowing that she had nothing new to expect in her daughter's memoirs of her Scotish excursion, had continued to talk with Laura apart. 'Goodness me!' she cried, 'why Kate, as sure as eggs, here's Miss never seed a play in all her life!' 'Never saw a play! Never saw a play!' exclaimed the landlord and landlady at once. 'Well, that's so odd; but to be sure, poor soul, how should she, among them there hills.' 'Suppose,' said Mrs Jones, 'we should make a party, and go tonight. – We shall be just in time.' Laura was desirous to go: her father made no objection; and Mr Jones, with that feeling of good-natured self-complacency which most people have experienced, arising from the discovery that another is new to a pleasure with which he himself is familiar, offered, as he expressed it, 'to do the genteel thing, and treat her himself.'

The party was speedily arranged, and Laura soon found herself seated in the pit of the theatre. The scene was quite new to her; for her ignorance of public places was even greater than her companions had discovered it to be. She was dazzled with the glare of the lights, and the brilliancy of the company, and confused with the murmur of innumerable voices; but the curtain rose, and her attention was soon confined to the stage. The play was the Gamester, the most domestic of our tragedies; and, in the inimitable representation of Mrs Beverly, Laura found an illusion strong enough to absorb for the time every faculty of her soul. Of the actress she thought not; but she loved and pitied Mrs Beverly with a fervour that made her insensible to the amusement which she afforded to her companions. Meanwhile her countenance, as beautiful, almost as expressive, followed every change in that of Mrs Siddons. She wept with her; listened, started, rejoiced with her; and when Mrs Beverly repulsed the villain Stukely, Laura's eyes too flashed with 'heaven's own lightnings.' By the time the representation was ended, she was so much exhausted by the strength and rapidity of her emotions, that she was scarcely able to answer to the questions of 'How have you been amused?' and 'How did you like it?' with which her companions all at once assailed her. 'Well,' said Miss Julia, when they were arrived at home, 'I think nothing is so delightful as a play. I should like to go every night – shouldn't you?' 'No,' answered Laura. 'Once or twice in a year would be quite sufficient for me. It occupies my thoughts too much for a mere amusement.'

In the course of the two following days, Laura had sketched more than twenty heads of Mrs Siddons, besides completing the preparations for her journey to Scotland. On the third, the Captain, who could now smile at his own imaginary debility, prepared to carry the bond to receive Mr Warren's signature. The fourth was to be spent with Mrs De Courcy; and on the morning of the fifth, the travellers intended to depart.

On the appointed morning, Captain Montreville set out on an early visit to Portland Street, gaily telling his daughter at parting that he would return in an hour or two, with her dowery in his pocket. When he knocked at Mr Warren's door, the servant informed him that his master had gone out, but that expecting the Captain to call, he had left a message to beg that Montreville would wait till he returned, which would be very soon.

The Captain was then shewn into a back parlour, where he endeavoured to amuse himself with some books that were scattered round the room. They consisted of amatory poems and loose novels, and one by one he threw them aside in disgust, lamenting that one who was capable of a kind and generous action should seek pleasure in such debasing studies. The room was hung with prints and pictures, but they partook of the same licentious character; and Montreville shuddered, as the momentary thought darted across his mind, that it was strange that the charms of Laura had made no impression on one whose libertinism in regard to her sex was so apparent. It was but momentary. 'No!' thought he, 'her purity would awe the most licentious; and I am uncandid, ungrateful, to harbour even for a moment such an idea of the man who has acted towards her and me with the most disinterested benevolence.'

He waited long, but Warren did not appear; and he began to blame himself for having neglected to fix the exact time of his visit. To remedy this omission, he rang for writing materials, and telling the servant that he could stay no longer, left a note to inform Mr Warren that he would wait upon him at twelve o'clock next day. The servant, who was Mr Warren's own valet, seemed unwilling to allow the Captain to depart, and assured him that he expected his master every minute; but Montreville, who knew that there was no depending upon the motions of a mere man of pleasure, would be detained no longer.

He returned home, and finding the parlour empty, was leaving it to seek Laura in her painting-room, when he observed a letter lying on the table addressed to himself. The hand-writing was new to him. He opened it – the signature was equally so. The contents were as follows: —

'Sir,

The writer of this letter is even by name a stranger to you. If this circumstance should induce you to discredit my information, I offer no proof of my veracity but this simple one, that obviously no selfish end can be served by my present interference. Of the force of my motive you cannot judge, unless you have yourself lured to destruction the heart that trusted you, – seen it refuse all comfort, – reject all reparation, – and sink at last in untimely decay. From a fate like this, though not softened like this by anxious tenderness, nor mourned like this by remorseless pity, but aggravated by being endured for one incapable of any tender or generous feeling, it is my purpose, Sir, to save your daughter. I was last night one of a party where her name was mentioned; – where she was described as lovely, innocent, and respectable; yet the person who so described her, scrupled not to boast of a plan for her destruction. In the hope (why should I pretend a better motive) of softening the pangs of late but bitter self-reproach, by saving one fellow-creature from perhaps reluctant ruin, one family from domestic shame, I drew from him your address, and learnt that to ingratiate himself with you, and with his intended victim, he has pretended to offer as a gift, what he knew that he could not long withhold. He means to take the earliest opportunity of inveigling her from your care, secure, as he boasts, of her pardon in her attachment. Ill, indeed, does her character, even as described by him, accord with such a boast; yet even indifference might prove no guard against fraud, which, thus warned, you may defy. A fear that my intention should be frustrated by the merited contempt attached to anonymous information, inclines me to add my name, though aware that it can claim no authority with a stranger.

'I am, Sir,'Your obedient Servant,'Philip Wilmot.'

Captain Montreville read this letter more than once. It bore marks of such sincerity that he knew not how to doubt of the intelligence it gave; and he perceived with dismay, that the business which he had considered as closed, was as far as ever from a conclusion; for how could he accept a favour which he had been warned to consider as the wages of dishonour. For Laura he had indeed no fear. She was no less safe in her own virtue and discretion, than in the contemptuous pity with which she regarded Warren. This letter would put her upon her guard against leaving the house with him, which Captain Montreville now recollected that he had often solicited her to do, upon pretence of taking the air in his curricle.

But must he still linger in London; still be cheated with vain hopes; still fear for the future subsistence of his child; still approach the very verge of poverty; perhaps be obliged to defend his rights by a tedious law-suit? His heart sank at the prospect, and he threw himself on a seat, disconsolate and cheerless.

He had long been in the habit of seeking relief from every painful feeling in the tenderness of Laura, – of finding in her enduring spirit a support to the weakness of his own; and he now sought her in the conviction that she would either discover some advantage to be drawn from this disappointment, or lighten it to him by her affectionate sympathy. He knocked at the door. – She did not answer. He called her. – All was silent. He rang the bell, and inquired whether she was below, and was answered that she had gone out with Mr Warren in his curricle two hours before. The unfortunate father heard no more. Wildly striking his hand upon his breast, 'She is lost!' he cried, and sunk to the ground. The blood burst violently from his mouth and nostrils, and he became insensible.

The family were soon assembled round him; and a surgeon being procured, he declared that Montreville had burst a blood vessel, and that nothing but the utmost care and quiet could save his life. Mrs Dawkins, with great humanity, attended him herself, venting in whispers to the surgeon her compassion for Montreville, and her indignation against the unnatural desertion of Laura, whom she abused as a methodistical hypocrite, against whom her wrath was the stronger because she could never have suspected her.

Montreville no sooner returned to recollection, than he declared his resolution instantly to set off in search of his child. In vain did the surgeon expostulate, and assure him that his life would be the forfeit: his only answer was, 'Why should I live? She is lost.' In pursuance of his design, he tried to rise from the bed on which he had been laid; but exhausted nature refused to second him, and again he sunk back insensible.

When Montreville called in Portland Street, the servant had deceived him in saying that Warren was not at home. He was not only in the house, but expected the Captain's visit, and prepared to take advantage of it, for the accomplishment of the honourable scheme of which he had boasted to his associates. As soon, therefore, as the servant had disposed of Montreville, Warren mounted his curricle, which was in waiting at a little distance, and driving to Mrs Dawkins's, informed Laura that he had been sent to her by her father, who proposed carrying her to see the British Museum, and for that purpose was waiting her arrival in Portland Street. Entirely unsuspicious of any design, Laura accompanied him without hesitation; and though Portland Street appeared to her greatly more distant than she had imagined it, it was not till having taken innumerable turns, she found herself in an open road, that she began to suspect her conductor of having deceived her.

'Whither have you taken me, Mr Warren?' she inquired: 'This road does not lead to Portland Street.' 'Oh yes, it does,' answered Warren, 'only the road is a little circuitous.' 'Let us immediately return to the straight one then,' said Laura. 'My father will be alarmed, and conclude that some accident has happened to us.' 'Surely, my charming Miss Montreville,' said Warren, still continuing to drive on, 'you do not fear to trust yourself with me.' 'Fear you!' repeated Laura, with involuntary disdain. 'No, but I am at a loss to guess what has encouraged you to make me the companion of so silly a frolic. I suppose you mean this for an ingenious joke upon my father.' 'No, 'pon my soul,' said the beau, a little alarmed by the sternness of her manner, 'I meant nothing but to have an opportunity of telling you that I am quite in love with you, – dying for you, – faith I am.' 'You should first have ascertained,' answered Laura, 'whether I was likely to think the secret worth a hearing. I desire you will instantly return.'

The perfect composure of Laura's look and manner (for feeling no alarm she shewed none) made Warren conclude that she was not averse to being detained; and he thought it only necessary that he should continue to make love, to induce her quietly to submit to go on for another half mile, which would bring them to a place where he thought she would be secure. He began, therefore, to act the lover with all the energy he could muster; but Laura interrupted him. 'It is a pity,' said she, with a smile of calm contempt, 'to put a stop to such well-timed gallantry, which is indeed just such as I should have expected from Mr Warren's sense and delicacy. But I would not for the sake of Mr Warren's raptures, nor all else that he has to offer, give my father the most momentary pain, and therefore if you do not suffer me to alight this instant, I shall be obliged to claim the assistance of passengers on an occasion very little worthy of their notice.' Her contumelious manner entirely undeceived her companion in regard to her sentiments; but it had no other effect upon him, except that of adding revenge to the number of his incitements; and perceiving that they were now at a short distance from the house whither he intended to convey her, he continued to pursue his way.

Laura now rose from her seat, and seizing the reins with a force that made the horses rear, she coolly chose that moment to spring from the curricle; and walked back towards the town, leaving her inammorato in the utmost astonishment at her self-possession, as well as rage at her disdainful treatment.

She proceeded till she came to a decent-looking shop, where she entered; and, begging permission to sit down, dispatched one of the shop-boys in search of a hackney-coach. A carriage was soon procured, and Laura, concluding that her father, tired of waiting for her, must have left Portland Street, desired to be driven directly home.

As she entered the house, she was met by Mrs Dawkins. 'So Miss,' cried she, 'you have made a fine spot of work on't. You have murdered your father.' 'Good heavens!' cried Laura, turning as pale as death, 'what is it you mean? where is my father?' 'Your father is on his deathbed Miss, and you may thank your morning rides for it. Thinking you were off, he burst a blood-vessel in the fright, and the doctor says, the least stir in the world will finish him.'

Laura turned sick to death. Cold drops stood upon her forehead; and she shook in every limb. She made an instinctive attempt to ascend the stair; but her strength failed her, and she sunk upon the steps. The sight of her agony changed in a moment Mrs Dawkins's indignation to pity. 'Don't take on so, Miss,' said she, 'to be sure you didn't mean it. If he is kept quiet, he may mend still, and now that you're come back too. – By the bye, I may as well run up and tell him.' 'Oh stop!' cried Laura, reviving at once in the sudden dread that such incautious news would destroy her father, 'Stay,' said she, pressing with one hand her bursting forehead, while with the other she detained Mrs Dawkins. – 'Let me think, that we may not agitate him. Oh no! I cannot think;' and leaning her head on Mrs Dawkins' shoulder, she burst into an agony of tears.

These salutary tears restored her recollection, and she inquired whether the surgeon, of whom Mrs Dawkins had spoken, was still in the house. Being answered, that he was in Montreville's apartment, she sent to beg that he would speak with her. He came, and she entreated him to inform her father, with the caution which his situation required, that she was returned and safe. She followed him to the door of Montreville's apartment, and stood listening in trembling expectation to every thing that stirred within. At last she received the wished-for summons. She entered; she sprang towards the bed. 'My child!' cried Montreville, and he clasped her to his bosom, and sobbed aloud. When he was able to speak, 'Oh Laura,' said he, 'tell me again that you are safe, and say by what miracle, by what unheard-of mercy, you have escaped.' 'Compose yourself, my dearest father, for Heaven's sake,' cried Laura. 'I am indeed safe, and never have been in danger. When Warren found that I refused to join in his frolic, he did not attempt to prevent me from returning home.' She then briefly related the affair as it had appeared to her, suppressing Warren's rhapsodies, from the fear of irritating her father; and he, perceiving that she considered the whole as a frolic, frivolous in its intention, though dreadful in its effects, suffered her to remain in that persuasion. She passed the night by his bed-side, devoting every moment of his disturbed repose to fervent prayers for his recovery.

CHAPTER XIV

From feverish and interrupted sleep, Montreville awoke unrefreshed; and the surgeon, when he repeated his visit, again alarmed Laura with representations of her father's danger, and assurances that nothing but the most vigilant attention to his quiet could preserve his life. The anguish with which Laura listened to this sentence she suppressed, lest it should injure her father. She never approached him but to bring comfort; she spoke to him cheerfully, while the tears forced themselves to her eyes; and smiled upon him while her heart was breaking. She felt what he must suffer, should the thought occur to him that he was about to leave her to the world, unfriended and alone; and she never mentioned his illness to him unless with the voice of hope. But of the danger which she strove to disguise, Montreville was fully sensible; and though he forbore to shock her by avowing it explicitly, he could not, like her, suppress his fears. He would sometimes fervently wish that he could see his child safe in the protection of Mrs Douglas; and sometimes, when Laura was bending over him in the tenderest sympathy, he would clasp her neck, and cry, with an agony that shook his whole frame, 'What – Oh what will become of thee!'

He seemed anxious to know how long Mrs De Courcy was to remain in town, and inquired every hour whether Montague was not returned. Full well did Laura guess the mournful meaning of these questions. Full well did they remind her, that when the De Courcy family left London, she with her dying father would amidst this populous wilderness be alone. She anticipated the last scene of this sad tragedy; when, amidst busy thousands, a senseless corpse would be her sole companion. She looked forward to its close, when even this sad society would be withdrawn. Human fortitude could not support the prospect; and she would rush from her father's presence, to give vent to agonies of sorrow.

But the piety of Laura could half-invest misfortune with the character of blessing; as the mists that rise to darken the evening sun are themselves tinged with his glory. She called to mind the gracious assurance which marks the afflicted who suffer not by their own guilt or folly as the favoured of Heaven; and the more her earthly connections seemed dissolving, the more did she strive to acquaint herself with Him, from whose care no accident can sever. To this care she fervently committed her father; praying that no selfish indulgence of her grief might embitter his departure; and resolving by her fortitude to convince him that she was able to struggle with the storm from which he was no longer to shelter her.

The day succeeding that on which Montreville was taken ill had been set apart for a farewell visit to Mrs De Courcy; and Laura's note of mournful apology, was answered by a kind visit from Harriet. Unconscious of the chief cause of her father's impatience for Montague's return, Laura wishing to be the bearer of intelligence which she knew would cheer him, inquired anxiously when Miss De Courcy expected her brother. But De Courcy's motions depended upon the spirits of his venerable friend, and Harriet knew not when he might be able to leave Mr Wentworth. It was even uncertain whether for the present he would return to town at all, as in another week Mrs De Courcy meant to set out for Norwood. Laura softened this unpleasing news to her father; she did not name the particular time of Mrs De Courcy's departure, and she suffered him still confidently to expect the return of his favourite.