Self-control: A Novel

CHAPTER XXX

As Lady Pelham's carriage passed the entrance of the avenue which led to Norwood, Laura sunk into a profound reverie; in the course of which she settled most minutely the behaviour proper for her first meeting with De Courcy. She decided on the gesture of unembarrassed cordiality with which she was to accost him; intending her manner to intimate that she accounted him a friend, and only a friend. The awkwardness of a private interview she meant to avoid by going to Norwood next day, at an hour which she knew that Montague employed in reading aloud to his mother. All this excellent arrangement, however, was unfortunately useless. Laura was taking a very early ramble in what had always been her favourite walk, when, at a sudden turn, she saw De Courcy not three steps distant. Her white gown shining through the still leafless trees had caught his attention, the slightest glimpse of her form was sufficient for the eye of love, and he had advanced prepared to meet her; while she, thus taken by surprise, stood before him conscious and blushing. At this confusion, so flattering to a lover, De Courcy's heart gave one bound of triumphant joy; but he was too modest to ascribe to love what timidity might so well account for, and he prudently avoided reminding Laura, even by a look, of either his hopes or his wishes. Quickly recollecting herself, Laura entered into a conversation which, though at first reserved and interrupted, returned by degrees to the confidential manner which De Courcy had formerly won from her under the character of her father's friend.

This confidence, so precious to him, De Courcy was careful never to interrupt. From the time of Laura's return, he saw her almost daily. She made long visits to Mrs De Courcy; he came often to Walbourne; they met in their walks, in their visits; they spent a week together under Mr Bolingbroke's roof; yet De Courcy religiously kept his promise, nor ever wilfully reminded Laura that he had a wish beyond her friendship. Always gentle, respectful and attentive, he never invited observation by distinguishing her above others who had equal claims on his politeness. She only shared his assiduities with every other woman whom he approached; nor did he betray uneasiness when she, in her turn, received attentions from others. His prudent self-command, had the effect which he intended; and Laura, in conversing with him, felt none of the reserve which may be supposed to attend intercourse with a rejected admirer. His caution even at times deceived her. She recollected Mrs Douglas's prophecy, that 'his attachment would soon subside into friendly regard,' and imagined she saw its accomplishment. 'How happy are men in having such flexible affections,' thought she with a sigh. 'I wonder whether he has entirely conquered the passion which, three short months ago, was to "last through life – beyond life?" I hope he has,' whispered she with a deeper sigh; and she repeated it again – 'I hope he has,' – as if by repeating it, she would have ascertained that it was her real sentiment. Yet, at other times, some little inadvertency, unheeded by less interested observers, would awaken a doubt of De Courcy's self-conquest; and in that doubt Laura unconsciously found pleasure. She often reconsidered the arguments which her friend had used to prove that passion is unnecessary to the happiness of wedded life. She did not allow that she was convinced by them; but she half wished that she had had an opportunity of weighing them before she had decided her fate with regard to De Courcy. Meanwhile, much of her time was spent in his company, and his presence had ever brought pleasure with it. Week after week passed agreeably away, and the close of the winter atoned for the disquiet which had marked its commencement.

During all this time, Laura saw nothing of Hargrave. His visits, indeed, to Walbourne were more frequent than she supposed, but the only one of which she had been informed, Lady Pelham affected to announce to her, advising her to avoid it by spending that day at Norwood. Since their return from town, her Ladyship had entirely desisted from her remonstrances in his favour, and Laura hoped that his last outrage had opened her aunt's eyes to the deformity of his character. And, could Lady Pelham's end have been pursued without annoyance to any living being, it would long before have shared the perishable nature of her other purposes. But whatever conferred the invaluable occasion of tormenting, was cherished by Lady Pelham as the dearest of her concerns; and she only waited fit opportunity to shew that she could be as stubborn in thwarting the wishes of others, as capricious in varying her own. De Courcy's attachment could not escape her penetration; and as she was far from intending to desert the cause of Hargrave, she saw, with displeasure, the progressive advancement of Laura's regard for the friend of her father. Though she was sufficiently acquainted with Laura to know that chiding would effect no change in her sentiments or conduct, she had not temper enough to restrain her upbraidings on this subject, but varied them with all the skill and perseverance of a veteran in provocation. 'She did not, she must confess, understand the delicacy of ladies whose affections could be transferred from one man to another. She did not see how any modest woman could find two endurable men in the world. It was a farce to tell her of friendship and gratitude, and such like stuff. Everybody knew the meaning of a friendship between a girl of nineteen and a good-looking young fellow of five-and-twenty. She wondered whether Laura was really wise enough to imagine that De Courcy could afford to marry her; or whether, if he were mad enough to think of such a thing, she could be so ungenerous as to take advantage of his folly, to plunge him into irretrievable poverty; and this too, when it was well known that a certain young heiress had prior claims upon him.' Laura at first listened to these harangues with tolerable sang froid; yet they became, she was unconscious why, every day more provoking. Though she had self-command enough to be silent, her changing colour announced Lady Pelham's victory, and it was followed up without mercy or respite. It had, however, no other effect than that of imposing a restraint when her Ladyship happened to be present; for De Courcy continued his attentions, and Laura received him with increasing favour.

Lady Pelham omitted none of the minor occasions of disturbing this harmonious intercourse. She interrupted their tête à têtes, beset them in their walks, watched their most insignificant looks, pried into their most common-place messages, and dexterously hinted to the one whatever foible she could see or imagine in the other. A casual breath of scandal soon furnished her with a golden opportunity of sowing dissension, and she lost no time in taking advantage of the hint. 'It is treating me like a baby,' said she once to Laura, after opening in form her daily attack; 'it is treating me like a mere simpleton to expect that you are to deceive me with your flourishing sentiments about esteem and gratitude. Have esteem and gratitude the blindness of love? Don't I see that you overlook in your beloved Mr Montague De Courcy faults which in another you would think sufficient excuse for any ill treatment that you chose to inflict?' Laura kept silence; for of late she had found that her temper could not stand a charge of this kind. 'What becomes of all your fine high-flown notions of purity, and so forth,' continued Lady Pelham, 'when you excuse his indiscretions with his mother's protegée, and make a favourite and a plaything of his spoilt bantling?' Laura turned pale, then reddened violently. 'What protegée? what bantling?' cried she, quite thrown off her guard. 'I know of no indiscretions – I have no playthings.' – 'What! you pretend not to know that the brat he takes so much notice of is his own. Did you never hear of his affair with a pretty girl whom his mamma was training as a waiting-maid for her fine-lady daughter.' 'Mr De Courcy, Madam!' cried Laura, making a powerful struggle with her indignation – 'He seduce a girl who as a member of his family was doubly entitled to his protection! Is it possible that your Ladyship can give credit to such a calumny?' 'Heyday,' cried Lady Pelham, with a provoking laugh, 'a most incredible occurrence to be sure! And pray why should your immaculate Mr De Courcy be impeccable any more than other people?' 'I do not imagine, Madam,' returned Laura, with recovered self-possession, 'that Mr De Courcy, or any of the human race, is perfectly sinless; but nothing short of proof shall convince me that he is capable of deliberate wickedness; or even that the casual transgressions of such a man can be so black in their nature, so heinous in their degree. It were next to a miracle if one who makes conscience of guarding his very thoughts, could, with a single step, make such progress in iniquity.' 'It were a miracle indeed,' said Lady Pelham, sneeringly, 'if you could be prevailed upon to believe any thing that contradicts your romantic vagaries. As long as you are determined to worship Mr De Courcy, you'll never listen to any thing that brings him down from his pedestal.' 'It is wasting time,' returned Laura calmly, 'to argue on the improbability of this malicious tale. I can easily give your Ladyship the pleasure of being able to contradict it. Mrs Bolingbroke is at Norwood. She will tell me frankly who is the real father of little Henry, and I shall feel no difficulty in asking her. Will you have the goodness to lend me the carriage for an hour?' 'A pretty expedition truly!' cried Lady Pelham, 'and mighty delicate and dignified it is for a young lady, to run about inquiring into the pedigree of all the bastards in the county! I assure you, Miss Montreville, I shall neither countenance nor assist such a scheme!' 'Then, Madam,' answered Laura coolly, 'I shall walk to Norwood. The claims of dignity, or even of delicacy, are surely inferior to those of justice and gratitude. But though it should subject me to the scorn of all mankind, I will do what in me lies to clear his good name whose kindness ministered the last comforts that sweetened the life of my father.'

The manner in which these words were pronounced, shewed Lady Pelham that resistance was useless. She was far from wishing to quarrel with the De Courcy family, and she now began to fear that she should appear the propagator of this scandal. Having little time to consult the means of safety, since Laura was already leaving the room, she hastily said, 'I suppose in your explanations with Mrs Bolingbroke, you will give me up for your authority?' 'No, Madam,' replied Laura, with a scorn which she could not wholly suppress, 'your Ladyship has no right to think so at the moment when I am shewing such concern for the reputation of my friends.' Lady Pelham would have fired at this disdain, but her quietus was at hand – she was afraid of provoking Laura to expose her, and therefore she found it perfectly possible to keep her temper. 'If you are resolved to go,' said she, 'you had better wait till I order the carriage; I fear we shall have rain.' Laura at first refused; but Lady Pelham pressed her, with so many kind concerns for a slight cold which she had, that though she saw through the veil, she suffered her Ladyship to wear it undisturbed. The carriage was ordered, and Laura hastened to Norwood.

Though she entertained not the slightest doubt of De Courcy's integrity, she was restless and anxious. It was easy to see that her mind was pre-occupied during the few minutes which passed before, taking leave of Mrs De Courcy, she begged Mrs Bolingbroke to speak with her apart. Harriet followed her into another room; and Laura, with much more embarrassment than she had expected to feel, prepared to begin her interrogation. Harriet, from the thoughtful aspect of her companion, anticipating something of importance, stood gravely waiting to hear what she had to say; while Laura was confused by the awkwardness of explaining her reason for the question she was about to ask. 'I have managed this matter very ill,' said she at last, pursuing her thoughts aloud. 'I have entered on it with so much formality, that you must expect some very serious affair; and, after all, I am only going to ask a trifling question. Will you tell me who is the father of my pretty little Henry?' Harriet looked surprised, and answered, – 'Really, my dear, I am not sure that I dare. You inquired the same thing once before; and just when I was going to tell you, Montague looked so terrible, that I was forced to hold my tongue. But what makes you ask? What! You won't tell? Then I know how it is. My prophecy has proved true, and the good folks have given him to Montague himself. Ah! What a tell-tale face you have, Laura! And who has told you this pretty story?' 'It is of no consequence,' replied Laura, 'that you should know my authority, provided that I have yours to contradict the slander.' 'You shall have better authority than mine,' returned Harriet. 'Those who were malicious enough to invent such a tale of Montague, might well assert that his sister employed falsehood to clear him. You shall hear the whole from nurse Margaret herself; and her evidence cannot be doubted. Come, will you walk to the cottage and hear what she has to say?'

They found Margaret alone; and Harriet, impatient till her brother should be fully justified, scarcely gave herself time to answer the old woman's civilities, before she entered on her errand. 'Come, nurse,' said she, with all her natural frankness of manner, 'I have something particular to say to you. Let's shut the door and sit down. Do you know somebody has been malicious enough to tell Miss Montreville that Montague is little Henry's father.' Margaret lifted up her hands and eyes. 'My young master, Madam!' cried she – 'He go to bring shame and sorrow into any honest man's family! If you'll believe me, Miss,' continued she, turning to Laura, 'this is, begging your pardon, the wickedest lie that ever was told.' Laura was about to assure her that she gave no credit to the calumny, but Harriet, who had a double reason for wishing that her friend should listen to Margaret's tale, interrupted her, saying, 'Nurse, I am sure nothing could convince her so fully as hearing the whole story from your own lips. I brought her hither on purpose; and you may trust her, I assure you, for she is just such a wise prudent creature as you always told me that I ought to be.' 'Ah, Madam,' answered Margaret, 'I know that; for John says she is the prettiest-behaved young lady he ever saw; and says how fond my lady is of her, and others too besides my lady, though it is not for servants to be making remarks.' 'Come, then, nurse,' said Harriet, 'sit down between us; and tell us the whole sad story of my poor foster-sister, and clear your friend Montague from this aspersion.' Margaret did as she was desired. 'Ah, yes!' said she, tears lending to her eyes a transient brightness, 'I can talk of it now! Many a long evening John and I speak of nothing else. She always used to sit between us, – but now we both sit close together. But we are growing old,' continued she, in a more cheerful tone, 'and in a little while we shall see them all again. We had three of the prettiest boys! – My dear young lady, you will soon have children of your own, but never set your heart upon them, nor be too proud of them, for that is only provoking Providence to take them away.' 'I shall probably never have so much reason,' said Harriet, 'as you had to be proud of your Jessy.' The mother's pride had survived its object; and it brightened Margaret's faded countenance, as, pressing Harriet's hand between her own, she cried, 'Ah, bless you! you were always kind to her. She was indeed the flower of my little flock; and when the boys were taken away, she was our comfort for all. But I was too proud of her. Five years since, there was not her like in all the country round. A dutiful child, too, and never made us sad or sorrowful till – and such a pretty modest creature! But I was too proud of her.'

Margaret stopped, and covered her face with the corner of her apron. Sympathizing tears stood in Laura's eyes; while Harriet sobbed aloud at the remembrance of the play-fellow of her infancy. The old woman first recovered herself. 'I shall never have done at this rate,' said she, and, drying her eyes, turned to address the rest of her tale to Laura. 'Well, Ma'am, a gentleman who used to come a-visiting to the castle, by ill fortune chanced to see her; and ever after that he noticed her and spoke to her; and flattered me up, too, saying, what a fine-looking young creature she was, and so well brought up too, and what a pity it was that she should be destined for a tradesman's wife. So, like a fool as I was, I thought no harm of his fine speeches, because Jessy always said he behaved quite modest and respectful like. But John, to be sure, was angry, and said that a tradesman was her equal, and that he hoped her rosy cheeks would never give her notions above her station; and, says he, – I am sure many and many a time I have thought of his words – says he, 'God grant I never see worse come of her than to be an honest tradesman's wife.' My young master, too, saw the gentleman one day speaking to her; and he was so good as advise her himself, and told her that the gentleman meant nothing honest by all his fine speeches. So after that, she would never stop with him at all, nor give ear to a word of his flatteries; but always ran away from him, telling him to say those fine things to his equals. So, one unlucky day I had some matters to be done in the town, and Jessy said she would like to go, and poor foolish I was so left to myself that I let her go. So she dressed herself in her clean white gown. – I remember it as were it but yesterday. I went to the door with her, charging her to be home early. She shook hands with me. Jessy, says I, you look just like a bride. So she smiled. No, mother, says she, I shan't leave home so merrily the day I leave it for all – and I never saw my poor child smile again. So she went, poor lamb, little thinking! – and I stood in the door looking after her, thinking, like a fool as I was, that my young master need not have thought it strange though a gentleman had taken her for a wife, for there were not many ladies that looked like her.'

Margaret rested her arms upon her knees, bent her head over them, made a pause, and then began again. 'All day I was merry as a lark, singing and making every thing clean in our little habitation here, where I thought we should sit down together so happy when John came home at night from the castle. So it was getting darkish before my work was done, and then I began to wonder what was become of Jessy; and many a time I went across the green to see if there was any sight of her. At last John came home, and I told him that I was beginning to be frightened; but he laughed at me, and said she had perhaps met with some of her comrades, and was gone to take her tea with them. So we sat down by the fire; but I could not rest, for my mind misgave me sadly; so says I, John, I will go and see after my girl. Well, says he, we may as well go and meet her. – Alas! Alas! a sad meeting was that! We went to the door; I opened it, and somebody fell against me. – It was Jessy. She looked as dead as she did the day I laid her in her coffin; and all her pretty cheek was blue, and her pretty mouth, that used to smile so sweetly in my face when she was a baby on my knee, it was all bloody. And her pretty shining hair that I used to comb so often – Oh woe, woe is me! How could I see such a sight and live.'

The mother wrung her withered hands, and sobbed as if her heart were breaking. Laura laid her arms kindly round old Margaret's neck, for misfortune made the poor and the stranger her equal and her friend. She offered no words of unavailing consolation, but pitying tears trickled fast down her cheeks; while Mrs Bolingbroke, her eyes flashing indignant fires, exclaimed, 'Surely the curse of heaven will pursue that wretch!' 'Alas!' said Margaret, 'I fear I cursed him too; but I was in a manner beside myself then. God forgive both him and me! My poor child never cursed him. All that I could say she would not tell who it was that had used her so. She said she should never bring him to justice; and always prayed that his own conscience might be his only punishment. So from the first we saw that her heart was quite broken; for she would never speak nor look up, nor let me do the smallest thing for her, but always said it was not fit that I should wait on such a one as she. Well, one night, after we were all a-bed, a letter was flung in at the window of Jessy's closet, and she crept out of her bed to take it. I can shew it you, Miss, for it was under her pillow when she died.' Margaret, unlocking a drawer, took out a letter and gave it to Laura, who read in it these words:

'My dear Jessy, I am the most miserable wretch upon earth. I wish I had been upon the rack the hour I met you. I am sure I have been so ever since. Do not curse me, dear Jessy! Upon my soul, I had far less thought of being the ruffian I have been to you, than I have at this moment of blowing out my own brains. I wish to heaven that I had been in your own station that I might have made you amends for the injury I have done. But you know it is impossible for me to marry you. I inclose a bank-bill for £100, and I will continue to pay you the same sum annually while you live, though you should never consent to see me more. If you make me a father, no expence shall be spared to provide the means of secrecy and comfort. No accommodation which a wife could have shall be withheld from you. Tell me if there be any thing more than I can do for you. I shall never forgive myself for what I have done. I abhor myself, and from this hour, I forswear all woman-kind for your sake. Once more, dear Jessy, pardon me I implore you.'

This letter was without signature; but the hand-writing was familiar to Laura, and could not be mistaken. It was Hargrave's. Shuddering at this new proof of his depravity, Laura inwardly offered a thanksgiving that she had escaped all connection with such a monster. 'You may trust my friend with the wretch's name,' said Harriet, anxious that Laura's conviction should be complete. 'She will make no imprudent use of it.' 'I should never have known it myself had it not been for this letter,' answered Margaret. 'But my poor child wished to answer it, and she was not able to carry the answer herself, so she was obliged to ask her father to go with it. And first she made us both promise on the Bible, never to bring him either to shame or punishment; and then she told us that it was that same Major Hargrave that used to speak her so fair. Here is the scroll that John took of her answer.'

'Sir, I return your money, for it can be of no use where I am going. I will never curse you; but trust I shall to the last have pity on you, who had no pity on me. I fear your sorrow is not right repentance; for, if it was, you would never think of committing a new sin by taking your own life, but rather of making reparation for the great evil you have done. Not that I say this in respect of wishing to be your wife. My station makes that unsuitable, more especially now when I should be a disgrace to any man. And I must say, a wicked person would be as unsuitable among my friends; for my parents are honest persons, although their daughter is so unhappy as to bring shame on them. I shall not live long enough to disgrace them any farther, so pray inquire no more of me, nor take the trouble to send me money, for I will not buy my coffin with the wages of shame; and I shall need nothing else. So, wishing that my untimely end may bring you to a true repentance, I remain, Sir, the poor dying disgraced,

'Ah, Miss,' continued Margaret, wiping from the paper the drops which had fallen on it, 'my poor child's prophecy was true. She always said she would just live till her child was born, and then lay her dishonoured head and her broken heart in the grave. My Lady and Miss Harriet there were very kind, and my young master himself was so good as to promise that he would act the part of a father to the little orphan. And he used to argue with her that she should submit to the chastisement that was laid upon her, and that she might find some comfort still; but she always said that her chastisement was less than she deserved, but that she could never wish to live to be 'a very scorn of men, an outcast and an alien among her mother's children.' So the day that little Henry was born, she was doing so well that we were in hopes she would still be spared to us; but she knew better; and, when I was sitting by her, she pulled me close to her and said, 'Mother,' says she, looking pleased like, 'the time of my release is at hand now,' and then she charged me never to give poor little Henry to his cruel father. I had not the power to say a word to her, but sat hushing the baby, with my heart like to break. So, by and by, she said to me again; but very weak and low like, 'my brothers lie side by side in the churchyard, lay me at their feet; it is good enough for me.' So she never spoke more, but closed her eyes, and slipped quietly away, and left her poor old mother.'