Self-control: A Novel
The desponding Laura endured his reproaches in silence. Finding herself thus doubly guarded, she resigned all hope of escaping by her own unaided exertions; and mingling silent prayers with her fearful anticipations, she strove to reanimate her trust that she should not be wholly forsaken. Sometimes her habitual confidence prevailed, and she felt assured, that she should not be left a prey to the wicked. Yet the dreadful threats, the fiery passions of Hargrave rose to her recollection, and she again shuddered in despair. She suddenly remembered Jessy Wilson. Starting, with an exclamation of horror and affright, she sought some weapon which might dispense to her a death less terrible; and instinctively grasping her pen-knife hid it in her bosom. The next moment she shrunk from her purpose, and doubted the lawfulness of such defence. 'Will he dare his own life, too?' thought she. 'Oh, Heaven! in mercy spare me the necessity of sending a wretch to his great account, with all his crimes unrepented on his head – or pardon him and me?'
She continued to commend herself to Heaven, till her terrors by degrees subsided. She began again to feel the steady trust which is acquired by all who are habituated to a grateful consideration of the care which they experience; a trust that even the most adverse events shall terminate in their real advantage; that the rugged and slippery ways of this dark wilderness, shall, at the dawn of everlasting day, be owned as the fittest to conduct us to the house of our Father. She began, too, to regain the confidence which strong minds naturally put in their own exertions. She resolved not to be wanting to herself; nor, by brooding over her terrors, to disable herself from taking advantage of any providential circumstance which might favour her escape.
Morning at length began to dawn, but the blinds being closely drawn up, Laura could make no observations on the country through which she was passing. She remarked that the furious speed with which she had first been driven, had slackened to a slow pace; and she judged that the wearied cattle could not proceed much further. She hoped that it would soon be necessary to stop; and that during the few minutes in which they halted to change horses, she might find means of appealing to the justice of her fellow-creatures. 'Surely,' said she, 'some heart will be open to me.'
After proceeding slowly for some time the carriage stopped. Laura listened for the sounds of human voices, but all was silent. She heard the trampling of horses as if led close by the carriage. Some one was certainly near who had no interest in this base oppression. 'Help! Oh help me,' cried Laura. 'I am cruelly and wrongfully detained. I have friends that will reward you. Heaven will reward you! – Help me! for kind mercy, help me!' 'Heyday!' cried the fellow in the carriage, with something between a grin and a stare, 'who is the girl speaking to? What! did you imagine we should be wise enough to bring you within holla of a whole yardful of stable boys and piping chambermaids? Reward indeed! Set your heart at rest, Miss; we shall be rewarded without your friends or Heaven either.'
The carriage again proceeded with the same speed as at first, and Laura strove to support with composure this new blow to her hopes. Her companion, now producing a bottle of wine and some biscuits, advised her to share with him; and that she might not wilfully lavish her strength and spirits, she consented. Once more in the course of the day the travellers stopped to change horses, and Laura once more, though with feebler hopes, renewed her appeals to justice and mercy. No answer greeted her. Again she was hurried on her melancholy way.
The day, as it advanced, seemed rough and gloomy. The wind swept in gusts through the trees, and the rain beat upon the carriage. The evening was drawing on when Laura remarked that the motion was changed. The chaise proceeded slowly over soft uneven ground, and she guessed, with dismay, that it had quitted all frequented paths. In renewed alarm, she again besought her companion to tell her whither he meant to conduct her, and for what end she was thus cruelly forced from her home. 'Why, how should I tell you what I do not know myself?' answered the man. 'I shan't conduct you much farther – and a good riddance. As for the end you'll see that when it comes.'
About an hour after quitting the road, the carriage stopped; and the man letting down the blind, Laura perceived through the dusk, that they were on a barren moor. Waste and level, it seemed to spread before her; but the darkness prevented her from distinguishing its features or its boundaries. Suddenly, as the gust died away, she fancied she heard the roar of waters. She listened; but the wind swelled again, and she heard only its howlings over the heath. The horseman, who had rode away when the carriage stopped, now gallopped back, and directed the postilion to proceed. They went on for a few hundred yards, and again they stopped. The roar of waters again burst on Laura's ear, now swelling in thunder, now sinking in a sullen murmur. She saw a light glimmer at a distance. It was tossed by the billows of the ocean.
The door of the chaise was opened, and she was lifted from it. Gliding from the arms of the ruffian who held her, and clasping his knees, 'Oh! if you have the heart of a man,' she cried, 'let me not be torn from my native land – let me not be cast on the merciless deep. Think what it is to be an exile – friendless in a strange land – the sport, the prey of a pitiless enemy. Oh! if you have need of mercy, have mercy upon me.' – 'Holla! Robert,' shouted the ruffian, 'take away this girl. She's enough to make a man play the fool and whimper.' The other fellow now approaching, lifted Laura, more dead than alive, from the ground, and, wrapping her in a large cloak, bore her towards the beach.
In a creek sheltered by rocks from the breakers, lay a small boat. One man sat near the bow, roaring a hoarse sea-song. As the party approached, he rose, and pushing the boat ashore, received the half lifeless Laura in his brawny arms, cursing her with strange oaths for having made him wait so long. Then, on his uttering a discordant yell, two of his companions appeared; and after exchanging with Laura's guards a murmuring account of the trouble they had undergone, pushed off from the land. The keel grated along the pebbles; the next moment it floated on the waves, and Laura starting up, threw back the cloak from her face, and with strained eyes gazed on her parting native land, till all behind was darkness.
A pang of anguish striking to her heart, she made once more a desperate effort to awaken pity. Stretching her clasped hands towards the man who sat near her, she cried, in the piercing voice of misery, 'Oh take pity on me! I am an orphan. I have heard that sailors have kindly hearts – Have pity then – land me on the wildest coast, and I will fall down and pray for you!' The person to whom she spoke having eyed her a moment in silence, coolly drew in his oar; and rising, wrapped her close in the cloak and laid her down in the bottom of the boat, advising her with an oath to 'keep snug or she would capsize them.' In despair she renounced all further effort. Silent and motionless she lay, the cold spray dashing over her unheeded; till wet, chilled, and miserable, she was lifted on board a small brig which lay about half a mile from the shore. She was carried down to the cabin, which was more decent than is usual in vessels of that size. A clean-looking woman attended to undress her; night-clothes were in readiness for her; and every accommodation provided which her situation rendered possible. Every thing served to convince her of the care and precaution with which this cruel scheme had been concerted, and to shew her the depth of the snare into which she had fallen.
She was laid in her narrow crib, ere it occurred to her that Hargrave might be near to watch his prey. Exhausted as she was, sleep fled at the thought. She listened for his voice, for his footstep, amid the unwonted discord that disturbed her ear. Daylight returned, and no sound reached her more terrible than that of the gale rattling in the cordage and dashing the waves against the vessel's side. Worn out with fatigue and suffering, she slept at length; and a mid-day sun glanced by fits through her grated window ere she awoke to a new sense of sorrow. She rose, and going upon deck, looked sadly back upon the way she had unconsciously passed. Behind, the blue mountains were sinking in the distance; on the left lay a coast unknown to her; before her stretched the boundless deep, unvaried save by the whitening surge.
Laura spent most of her time upon deck, the fresh air reviving her failing spirits. One male and one female attendant seemed appropriated to her, and served her with even officious assiduity. Hoping that some opportunity might occur of transmitting an account of her situation to England, she begged these obsequious attendants to supply her with writing materials; but was firmly, though respectfully, refused.
The third morning came, and Laura looked in vain for any object to vary the immeasurable waste. The sun rose from one unbending line, and sunk again in naked majesty. She observed that the course of the vessel was in general directly west; and if she had before doubted, this circumstance would have convinced her of her destination. She once ventured to inquire whither the ship was bound, but was answered that 'she should know that when she reached the port.'
It was on the fourth of May that Laura began her ill-omened voyage. On the twelfth of June, land! All ran to gaze with glad eyes on what seemed a low cloud, faintly descried on the verge of the horizon – all but Laura, who looked sadly forward, as to the land of exile, of degradation, – of death. Day after day that dreaded land approached; till, by degrees, the boundless ocean was narrowed to a mighty river, and the unfrequent sail, almost too distant for mortal sight, was multiplied to a busy fleet, plying in every direction their cheerful labours. At length a city appeared in view, rising like an amphitheatre, and flashing bright with a material unknown to European architecture. Laura inquired what town it was; and, though refused all information, surmised that Quebec lay before her.
Opposite the town, the ship hove to; a boat was launched, and Laura expected to be sent on shore. Nor did she unwillingly prepare to go. 'Surely,' thought she, 'in this populous city some one will be found to listen to my tale, and wrest me from the arm of the oppressor.' The boat however departed without her, carrying ashore the man who had hitherto attended her. After remaining on shore for several hours, the man returned, and the vessel again proceeded in her voyage. Laura now imagined that Montreal was her destined port; and again she strove to hope that, among numbers, she should find aid.
A still cloudy evening had succeeded to a sultry day, when Laura observed an unusual bustle upon deck. It was growing dark, when, as she leant over the rail, to watch the fire-flies that flashed like stars in the air, the captain approaching her, told her that she must go ashore, and immediately lifted her into a boat which lay along-side. Her attendants and baggage were already there; the sailors had taken their oars; and, roaring to their companions a rough 'good night,' made towards the land. Instead, however, of gaining the nearest point, they rowed into what in the darkness seemed a creek; but Laura soon perceived that, having left the great river on which they had hitherto sailed, they were following the course of one of its tributary streams. The darkness prevented her from distinguishing objects on the banks, though now and then a light, glimmering from a casement, shewed that the haunts of man were near. She could not even discern the countenances of the sailors; but she observed, that he who seemed to direct the others, spoke in a voice which was new to her ear. All night the rowers toiled up the stream. The day dawned; and Laura perceived that, passing an open cultivated plain, she was pursuing her course towards woods impervious to the light. Dark and tangled they lowered over the stream, till they closed round, and every cheerful object was blotted from the scene.
CHAPTER XXXIII
The travellers had proceeded for some time shaded by the overhanging woods, the distance lengthened by the dreary sameness of their way, when a wild halloo smote Laura's ear; and she perceived that three Indians stood at the water-edge, making signs for the boat to land. To her unspeakable surprise, the sailors joyfully obeyed the signal. They ran their bark into a creek to which the Indians pointed, and cheerfully busied themselves in discharging their cargo. Placed with her attendants on a little eminence, which rose above the swampy margin of the river, Laura took a fearful survey of the scene around her. Save where the sluggish stream opened to the day, her view was bounded to a few yards of marshy ground, rank with unwholesome vegetation. No track appeared to lead from this desolate spot. Between the gigantic pines, brushwood and coarse grass spread in sad luxuriance. No trace was here of human footstep. All was dreary and forlorn, as the land which the first wanderers visited unwilling.
She had not long continued her melancholy survey, when the two stoutest of the Indians approached; and one of them, after talking apart with her attendants, lifted her female servant in his arms, and walked on. The other, making some uncouth gestures, prepared to raise Laura from the ground. She shrunk back alarmed; but the Indian, in broken French, assured her that he would not hurt her; and, pointing towards the woods, reminded her of the difficulty of passing them on foot. Her valet, too, represented the fatigue she must undergo, if she refused the assistance of the Indian. But Laura preferring a toilsome march to such a mode of conveyance, persevered in her refusal; and, bidding them lead the way, followed into the pathless wild.
They continued their journey for several hours, no object meeting their sight that might mark the stages of their way. No work of man appeared, not even the faintest trace that ever man had toiled through this wilderness; yet Laura perceived that the Indians proceeded without hesitation. The position of the grass, the appearance of the leaves, gave indication sufficient to guide them in their route. One of them carried a bag of provisions; and having reached a spot where the ground was firm and dry, he invited Laura to sit down and take some refreshment. Faint with fatigue, Laura thankfully acceded. Scarcely, however, had she seated herself on the grass, ere her attention was drawn by a slight though unusual noise; and she was told that it was caused by a rattlesnake. At this intelligence her maid, screaming, started up, and was going to dart forward into the wood. The Indians beheld her terror with silent contempt, while Laura calmly detained her with gentle force. 'Stay, Mary,' said she. 'If you tread on the animal you are gone! If we are quiet, we may probably see and avoid it.' The influence which Laura always acquired over those with whom she lived, prevailed over Mary's dread; and in a few moments the serpent was seen by one of the Indians, who killed it with a single blow.
Their hasty meal ended, the party proceeded on their way; but they had not gone far ere Laura, worn out with toil and sorrow, sunk upon the ground. She had now no choice; and the Indian, lifting her with the same ease as she would have done an infant, went on with more speed than before.
Towards the close of the day, the woods suddenly opened into a small field, surrounded by them on every side, which appeared to have been itself imperfectly redeemed from the same state of waste luxuriance. In the centre stood a house, or rather cabin, rudely constructed of the material which nature so lavishly supplied. Around it a small patch, inclosed by a palisade, bore marks of forsaken cultivation. Beyond this inclosure, logs of prodigious size lay scattered through the field, and the roots, which had not been cleared from the ground, were again shooting luxuriantly. With a faint sensation of gladness, Laura beheld traces of humankind. Yet no living creature appeared. Here reigned primeval stillness. The winds had died away. A sultry calm filled the air. The woods were motionless. The birds were silent. All was fixed as in death, save where a dull stream stole under the tall canes that deformed its margin.
Mary's exclamations of grief and surprise first informed Laura that she had reached her home. To Laura the dreariness of the scene was of small concern. No outward circumstances could add to the horrors with which her fears were familiar. While her attendant bewailed aloud that ever thirst of gain had lured her from happy England, Laura was inwardly striving to revive the hope that sudden death might snatch her from the grasp of the oppressor; and renewing her oft repeated prayer, – 'Oh that Thou wouldst hide me in the grave.' But no selfish sorrow could make her regardless of the woes of others. 'Courage, Mary,' said she, with a foreboding smile, 'we shall soon be released; and both, I hope, find shelter in our Father's house.'
The cabin was divided into three apartments, each entering from the other. To the innermost Laura was conducted; and she saw that it had been arranged for her. The window was secured with iron. The furniture, unlike that of the other rooms, was new and not inelegant. Laura looked round to observe whether any trace of Hargrave's presence was visible. None appeared. She examined every recess and corner of her new abode, as one who fears the lurking assassin. She ascertained that Hargrave was not its inmate; and thanked Heaven for the prospect of one night of peace. It was in vain, however, that she tried to discover how long this reprieve might last. The servants either could not or would not give her any information. She was too well acquainted with the character of her oppressor to hope that he would long delay his coming. 'To-morrow, perhaps' – thought she; and the cold shivering came over her, which now ever followed her anticipation of the future. 'Yet why do I despair?' said she. 'Is any time too short, are any means too feeble for the Power – for the wisdom in which I trust? But since the hour of trial may be so near, let me not waste the time which should prepare for it, – prepare to cast off this poor clog of earth, and rise beyond its sorrows and its stains.'
Laura's bodily frame, however, could not long keep pace with the efforts of her mind, for her health and strength were failing under the continued influence of grief and fear. The form, once rounded in fair proportion, was wasted to a shadow. The once graceful neck bent mournfully forward. The lily arms hung down in listless melancholy. The cheek, once of form inimitable, was sunk and hollow now. The colour, once quick to tell the modest thought, was fixed in the paleness of the dead. And death was ever present to her thoughts, – sole point to which her hope turned steadily!
One only desire lingered on earth. She wished that some friend should pity her hard fate, and know that the victim had shrunk from it, though in vain. Intending to leave behind her some attestation of her innocence, she besought Mary to procure for her the means of writing. 'Why should you fear to trust me?' said she. 'To whom upon earth can my complaint reach now? You may see all I write, Mary; and perhaps when I am gone you will yourself convey it to my friend. Your master will not prevent you then; for then he will have pity on me, and wish that he had not dealt with me so hardly.' The irresistible sweetness of Laura had won the heart of her attendant, and Mary promised that she would endeavour to gratify her. She said that the writing materials were kept carefully locked up by Robert, the man-servant; that his master's orders on that subject had been peremptory; that she was sure he would not venture to disobey while there remained a possibility of conveying intelligence from the place of their confinement; that two of the Indians were to depart on the following day; that after they were gone, no means of access to the habitable world remaining, Robert might possibly relax his strictness, and permit Laura to amuse herself with writing. Mary's words awakened in Laura's mind an idea that all was not yet lost. The Indians were suspected of favouring her. They might then bear her appeal to human pity, to human justice. If she could find means to speak with them apart, she would plead so earnestly that even savages would be moved to mercy! At these thoughts a ray of hope once more kindled in her breast. It was the last. All day she watched for an opportunity to address one of the Indians. In vain! Robert guarded her with such relentless fidelity, that she found it impossible to effect her purpose. The Indians departed. Mary performed her promise, and the unfortunate Laura wrote the following letter, which was afterwards, with Hargrave's permission, conveyed to Mrs Douglas.
'From this dreary land of exile, to whom shall I address myself save to you, mine own friend, and my father's friend? Where tell my sad fate save to you, who first taught me the hope that lives beyond it? And let it comfort your kind heart to know, that while you are shedding tears over this last memorial of your Laura, I shall be rejoicing in the full consummation of that hope.
'There is indeed another friend! One to whom my last earthly thoughts are due! But I cannot tell him, that she who was almost the wife of his bosom is gone down to a dishonoured grave. I have not time to soften my sad tale to him, nor to study words of comfort; for the moments are precious with me now. A few, a very few, are all that remain for preparation. I must not rob them of their awful right. Tell him my story as he is able to bear it. Tell him my innocence, and he will believe it, for he knew my very soul. But I must hasten, lest the destroyer come, ere, in these lines, I close my connection with this world of trial.'
[She then proceeded to give a simple narrative of her wrongs. She expressed no bitterness against the author of them. She spoke of him as a misguided being, and pitied the anguish which he was preparing for himself.] 'Tell Mr De Courcy,' she proceeded, 'that I charge him, by all the love he bears me, to forgive my enemy, even from the heart forgive him. Let him do more. Let him pray for him; and if they meet, admonish him. It may be that his heart will soften when he remembers me.'
[The remainder of the letter was written at intervals. Laura spent her time chiefly in acts of devotion, of self-examination, and repentance. It was only when exhausted nature could no longer follow these exercises of the soul, that she returned to add another line to her picture of wretchedness.]
'The saints who resisted unto blood striving against sin, who gave up their lives in defence of the truth, looked forward to the hour of their departure rejoicing. But I must go to the grave laden with shame and sorrow. My soul is weary of my life, and yet I must fear to die. Yet let my enemy a little while delay his coming and my death also will be joyful. Let him stay only a few days, and I shall be deaf to the voice of the oppressor. I am wasting fast away. If he haste not to catch the shadow, it will be gone. —
'The people whom he has appointed to guard his poor prisoner, no longer watch me as they once did. It is useless now. A few short steps and my feeble limbs bend to the earth, reminding me whither I am hastening. —
'When I am gone, Mary will carry you the ringlets which you were wont to twine round your finger. Send one of them to her who should have been my sister; but give not any to my own Montague, for he will pine over them when he might be happy in some new connection. Yet tell him that I loved him to the end. I believe he sometimes doubted of my love; but tell him that I bore him a firm affection. Passion is unfit for the things of this world. —
'I have a letter from my enemy. In two days more. —
'I have a knife concealed in my bosom. All night it is hidden beneath my pillow; and when my weary eyes close for a moment, I grasp it, and the chill touch rouses me again. Mine own dear friend, did you think when first you taught me to join my little hands in prayer, that these hands should be stained with murder? —
'Is it a crime to die when I can no longer live with innocence? When there is no escape but in the grave, is it forbidden to hide me there? My mind grows feeble now. I cannot discern between good and evil. —
