Self-control: A Novel

These thoughts occupied far less time than the recital; and yet, ere they were passed, Laura had untied the locket from her neck, and put it into the hands of the jeweller. It was not till she saw it in the hands of another, that she felt all the pain of parting with it. She asked to see it once more; as she gazed on it for the last time, tears trickled from her eyes; but speedily wiping them away, and averting her head, she restored the locket to its new owner, and taking up the money, departed.

She soon arrived at the print-shop, and finding Wilkins disengaged, produced her drawing, and asked him to purchase it. Wilkins looked at it, and inquired what price she had put upon it. 'I am quite unacquainted with its real value,' answered she, 'but the rapid sale of my work is at present such an object to me, that I shall willingly make it as cheap as possible, or allow you to fix your own price.' 'Have you any more to dispose of, Ma'am?' asked Wilkins. 'I have none finished, but I could promise you six more in a week if you are inclined to take them.' 'I think,' said Wilkins, 'after some consideration, I might venture to take them if you could afford them for half a guinea each.' 'You shall have them,' said Laura, with a sigh; 'but I think half-a-guinea rather a low – a high, I believe, I mean. – '

Laura did not at this moment exactly know what she meant; for her eyes had just rested on a gentleman, who, with his back towards her, was busied in examining a book of caricatures. She thought she could not be mistaken in the person. Only one form upon earth was endowed with such symmetry and grace; and that form was Hargrave's. He slightly turned his head, and Laura was certain.

Though Laura neither screamed nor fainted, this recognition was not made without extreme emotion. She trembled violently, and a mist spread before her eyes; but she remembered the apparently wilful desertion of her lover; and, determined neither to claim his compassion nor gratify his vanity by any of the airs of a forsaken damsel, she quietly turned away from him, and leant against the counter to recover strength and composure.

She was resolved to quit the shop the instant that she was able; and yet, perhaps she would have become sooner sensible of her recovered powers of motion, had it not been for a latent hope that the caricatures would not long continue so very interesting. No one however, accosted her; and next came the idea that Hargrave had already observed her, without wishing to claim her acquaintance. Before the mortifying thought could take a distinct form, Laura was already on her way towards the door.

'You have left your half-guinea, Ma'am,' said Wilkins, calling after her; and Laura, half angry at being detained, turned back to fetch it. At this moment Hargrave's eye fell upon her half averted face. Surprise and joy illuminating his fine countenance, 'Laura!' he exclaimed, 'is it possible! have I at last found you?' and springing forward, he clasped her to his breast, regardless of the inquisitive looks and significant smiles of the spectators of his transports. But to the scrutiny of strangers, to the caresses of Hargrave, even to the indecorum of her situation, poor Laura was insensible. Weakened by the fatigue and emotion of the two preceding days, overcome by the sudden conviction that she had not been wilfully neglected, her head sunk upon the shoulder of Hargrave, and she lost all consciousness.

When Laura recovered, she found herself in a little parlour adjoining to the shop, with no attendant but Hargrave, who still supported her in his arms. Her first thought was vexation at her own ill-timed sensibility; her next, a resolution to make no further forfeiture of her respectability, but rather, by the most stoical composure, to regain what she had lost. For this purpose, she soon disengaged herself from her perilous support, and unwilling to speak till secure of maintaining her firmness, she averted her head, and returned all Hargrave's raptures of love and joy with provoking silence.

As soon as she had completely recovered her self-possession, she rose, and apologizing for the trouble she had occasioned him, said she would return home. Hargrave eagerly begged permission to accompany her, saying that his carriage was in waiting, and would convey them. Laura, with cold politeness, declined his offer. Though a little piqued by her manner, Hargrave triumphed in the idea that he retained all his former influence. 'My bewitching Laura,' said he, taking her hand, 'I beseech you to lay aside this ill-timed coquetry. After so sweet, so interesting a proof, that you still allow me some power over your feelings, must I accuse you of an affectation of coldness?' 'No, sir,' said Laura indignantly, 'rather of a momentary weakness, for which I despise myself.'

The lover could not indeed have chosen a more unfavourable moment to express his exultation; for Laura's feelings of humiliation and self-reproach were just then raised to their height, by her perceiving the faces of two of the shop-boys peeping through the glass door with an aspect of roguish curiosity. Conscious of her inability to walk home, and feeling her situation quite intolerable, she called to one of the little spies, and begged that he would instantly procure her a hackney coach.

Hargrave vehemently remonstrated against this disorder. 'Why this unkind haste?' said he. 'Surely after so tedious, so tormenting an absence, you need not grudge me a few short moments.' Laura thought he was probably himself to blame for the absence of which he complained, and coldly answering, 'I have already been detained too long,' was about to quit the room, when Hargrave, impatiently seizing her hand, exclaimed, 'Unfeeling Laura! does that relentless pride never slumber? Have I followed you from Scotland, and sought you for three anxious months, to be met without one kind word, one pitying look!'

'Followed me!' repeated Laura with surprise.

'Yes, upon my life, my journey hither had no other object. After you so cruelly left me, without warning or farewell, how could I endure to exist in the place which you once made delightful to me. Indeed I could not bear it. I resolved to pursue you wherever you went, to breathe at least the same air with you, sometimes to feast my fond eyes with that form, beyond imagination lovely – perhaps to win that beguiling smile which no heart can withstand. The barbarous caution of Mrs Douglas in refusing me your address, has caused the disappointment of all my hopes.'

Hargrave had egregiously mistaken the road to Laura's favour when he threw a reflection upon her friend. 'Mrs Douglas certainly acted right,' said she. 'I have equal confidence in her prudence and in her friendship.' 'Probably then,' said Hargrave, reddening with vexation, 'this system of torture originated with you. It was at your desire that your friend withstood all my entreaties.' 'No,' answered Laura, 'I cannot claim the merit of so much forethought. I certainly did not expect the honour that you are pleased to say you have done me, especially when you were doubtful both of my abode and of your own reception.'

'Insulting girl,' cried Hargrave, 'you know too well, that, however received, still I must follow you. And, but for a series of the most tormenting accidents, I should have defeated the caution of your cold-hearted favourite. At the Perth post-office I discovered that your letters were addressed to the care of Mr Baynard; and the very hour that I reached London, I flew to make inquiries after you. I found that Mr Baynard's house was shut up, and that he was gone in bad health to Richmond. I followed him, and was told that he was too ill to be spoken with, that none of the servants knew your abode, as the footman who used to carry messages to you had been dismissed, and that your letters were now left at Mr Baynard's chambers in town. Thither I went, and learnt that, ever since your removal to Richmond, you had yourself sent for your letters, and that, of course, the clerks were entirely ignorant of your residence. Imagine my disappointment. The people, however, promised to make inquiries of your messenger, and to let me know where you might be found; and day after day did I haunt them, the sport of vain hope and bitter disappointment. No other letter ever came for you, nor did you ever inquire for any.'

'After Mr Baynard's removal to Richmond,' said Laura, 'I directed Mrs Douglas to address her letters to our lodgings.'

'Ah Laura, think what anxieties, what wretchedness I have suffered in my fruitless search! Yet you meet me only to drive me coldly from your presence. Once you said that you pardoned the folly – the madness that offended you; but too well I see that you deceived yourself or me – that no attachment, no devotion can purchase your forgiveness.' 'Indeed,' said Laura, melted by the proof which she had received of her lover's affection, yet fearful of forfeiting her caution, 'I am incapable of harbouring enmity against the worst of human beings, and – '

'Enmity!' interrupted Hargrave, 'Heavens, what a word!' 'I mean,' said Laura, faltering, 'that I am not insensible to the regard – '

'Madam, the coach is at the door,' said the shop-boy, again peeping slily into the room; and Laura, hastily bidding Hargrave good morning, walked towards the carriage. Having herself given the coachman his directions, she suffered Hargrave to hand her in, giving him a slight bow in token of dismissal. He continued, however, to stand for some moments with his foot upon the step, waiting for a look of permission to accompany her; but, receiving none, he sprung into the seat by her side, and called to the man to drive on. Laura offended at his boldness, gave him a very ungracious look, and drew back in silence, 'I see you think me presumptuous,' said he, 'but, just found, how can I consent to leave you? Oh Laura, if you knew what I have suffered from an absence that seemed endless! Not for worlds would I endure such another.'

'The stipulated two years are still far from a close,' said Laura coldly; 'and, till they are ended, our intercourse cannot be too slight.'

'Surely,' cried Hargrave, 'when you fixed this lingering probation, you did not mean to banish me from your presence for two years!' Laura could not with truth aver that such a banishment had been her intention. 'I believe,' said she, suppressing a sigh, 'that would have been my wisest meaning.' 'I would sooner die,' cried Hargrave, vehemently. 'Oh, had I sooner found you,' added he, a dark expression which Laura could not define clouding his countenance, 'what wretchedness would have been spared! But now that we have at last met,' continued he, his eyes again sparkling with love and hope, 'I will haunt you, cling to you, supplicate you, till I melt you to a passion as fervent as my own,' While he spoke he dropped upon his knee by her side, and drew his arm passionately round her. Time had been, that Laura, trembling with irrepressible emotion, would have withdrawn from the embrace, reproaching herself for sensations from which she imagined that the more spotless heart of her lover was free, and hating herself for being unable to receive as a sister, the caresses of a fondness pure as a brother's love. But Hargrave had himself torn the veil from her eyes; and shrinking from him as if a serpent had crossed her path, she cast on him a look that struck like an ice-bolt on the glowing heart of Hargrave. 'Just Heaven!' he cried, starting up with a convulsive shudder, 'this is abhorrence! Why, why have you deceived me with a false show of sensibility? Speak it at once,' said he, wildly grasping her arm; 'say that you detest me, and tell me too who has dared to supplant me in a heart once wholly mine.'

'Be calm, I implore you,' said Laura, terrified at his violence, 'no one has supplanted you. I am, I ever shall be, whatever you deserve to find me.'

Laura's soothing voice, her insinuating look, retained all their wonted power to calm the fierce passions of her lover. 'Oh I shall never deserve you,' said he in a tone of wretchedness, while his face was again crossed by an expression of anguish, which the unsuspecting Laura attributed to remorse for his former treatment of herself.

The carriage at this moment stopped, and anxious to calm his spirits at parting, Laura smiled kindly upon him, and said, 'Be ever thus humble in your opinion of your own merits, ever thus partial in your estimate of mine, and then,' added she, the tears trembling in her lovely eyes, 'we shall meet again in happier circumstances.' 'You must not, shall not leave me thus,' cried Hargrave impatiently, 'I will not quit this spot, till you have consented to see me again.' 'Do not ask it,' replied Laura. 'A long, long time must elapse, much virtuous exertion must be undergone, ere I dare receive you with other than this coldness, which appears to be so painful to you. Why then sport with your own feelings and with mine?' 'Ah Laura,' said Hargrave in a voice of supplication, 'use me as you will, only suffer me to see you.' Moved with the imploring tone of her lover, Laura turned towards him that she might soften by her manner the meditated refusal; but, in an evil hour for her resolution, she met the fine eyes of Hargrave suffused with tears, and, wholly unable to utter what she intended, she remained silent. Hargrave was instantly sensible of his advantage, and willing to assist her acquiescence by putting his request into a less exceptionable form, he said, 'I ask not even for your notice, suffer me but to visit your father.' 'My father has been very ill,' returned Laura, who, unknown to herself, rejoiced to find an excuse for her concession, 'and it may give him pleasure to see you; but I can claim no share in the honour of your visits.' Hargrave, delighted with his success, rapturously thanked her for her condescension; and springing from the carriage, led her, but half satisfied with her own conduct, into the house.

She ushered him into the parlour, and before he had time to detain her, glided away to acquaint her father with his visit. She found the Captain wrapt in the same listless melancholy in which she had left him; the book which she had meant to entertain him, used only as a rest for his arm. Laura was now beset with her old difficulty. She had not yet learnt to speak of Hargrave without sensible confusion; and to utter his name while any eye was fixed upon her face, required an effort which no common circumstances could have tempted her to make. She therefore took refuge behind her father's chair, before she began her partial relation of her morning's adventure.

'And is he now in the house,' cried Montreville, with an animation which he had long laid aside. 'I rejoice to hear it. Return to him immediately, my love. I will see him in a few minutes.' 'As soon as you choose to receive him,' said Laura; 'I shall carry your commands. I shall remain in the dressing-room.' 'For shame, Laura!' returned Montreville. 'I thought you had been above these silly airs of conquest. Colonel Hargrave's rejected passion gives you no right to refuse him the politeness due to all your father's guests.' 'Certainly not, Sir, but' – she stopped, hesitating – 'however,' added she, 'since you wish it, I will go.'

It was not without embarrassment that Laura returned to her lover; to offer him another tête à tête seemed so like soliciting a renewal of his ardours. In this idea she was stopping at the parlour door, collecting her courage, and meditating a speech decorously repulsive, when Hargrave, who had been listening for her approach, impatiently stepped out to look for her, and in a moment spoiled all her concerted oratory, by taking her hand and leading her into the room.

Though Hargrave could at any time take Laura's feelings by surprise, an instant was sufficient to restore her self-possession; and withdrawing her hand, she said, 'In a few minutes, Sir, my father will be glad to see you, and at his desire I attend you till he can have that honour.' 'Bless him for the delay!' cried Hargrave, 'I have a thousand things to say to you.' 'And I, Sir,' said Laura, solemnly, 'have one thing to say to you, of more importance to me, probably, than all the thousand.'

Hargrave bit his lip; and Laura proceeded, her colour, as painful recollection rose, fading from the crimson that had newly flushed it, to the paleness of anguish. 'Six months ago,' said she, speaking with an effort that rendered her words scarcely articulate – 'Six months ago you made me a promise. Judge of my anxiety that you should keep it, when to secure its fulfilment I can call up a subject so revolting – so dreadful.' She paused – a cold shudder running through her limbs: but Hargrave, abashed and disconcerted, gave her no interruption, and ventured not even to raise his eyes from the ground. 'My father,' she continued, 'is no longer able to avenge his child; – the bare mention of her wrongs would destroy him. If then you value my peace – if you dread my detestation – let no circumstance seduce, no accident surprise from you this hateful secret.'

While she spoke, the blushes which had deserted her cheek were transferred to that of Hargrave; for though, to his own conscience, he had palliated his former outrage till it appeared a very venial trespass, he was not proof against the unaffected horror with which it had inspired the virtuous Laura. Throwing himself at her feet, and hiding his face in her gown, he bitterly, and for the moment sincerely, bewailed his offence, and vowed to devote his life to its expiation. Then, starting up, he struck his hand wildly upon his forehead, and exclaimed, 'Madman that I have been! Oh, Laura, thy heavenly purity makes me the veriest wretch. No – thou canst never pardon me!'

The innocent Laura, who little suspected all his causes of self-reproach, wept tears of joy over his repentance, and, in a voice full of tenderness, said, 'Indeed I have myself too many faults to be unrelenting. Contrition and amendment are all that Heaven requires – why should I ask more?' Hargrave saw that she attributed all his agitation to remorse for his conduct towards herself; but the effects of her mistake were too delightful to suffer him to undeceive her; and perceiving at once that he had found the master-spring of all her tenderness, he overpowered her with such vows, protestations, and entreaties, that, before their conference was interrupted, he had, amidst tremors, blushes, and hesitation, which spoke a thousand times more than her words, wrung from her a confession that she felt a more than friendly interest in the issue of his probation.

Indeed Montreville was in no haste to break in upon their dialogue. That any woman should have refused the hand of the handsome – the insinuating – the gallant Colonel Hargrave, had always appeared to him little less than miraculous. He had been told, that ladies sometimes rejected what they did not mean to relinquish; and though he could scarcely believe his daughter capable of such childish coquetry, he was not without faith in a maxim, which, it must be confessed, receives sanction from experience, namely, that in all cases of feminine obduracy, perseverance is an infallible recipé. This recipé, he had no doubt, was now to be tried upon Laura; and he fervently wished that it might be with success. Though he was too affectionate a father to form on this subject a wish at variance with his daughter's happiness, he had never been insensible to the desire of seeing her brow graced by a coronet. But now more important considerations made him truly anxious to consign her to the guardianship of a man of honour.

The unfortunate transaction of the annuity would, in the event of his death, leave her utterly destitute. That event, he imagined, was fast approaching; and with many a bitter pang he remembered that he had neither friend nor relative with whom he could entrust his orphan child. His parents had long been dead; his only surviving brother, a fox-hunting squire of small fortune, shared his table and bed with a person who had stooped to these degrading honours from the more reputable situation of an innocent dairy-maid. With Lady Harriet's relations (for friends she had none), Montreville had never maintained any intercourse. They had affected to resent his intrusion into the family, and he had not been industrious to conciliate their favour. Except himself, therefore, Laura had no natural protector; and this circumstance made him tenfold more anxious that she should recal her decision in regard to Hargrave.

He had no doubt that the present visit was intended for Laura; and he suffered as long a time to elapse before he claimed any share in it, as common politeness would allow. He had meant to receive the Colonel in his own apartment, but an inclination to observe the conduct of the lovers, induced him to make an effort to join them in the parlour, where he with pleasure discovered by the countenances of both, that their conversation had been mutually interesting. Hargrave instantly recovered himself, and paid his compliments with his accustomed grace; but Laura, by no means prepared to stand inspection, disappeared the moment her father entered the room.

This was the first time that the gentlemen had met, since the day when Montreville had granted his fruitless sanction to the Colonel's suit. Delicacy prevented the father from touching upon the subject, and it was equally avoided by Hargrave, who had not yet determined in what light to represent his repulse. However, as it completely occupied the minds of both, the conversation, which turned on topics merely indifferent, was carried on with little spirit on either side, and was soon closed by Hargrave's taking leave, after begging permission to repeat his visit.

Colonel Hargrave had promised to spend that evening with the most beautiful woman in London; but the unexpected rencounter of the morning, left him in no humour to fulfil his engagement. He had found his Laura, – his lovely, his innocent Laura, – the object of his only serious passion, – the only woman whose empire reached beyond his senses. He had found her cautious, reserved, severe; yet feeling, constant, and tender. He remembered the overwhelming joy which made her sink fainting on his bosom; called to mind her ill-suppressed tears – her smothered sighs – her unbidden blushes; and a thousand times assured himself that he was passionately beloved. He triumphed the more in the proofs of her affection, because they were not only involuntary but reluctant; and, seen through the flattering medium of gratified pride, her charms appeared more than ever enchanting. On these charms he had formerly suffered his imagination to dwell, till to appropriate them seemed to him almost the chief end of existence; and, though in absence his frenzy had a little intermitted, his interview with Laura roused it again to double violence.

No passion of Hargrave's soul (and all his passions were of intense force), had ever known restraint, or control, or even delay of gratification, excepting only this, the strongest that had ever governed him. And must he now pine for eighteen lingering months, ere he attained the object of such ardent wishes? Must he submit, for a time that seemed endless, to the tyranny of this intolerable passion, – see the woman on whom he doated receive his protestations with distrust, and spite of her affection, shrink from his caresses with horror? No! – he vowed that if there were persuasion in man, or frailty in woman, he would shorten the period of his trial, – that he would employ for this purpose all the power which he possessed over Laura's heart, and, if that failed, that he would even have recourse to the authority of the father.

But he had yet a stronger motive than the impetuosity of his passions for striving to obtain immediate possession of his treasure. He was conscious that there was a tale to tell, which, once known, (and it could not long be concealed), would shake his hopes to the foundation. But on this subject he could not now dwell without disgust, and he turned from it to the more inviting contemplation of Laura's beauty and Laura's love; and with his head and his heart, every nerve, every pulse full of Laura, he retired to pursue in his dreams, the fair visions that had occupied his waking thoughts.

While he was thus wilfully surrendering himself to the dominion of his frenzy, Laura, the self-denied Laura, was endeavouring, though it must be owned without distinguished success, to silence the pleadings of a heart as warm, though better regulated, by attending to the humble duties of the hour.

When she quitted Hargrave, she had retired to offer up her fervent thanks to Heaven, that he was become sensible of the enormity of his former conduct. Earnestly did she pray, that, though earth should never witness their union, they might be permitted together to join a nobler society – animated by yet purer love – bound by yet holier ties. She next reconsidered her own behaviour towards Hargrave; and, though vexed at the momentary desertion of her self-command, saw, upon the whole, little cause to reproach herself, since her weakness had been merely that of body, to which the will gave no consent. She resolved to be guardedly cautious in her future demeanour towards him; and since the issue of his probation was doubtful, since its close was at all events distant, to forfeit the enjoyment of her lover's company, rather than, by remaining in the room during his visits, appear to consider them as meant for herself.