“Come, Laura, my dear; we are all friends, you know—no one to be afraid of. Sir Sydney is so particularly partial to ‘Go, forget me:’ I am sure you will favour him.”
“Or any other song the young lady likes. I would not be so arbitrary as to select for her,” he exclaimed, springing up, with gentlemanly politeness, to relieve Miss Wilhelmina of the music-book she carried, and, as he took it from her, coming in close contact with the fair girl behind her, whom her flowing drapery had till then completely concealed.
“Laura! Miss Gascoigne! Is it possible?” he articulated, in a tone which, though suppressed, must, to any perception less obtuse than the Misses Brown’s, have betrayed intense emotion; but Miss Wilhelmina only read casual acquaintanceship, and supposed an introduction had taken place in the early part of the evening. Laura bowed, Sir Sydney thought, coldly, and quietly passed on to the piano. The song was selected and sung. She had often been heard before, but her voice had never seemed the same as at that moment. It might have been that what a baronet and his sister listened to with such interest, that the former had moved himself some distance from Miss Morland’s fascinations to look at and listen to the singer unobserved, must be of greater value than it had ever before been supposed, or that there really was some spell in the song which Laura had never been heard to sing before (Miss Wilhelmina, seeing it amongst her music, had spoken on supposition merely); but it fell upon the most thoughtless, the most obtuse, with such unaccountable power, that even when the strain ceased, the sudden and unusual hush continued, until rudely broken by Mr. Gustavus Brown and Mr. Gilbert Givevoice clapping their hands most vehemently, exciting an uproar of applause, under which Laura tried to make her escape, but she was prevented by the friendly advance of Miss Harcourt, who, with both hands extended, exclaimed, so as to be heard by all, “Miss Gascoigne, will you permit me to thank you for your beautiful song and claim your acquaintance in the same breath? We have, in truth, never met before; but if you knew me as well as I know you from report, we should be friends—nay more, allies—already. You need not look so very terrified,” she added, with laughing earnestness; “I am not a very formidable person, though my want of ceremony may really be rather startling; but I am so glad to have found you, that I must entreat Miss Brown’s kind permission to excuse me, if I do forget everybody but you for a little while.”
Her ready tact met with the rejoinder she desired: she was entreated by all the sisters to make herself quite at home; they were delighted she should know their dear Laura. The blue room was quite deserted, and they could chat there quite comfortably; and to the blue room Miss Harcourt eagerly led her companion, who so trembled that she feared for the continuance of her composure. The door was not closed; to do so would have occasioned remark; but, as we said before, the room was so situated for its inmates to be completely retired from all observation.
Isabel Morland was furious. She had seen Sir Sydney’s suppressed emotion, and, with the quickness of thought, connected that and Miss Harcourt’s eager address with the floating rumours of Sir Sydney’s early life; but that her insignificant, unfashionable cousin, could be the heroine of the tale, and retain such hold of his recollection as to drive all her present fascinations from his mind, was a degradation not to be passively endured; in fact, it was impossible—she would not think about it—Sir Sydney should be caught yet; but at present there certainly was little hope of it. He had deserted her, and was in earnest, if not agitated, conversation with Miss Lucretia and Miss Wilhelmina Brown, who were listening and answering, and then gradually entering into detail, with so much interest, that all superficial folly gave way, for the time, before the real goodness of heart which they in general so strenuously contrived to conceal.
“Disagreeable, designing old women!” Isabel thought, “what can he see in them to hold his attention so chained? He shall not listen any longer,” and she glided close to the sofa where the two were seated. Sir Sydney rose, and offered her his seat. No; she would rather stand. Sir Sydney bowed, and quietly sat down again. Something seemed the matter with Isabel’s bracelet; she clasped and unclasped it vehemently, but the movement did not disturb the earnest conversation, which Sir Sydney, in a low voice, still continued. The trinket broke, and fell at his feet. He gracefully raised and presented it, regretting the accident, and turned again to the Misses Brown. An exclamation of “What could have become of her beautiful bouquet?” was the young lady’s next effort to recall the deserter to his allegiance; but Sir Sydney did not even seem to hear it, or, if he did, before he could make a move to seek it, it was presented to her by the officious Gussy, with a most malicious bow. Isabel did not quite throw it at his head, as inclination prompted, but in a very few seconds every flower lay in fragments at her feet; one beautiful exotic fell, uninjured, so close to Miss Wilhelmina, that she raised it with an expression of lamentation; but Isabel snatched it from her, and hastily stamped her pretty little foot upon it, with such a very unequivocal expression of temper, that Sir Sydney almost unconsciously fixed an astonished gaze upon her. It was too much to be borne quietly; she turned angrily away, sauntering through the rooms, deigning to hold converse with none, and would have so far sacrificed all propriety, as to enter the blue room to solve the mystery at once, had not Laura and Miss Harcourt at that instant reappeared. The countenance of the latter bore such evident traces of emotion, spite of the strong control she was practising, that Isabel was on the point of making some bitterly satirical remark, but those dark reproving eyes were again upon her, and Sir Sydney spoke before she did; but it was to Laura, not to her.
“Has my sister pleaded in vain, or may I indeed claim an old friend—and forgiveness?” he added, speaking the last word in so low a tone as only to be heard by his sister, Laura, and Isabel. Laura’s lip so quivered, that no word would come; but her hand was unhesitatingly placed in that which Sir Sydney so eagerly extended, and her eyes met his. He drew her arm in his, and led her, to all appearance, so easily and naturally to a quadrille that was forming, that few suspected more than that they had been old friends; and how strange it was they should meet there and then; and, if he should talk to her, and make her sing twice again, during the short remainder of the evening, it was nothing remarkable!
Isabel had thrown herself moodily on one of the sofas in the blue room, half concealed by the curtains of the window, trying, in vain, to connect Sir Sydney’s conduct and the report of his former life. It seemed clear enough, but she would not believe it. There was nothing in his manner but old acquaintanceship; she would conquer him yet. How could Laura vie with her? Alas, for the delusion! Miss Harcourt’s shawl, by the provident care of Miss Angelica, had been brought to the blue room, and there, with Laura, she repaired; the Misses Brown, in trio, assembled to do them great honour; and Isabel remained wholly unperceived. After being well shawled, Miss Harcourt disappeared with her body-guard of Browns. Sir Sydney, who had come ostensibly to hurry her, lingered—
“Laura! my own beloved! forgiven—loved through all! How could I doubt—how could I make myself and you so miserable? Can I ever repay you, even by a long life of love? If you but knew the remorse, the wretchedness I have endured, you would forgive still more,” were the somewhat incoherent sentences that fell distinctly on Isabel’s ear; and, though there was no answer, no words, she could see Sir Sydney’s arm thrown round her cousin, and that she shrunk not from his parting kiss. Another moment, and both had disappeared; Sir Sydney to take such farewell of the really worthy women who had befriended his Laura, that he left them in perfect raptures; and Laura to fly to the security of her own room, where, burying her face in her hands, the tears burst forth like a torrent, giving relief, vent, calm to a heart which, though so sustained in grief, had been so unused to joy, that its presence had well-nigh prevented its realization.
Our readers must imagine all the various crosses and vexatious contretemps which had prevented Sir Sydney Harcourt from discovering Laura, as he had so ardently desired to do; for ours is a mere sketch, not a tale. They must recollect he had, only the last six months, returned from the West Indies, a residence in which had entirely frustrated his wishes for a reconciliation, even by a letter; for, as we have said before, Mrs. Gascoigne’s constant removals had prevented the possibility of any letter from such a distance finding them. When he had first loved her he was dependent on a coarse-minded worldly relation, to whom an affection for a poor girl dared not be breathed. He had sought an appointment abroad, to escape a matrimonial connection which was being forced upon him, and he had wished Laura to consent to a private marriage, and accompany him abroad as the companion of his sister, who preferred daring the miseries of the West Indies with her brother, to remaining in England without him. Sir Sydney (then plain Sydney Harcourt, with little hope of the baronetcy and independence for many years), naturally of a fiery and somewhat jealous temper, materially increased from the privations and checks he was constantly enduring, chose to believe Laura’s calm, reasoning indifference, and her refusal to leave her ailing mother, only a cover to reject his affection for that of some richer lover. Time, his sister’s representations, and the bitter pain of separation cooled these unjust suspicions, and he only recollected Laura’s look of suffering and tone of suppressed agony, with which she had bade him farewell.