Mrs De Courcy and her son met early the next morning, expecting that Laura would early begin her journey. Montague stationed himself at the window to watch for her appearance; half fearing that she would not keep her promise, yet every minute repeating that it was impossible she could go without bidding farewell. The breakfast hour arrived, and still Laura came not. De Courcy, impatient, forgot his weakness, and insisted upon walking to the gate that he might inquire whether a carriage had passed from Walbourne.
He had scarcely left the house when old John, with a face that boded evil, hastily came to beg that his Lady would speak with a servant of Lady Pelham's. Mrs De Courcy, somewhat alarmed, desired that the servant might come in. 'Please, Madam,' said he, 'let me know where I may find Miss Montreville. The carriage has waited for her these three hours?' 'Good heavens!' cried Mrs De Courcy, in consternation. 'Is Miss Montreville not at Walbourne?' 'No, Madam, she has not been there since yesterday morning.' Mrs De Courcy, now in extreme alarm, summoned her coachman, and desired to know where he had left Miss Montreville the evening before. He answered, that, at Laura's desire, he had set her down at the gate of Walbourne; that he had seen her enter; and afterwards, in turning the carriage, had observed her walking along the avenue towards the house. Inexpressibly shocked, Mrs De Courcy had yet the presence of mind to forbid alarming her son with these fearful tidings. As soon as she could recollect herself, she dispatched old Wilson, on whose discretion she thought she might rely, to inform De Courcy that a message from Walbourne had made her cease to expect Laura's visit. Montague returned home, sad and disappointed. His melancholy questions and comments increased the distress of his mother. 'Did she not even write one line?' said he. 'Could you have believed that she would go without one farewell—that she could have passed our very gate?' 'She was willing to spare you the pain of a farewell,' said Mrs De Courcy, checking the anguish of her heart. 'She will write soon, I hope.'
But day after day passed, and Laura did not write. Mrs De Courcy, still concealing from her son a misfortune which she thought him yet unequal to bear, used every possible exertion to trace the fugitive. She offered high rewards to whoever could afford the smallest clue to discovery. She advertised in every newspaper except that which De Courcy was accustomed to read. Her suspicions at first falling upon Hargrave, she caused particular inquiry to be made whether any of his domestics had been left in England with orders to follow him; but she found that he with his whole suite had sailed from Europe more than a fortnight before Laura's disappearance. She employed emissaries to prosecute the search in almost every part of the kingdom. Judging the metropolis to be the most likely place of concealment, she made application to the officers of police for assistance in her inquiries there. All was in vain. No trace of Laura was to be found.
For a while De Courcy amused himself from day to day with the hope of hearing from her; a hope which his mother had not the courage to destroy. He calculated that she would reach the end of her journey on the sixth day after that on which she left him. On the seventh she would certainly write; therefore in four or five more he should undoubtedly hear from her. The expected day came and passed as others had done, without bringing news of Laura. Another and another came, and ended only in disappointment. De Courcy was miserable. He knew not how to account for a silence so adverse to the considerate kindness of Laura's character, except by supposing that illness made her unable to write. This idea gathering strength in his mind, he resolved to follow her immediately to Scotland, tracing her through the route which he knew she intended to take. Mrs De Courcy in vain attempted to dissuade him from the prosecution of his design, and to sooth him with hopes which she knew too well would prove deceitful. He was resolute, and Mrs De Courcy was at last obliged to prevent his fruitless journey by unfolding the truth. The utmost tenderness of caution was insufficient to prevent the effects of this blow on De Courcy's bodily frame. In a few hours strong fever seized him; and his wound, which had hitherto worn a favourable appearance, gave alarming symptoms of inflammation. Three weeks did Mrs De Courcy watch by his bedside in all the anguish of a mother's fears; forgetting, in her anxiety for his life, that he must for a time live only to sorrow. The balance long hung doubtful. At length the strength of his constitution and his early habits of temperance prevailed. By slow degrees his health was restored, though his spirits were still oppressed by a dejection which long withstood every effort of reason and religion.
To divert his sorrow rather than in the hope of removing its cause, he left his home and wandered through the most unfrequented parts of England, making anxious, yet almost hopeless, inquiries for his lost treasure. Sometimes, misled by false intelligence, he was hurried from place to place in all the eagerness of expectation, but bitter disappointment closed the pursuit; and the companion of his relaxation, his encouragement in study, his pattern in virtue, the friend, the mistress, almost the wife, was lost beyond recal.
While De Courcy was thus languishing on a sick-bed or wandering restless and miserable, Laura too was a wanderer, a prey to care more deep, more hopeless.
The soft shades of twilight were stealing on as she cast a last look back towards Norwood; and were deepening fast as with a sigh, half-pleasing, half-melancholy, she surveyed the sheltering chestnut tree where she had once parted from De Courcy. As she approached her home, the stars coming forth poured their silent language into the ear of piety. Never deaf to this holy call, Laura dismissed her attendants that she might meditate alone. She proceeded slowly along till she came to the entrance of a woody lane, which branched off from the avenue. She stopped, half-inclined to enter; a sensation of fear made her pause. The next moment the very consciousness of that sensation induced her to proceed. 'This is mere childish superstition,' said she, and entered the lane. She had taken only a few steps when she felt herself suddenly seized from behind; one person forcibly confining her arms while another prevented her cries. Vainly struggling against masculine strength, she was hurried rapidly forward, till, her breath failing, she could resist no farther. Her conductors, soon quitting the beaten path, dragged her on through a little wood that sheltered the lawn towards the east; till reaching a gap which appeared to have been purposely made in the park wall, Laura perceived a carriage in waiting. Again exerting the strength of desperation, she struggled wildly for freedom; but the unequal contest soon was closed; she was lifted into the carriage; one of the men took his place by her side, and they drove off with the speed of lightning.
From the moment when she recovered recollection, Laura had not a doubt that she owed this outrage to Hargrave. She was convinced that his pretence of leaving the kingdom had been merely intended to throw her off her guard, and that he was now waiting, at no distant place, the success of his daring villany. At this idea, a horrible dread seized her, she threw herself back in the carriage, and wept in despair. Her attendant perceiving that she no longer struggled, with a coarse expression of pity, released her from his grasp; and taking the handkerchief from her mouth, told her 'she might cry as long as she pleased, for he knew it did a woman's heart good to cry.' Laura now besought him to tell her whither she was going. 'You'll know that by and by,' said he. 'Let me alone. I am going to sleep; do you the same.'
The bare mention of his purpose revived Laura's hopes. 'Surely,' thought she, 'while he sleeps, I may escape. In spite of this fearful speed I may spring out; and if I could but gain a few steps, in this darkness I should be safe.' Full of this project, she remained still as the dead; fearing by the slightest sound or motion to retard the sleep of her guard. At last his breathing announced that he was asleep; and Laura began, with trembling hands, to attempt her escape. The blinds were drawn up; and if she could let down that on the side of the carriage where she sat, she might without difficulty open the door. She tried to stir the blind. It refused to yield. She used her utmost force, but it remained firm. She ventured, cautious and trembling, to attempt that on the other side. It dropt; and Laura thought she was free. It only remained to open the door of the chaise and leap out. She tried it; but the door was immoveable, and, in despair, she shrunk back. Again she started up; for it occurred to her that, though with more danger, she might escape by the window. Cautiously stepping across her guard, she leant out and placed her hands on the top of the carriage, that, trusting to her arms for supporting her weight, she might extricate herself, and drop from thence into the road. Raising herself upon the edge of the step, she fixed her hands more firmly. She paused a moment to listen whether her guard were undisturbed. He still slept soundly; and resting her limbs upon the window frame, she prepared to complete her escape.