All day Laura remained on deck, oft measuring, with the light splinter, the vessel's course through the deep. The winds favoured not her impatience. Towards evening they died away, and scarcely did the vessel steal along the liquid mirror. Another and another morning came, and Laura's ear was blessed with the first sounds of her native land. The tolling of a bell was borne along the water; now swelling loud, and now falling softly away. The humble village church was seen on the shore; and Laura could distinguish the gay colouring of her country-women's Sunday attire,—the scarlet plaid, transmitted from generation to generation, pinned decently over the plain clean coif,—the bright blue gown, the trophy of more recent housewifery. To her every form in the well-known garb seemed the form of a friend. The blue mountains in the distance,—the scattered woods,—the fields yellow with the harvest,—the river sparkling in the sun, seemed, to the wanderer returning from the land of strangers, fairer than the gardens of Paradise.
Land of my affections!—when 'I forget thee, may my right hand forget her cunning!' Blessed be thou among nations! Long may thy wanderers return to thee rejoicing, and their hearts throb with honest pride when they own themselves thy children!
The vessel at last cast anchor, and all was cheerful bustle; every one eager to hurry ashore. Some hastened to launch the boat; some ran below to seek out the little offerings of love which they had brought for their friends. Never had Laura heard sound so animating as the cry of 'all ready!' followed by the light short stroke of the oar that sent her swiftly forward. Many a wistful glance did the rowers turn. 'There's mother on the pier-head!' cried one. 'I see Annie and the bairns!' cried another; and the oar was plied more swiftly. They landed. The shout of joy, and the whisper of affection were exchanged on every side. Laura stood back from the tumult, breathing a silent thanksgiving on behalf of herself and her companions. 'Poor lassie!' said the captain, approaching her, 'is there naebody to welcome thee? Come! I'm going up to Glasgow the night to see my wife and the owners; and if ye like to gang wi' me, ye'll be sae far on your way to your friends.' Laura thankfully accepted the proposal; and the fly-boat being just about to sail up the river, she placed in it the little packet of necessaries which she had collected at Quebec; and accompanied the good-natured sailor to his home.
She was kindly received by his wife and daughter, and furnished with the best accommodations they could command. The next morning she gave the captain a draft for the price of her passage; and producing her purse and Mrs De Courcy's ring, offered them as further security; saying, that as she was now in her own country, a few shillings would support her till she reached her friends, since she might travel to Perthshire on foot. The sailor, however, positively refused to accept of any thing more than the draft, swearing that if he were deceived in Laura, he would never trust woman again. He then, at her desire, procured her a seat in the stage-coach, and once more she proceeded on her journey.
At a small village, a few miles from Perth, she desired to be set down. A by-road led from the village to Mr Douglas's parish. The distance was said to be only seven miles; and Laura, forgetting the latitude allowed to Scotish measurement, thought she might easily reach the parsonage before night-fall. Leaving her little parcel at the village, she hastened forward;—now pausing a moment as some well-known peak or cliff met her eye, now bounding on with the light step of joy. She pictured the welcome of affection; already she saw the mild countenance of her early friend; already she felt the embrace of love.
Darkness surprised her when she had yet much of her journey to perform, and had shrouded every object ere she reached the well-known gate, and saw across the narrow lawn the lights streaming from the window. She stopped—fear stealing on her joy. In five months what changes might not have happened! Her friend, her mother, might be ill, might be dead! So must weak men mitigate with the prospect of evil the transports which belong not to his inheritance! She again proceeded. She entered the hall. The parlour door was open. A group of cheerful faces appeared, ruddy with youth and health; but Laura's eye rested on one of more mature, more interesting grace,—one shaded with untimely silver, and lighted up with milder fires. She remained motionless, fearing to surprise her friend by too suddenly appearing, till one of the girls, observing her, exclaimed, in a transport of joy, 'Laura! Mamma! Laura!' Mrs Douglas sprung from her seat; and the welcome of affection, the embrace of love were reality!
The first burst of gladness was succeeded by the solicitous inquiry, by the interesting narrative; and Laura beguiled her friend of many tears by the story of her sad voyage, her hopeless captivity, her perilous escape. Tears, too, of real bitterness rose to her eyes, at the thought that, although she had escaped from the cruelty of her oppressor, yet its consequences must be lasting as her life; and that she was now pouring her story perhaps into the only ear that would be open to her protestations of innocence. But she would not cloud the hour of joy by calling the attention of her friend to the shade that rested on her prospects; nor diminish her own gratitude for deliverance from more real misfortune, by anticipating the scorns of the world. She uttered not the faintest foreboding of evil, but continued with serene cheerfulness to 'charm as she was wont to do,' till at a late hour the friendly party separated for the night.
Weary as she was, Laura could not rest. She had a task to perform too painful to be thought of with indifference. It was necessary to write to De Courcy; and to damp all the pleasure which a knowledge of her safety would convey, by retracting engagements which had been made when her alliance inferred no dishonour. She well knew that De Courcy himself, convinced of her innocence, would spurn the idea of forsaking her in misfortune,—of giving, by his desertion, a sanction to calumny. And should she take advantage of his honour and his love to fix in his heart the incurable anguish of following to the wife of his bosom the glance of suspicion or of scorn! The world's neglect was trivial in her estimation. Even its reproach might be endured by one who could appeal from its sentence to a higher tribunal. But what should ease the heart whose best affections were turned to poison by domestic shame; the heart jealous of the honour which it could not defend, bleeding at the stab from which it dared not recoil?
Laura had already taken her resolution, and the next day saw it effected. She wrote to De Courcy, detailing minutely every event that had befallen her from the hour of their separation till her landing in Britain. There her narrative closed. She told not in what spot the wanderer had found rest. She did not even intimate in what part of the island she had disembarked, lest it should furnish a clue to her present retreat. Nor did she, by expressions of tenderness and regret, aggravate the pang which she was compelled to inflict. In words like these she proceeded. 'And now, my respected friend, I imagine you are pausing to offer a thanksgiving for yourself and for me. Let it not damp your just gratitude that somewhat of evil is permitted to mingle with this signal deliverance. Let not my escape from misfortune the most dreadful be forgotten, even though the world should refuse to believe in that escape. For thus it must be. Known to have been in the power of that bad man, will the harsh-judging world believe me innocent? Will it be believed that he ventured to cast his very life upon my mercy, by dragging me unwilling from my home? So long the sport of his ungoverned passions, will it be believed that I have not even seen him?
'I know it will be difficult to convince you that an unjust sentence can be pronounced against me. Certain yourself of the truth of my story, you imagine that it will find easy credence with others. But even if we could change the nature of man, and teach strangers to judge with the candour of friendship, who shall furnish them with the materials for judging? Not he, who, in corroborating my tale, must publish his own disgrace! Not the weak Laura, who, by a constitutional defect, shrinks even from the eye where she cannot read distrust!