In the course of the two following days, Laura had sketched more than twenty heads of Mrs Siddons, besides completing the preparations for her journey to Scotland. On the third, the Captain, who could now smile at his own imaginary debility, prepared to carry the bond to receive Mr Warren's signature. The fourth was to be spent with Mrs De Courcy; and on the morning of the fifth, the travellers intended to depart.
On the appointed morning, Captain Montreville set out on an early visit to Portland Street, gaily telling his daughter at parting that he would return in an hour or two, with her dowery in his pocket. When he knocked at Mr Warren's door, the servant informed him that his master had gone out, but that expecting the Captain to call, he had left a message to beg that Montreville would wait till he returned, which would be very soon.
The Captain was then shewn into a back parlour, where he endeavoured to amuse himself with some books that were scattered round the room. They consisted of amatory poems and loose novels, and one by one he threw them aside in disgust, lamenting that one who was capable of a kind and generous action should seek pleasure in such debasing studies. The room was hung with prints and pictures, but they partook of the same licentious character; and Montreville shuddered, as the momentary thought darted across his mind, that it was strange that the charms of Laura had made no impression on one whose libertinism in regard to her sex was so apparent. It was but momentary. 'No!' thought he, 'her purity would awe the most licentious; and I am uncandid, ungrateful, to harbour even for a moment such an idea of the man who has acted towards her and me with the most disinterested benevolence.'
He waited long, but Warren did not appear; and he began to blame himself for having neglected to fix the exact time of his visit. To remedy this omission, he rang for writing materials, and telling the servant that he could stay no longer, left a note to inform Mr Warren that he would wait upon him at twelve o'clock next day. The servant, who was Mr Warren's own valet, seemed unwilling to allow the Captain to depart, and assured him that he expected his master every minute; but Montreville, who knew that there was no depending upon the motions of a mere man of pleasure, would be detained no longer.
He returned home, and finding the parlour empty, was leaving it to seek Laura in her painting-room, when he observed a letter lying on the table addressed to himself. The hand-writing was new to him. He opened it—the signature was equally so. The contents were as follows:—
'Sir,
The writer of this letter is even by name a stranger to you. If this circumstance should induce you to discredit my information, I offer no proof of my veracity but this simple one, that obviously no selfish end can be served by my present interference. Of the force of my motive you cannot judge, unless you have yourself lured to destruction the heart that trusted you,—seen it refuse all comfort,—reject all reparation,—and sink at last in untimely decay. From a fate like this, though not softened like this by anxious tenderness, nor mourned like this by remorseless pity, but aggravated by being endured for one incapable of any tender or generous feeling, it is my purpose, Sir, to save your daughter. I was last night one of a party where her name was mentioned;—where she was described as lovely, innocent, and respectable; yet the person who so described her, scrupled not to boast of a plan for her destruction. In the hope (why should I pretend a better motive) of softening the pangs of late but bitter self-reproach, by saving one fellow-creature from perhaps reluctant ruin, one family from domestic shame, I drew from him your address, and learnt that to ingratiate himself with you, and with his intended victim, he has pretended to offer as a gift, what he knew that he could not long withhold. He means to take the earliest opportunity of inveigling her from your care, secure, as he boasts, of her pardon in her attachment. Ill, indeed, does her character, even as described by him, accord with such a boast; yet even indifference might prove no guard against fraud, which, thus warned, you may defy. A fear that my intention should be frustrated by the merited contempt attached to anonymous information, inclines me to add my name, though aware that it can claim no authority with a stranger.
'I am, Sir,
'Your obedient Servant,
'Philip Wilmot.'
Captain Montreville read this letter more than once. It bore marks of such sincerity that he knew not how to doubt of the intelligence it gave; and he perceived with dismay, that the business which he had considered as closed, was as far as ever from a conclusion; for how could he accept a favour which he had been warned to consider as the wages of dishonour. For Laura he had indeed no fear. She was no less safe in her own virtue and discretion, than in the contemptuous pity with which she regarded Warren. This letter would put her upon her guard against leaving the house with him, which Captain Montreville now recollected that he had often solicited her to do, upon pretence of taking the air in his curricle.
But must he still linger in London; still be cheated with vain hopes; still fear for the future subsistence of his child; still approach the very verge of poverty; perhaps be obliged to defend his rights by a tedious law-suit? His heart sank at the prospect, and he threw himself on a seat, disconsolate and cheerless.