The poverty, whose approach she had so long contemplated with a fearful eye, had now suddenly overtaken her. Husbanded with whatever care, the sum before her could minister only to the wants of a few hours. In her present habitation, it would scarcely purchase shelter for another night from the storm which a keen winter-wind was beginning to drive against her window. An immediate supply then was necessary; but where could that supply be found? It was too late to resort to the earnings of her own genius. Painting was a work of time and labour. No hasty production was likely to find favour amidst the competition of studied excellence. Even the highest effort of her art might long wait a purchaser; and tears fell from the eyes of Laura while she reflected that, even if she could again produce a Leonidas, she might never again find a De Courcy.
To borrow money on the Captain's half-pay, was an expedient which Laura had always rejected, as calculated to load their scanty income with a burden which it could neither shake off nor bear. But even to this expedient she could now no longer have recourse; for Montreville had assured her that, in his present state of health, it would be impossible to mortgage his annuity for a single guinea.
She might raise a small supply by stripping her beloved Glenalbert of some of its little luxuries and comforts; but, long before this revolting business could be transacted, she must be absolutely pennyless. Nor did she dare, without consulting her father, to give orders for dismantling his home. And how should she inform him of the necessity for such a sacrifice? Weakened both in body and in mind, how would he endure the privations that attend on real penury? His naturally feeble spirits already crushed to the earth, his kindly temper already, by anxiety and disappointment, turned to gall, his anxieties for his child alarmed even to anguish, how could he bear to learn that real want had reached him—had reached that dear child, whom the dread of leaving to poverty was poisoning the springs of life within him! 'He thinks he is about to leave me,' cried she, 'and shall I tell him that I must owe to charity even the sod that covers him from me? No; I will perish first,' and, starting from her seat, she paced the room in distressful meditation on the means of concealing from her father the extent of their calamity.
She determined to take upon herself the care of their little fund, under pretence that the trouble was too great for Montreville. He had of late shewn such listless indifference to all domestic concerns, that she hoped he might never inquire into the extent of his landlady's demand, or that his inquiries might be eluded. It seemed a light thing in Laura's eyes to suffer alone; or rather she thought not of her own sufferings, could she but spare her father the anguish of knowing himself and his child utterly destitute. She judged of his feelings by her own; felt, by sympathy, all the pangs with which he would witness wants which he could not supply; and she inwardly vowed to conceal from him every privation that she might endure,—every labour that she might undergo.
But, void of every resource, far from every friend, destitute amid boundless wealth, alone amid countless multitudes, whither should she turn for aid, or even for counsel? 'Whither,' cried she, dropping on her knees, 'except to Him who hath supplied me in yet more urgent want, who hath counselled me in yet more fearful difficulty, who hath fed my soul with angel's food, and guided it with light from heaven?' Laura rose from her devotions, more confiding in the care of Providence, more able to consider calmly of improving the means which still remained within her own power.
Before she could finish and dispose of a picture, weeks must elapse for which she could make no provision. To painting, therefore, she could not have immediate recourse. But sketches in chalk could be finished with expedition; the printseller might undertake the sale of them; and the lowness of the price might invite purchasers. Could she but hope to obtain a subsistence for her father, she would labour night and day, deprive herself of recreation, of rest, even of daily food, rather than wound his heart, by an acquaintance with poverty. 'And since his pride is hurt by the labours of his child,' said she, 'even his pride shall be sacred. He shall never know my labours.' And, so frail are even the best, that an emotion of pride swelled the bosom of Laura at the thought that the merit of her toils was enhanced by their secrecy.
The resolutions of Laura were ever the immediate prelude to action; and here was no time for delay. She again looked mournfully upon her little treasure, hopelessly re-examined the purse that contained it; again, with dismay, remembered that it was her all; then, hastily putting it into her pocket, she drew her portfolio towards her, and began to prepare for the work with the hurry of one to whom every moment seems precious. Invention was at present impossible; but she tried to recollect one of her former designs, and busied herself in sketching it till the hour of dinner arrived. She then went to summon her father from his chamber to the eating-room. 'This day,' thought she, 'I must share his precarious sustenance—another I shall be more provident. And is this then, perhaps, our last social meal?' and she turned for a moment from the door, to suppress the emotion that would have choked her utterance. 'Come in, my dear,' cried Montreville, who had heard her footstep; and Laura entered with a smile. She offered her arm to assist him in descending to the parlour. 'Why will you always urge me to go down stairs, Laura,' said he; 'you see I am unequal to the fatigue.' 'I shall not urge you to-morrow,' answered Laura: and Montreville thought the tears which stood in her eyes, were the consequence of the impatient tone in which he had spoken.
During the evening, Laura avoided all mention of restoring the purse to her father, and he appeared to have forgotten its existence. But, by no effort could she beguile those cheerless hours. Her utmost exertions were necessary to maintain the appearance of composure; and De Courcy's letter seemed to have consummated Montreville's feelings of solitude and desolation. Wilfully, and without effort, he suffered his spirits to expire. His whole train of thinking had become habitually gloomy. He was wretched, even without reference to his situation, and the original cause of his melancholy was rather the excuse than the reason of his depression. But this only rendered more hopeless all attempts to cheer him; for the woes of the imagination have this dire pre-eminence over those which spring from real evils, that, while these can warm at times in benevolent joy, or even brighten for a moment to the flash of innocent gaiety, the selfishness of the former, chequered by no kindly feeling, reflects not the sunny smile; as the dark and noisome fog drinks in vain the beam of Heaven.
Montreville, when in health, had been always and justly considered a kind-hearted, good-natured man. He had been a most indulgent husband, an easy master, and a fond father. He was honourable, generous, and friendly. Those who had witnessed his patient endurance of Lady Harriet's caprice had given his philosophy a credit which was better due to his indolence: for the grand defect of Montreville's character was a total want of fortitude and self-command; and of these failings he was now paying the penalty. His health was injured by his voluntary inaction, his fancy aggravated his real disorder, and multiplied to infinity his imaginary ailments. He had habituated his mind to images of disaster, till it had become incapable of receiving any but comfortless and doleful impressions.
After spending a few silent hours without effort towards employment or recreation, he retired for the night; and Laura experienced a sensation of relief, as, shutting herself away into her apartment, she prepared to resume her labours. After every other member of the family had retired to rest, she continued to work till her candle expired in the socket; and then threw herself on her bed to rise again with the first blush of dawn.