No passion of Hargrave's soul (and all his passions were of intense force), had ever known restraint, or control, or even delay of gratification, excepting only this, the strongest that had ever governed him. And must he now pine for eighteen lingering months, ere he attained the object of such ardent wishes? Must he submit, for a time that seemed endless, to the tyranny of this intolerable passion,—see the woman on whom he doated receive his protestations with distrust, and spite of her affection, shrink from his caresses with horror? No!—he vowed that if there were persuasion in man, or frailty in woman, he would shorten the period of his trial,—that he would employ for this purpose all the power which he possessed over Laura's heart, and, if that failed, that he would even have recourse to the authority of the father.
But he had yet a stronger motive than the impetuosity of his passions for striving to obtain immediate possession of his treasure. He was conscious that there was a tale to tell, which, once known, (and it could not long be concealed), would shake his hopes to the foundation. But on this subject he could not now dwell without disgust, and he turned from it to the more inviting contemplation of Laura's beauty and Laura's love; and with his head and his heart, every nerve, every pulse full of Laura, he retired to pursue in his dreams, the fair visions that had occupied his waking thoughts.
While he was thus wilfully surrendering himself to the dominion of his frenzy, Laura, the self-denied Laura, was endeavouring, though it must be owned without distinguished success, to silence the pleadings of a heart as warm, though better regulated, by attending to the humble duties of the hour.
When she quitted Hargrave, she had retired to offer up her fervent thanks to Heaven, that he was become sensible of the enormity of his former conduct. Earnestly did she pray, that, though earth should never witness their union, they might be permitted together to join a nobler society—animated by yet purer love—bound by yet holier ties. She next reconsidered her own behaviour towards Hargrave; and, though vexed at the momentary desertion of her self-command, saw, upon the whole, little cause to reproach herself, since her weakness had been merely that of body, to which the will gave no consent. She resolved to be guardedly cautious in her future demeanour towards him; and since the issue of his probation was doubtful, since its close was at all events distant, to forfeit the enjoyment of her lover's company, rather than, by remaining in the room during his visits, appear to consider them as meant for herself.
As soon as Hargrave was gone, Montreville returned to his chamber; and there Laura ordered his small but delicate repast to be served, excusing herself from partaking of it, by saying that she could dine more conveniently in the parlour. Having in the morning bestowed on the beggar the meagre fare that should have supplied her own wants, she employed the time of her father's meal, in the labour which was to purchase him another; pondering meanwhile on the probability that he would again enter on the discussion of Hargrave's pretensions. To this subject she felt unconquerable repugnance; and though she knew that it must at last be canvassed, and that she must at last assign a reason for her conduct, she would fain have put off the evil hour.
She delayed her evening visit to her father, till he grew impatient for it, and sent for her to his apartment. The moment she entered the room, he began, as she had anticipated, to inquire into the particulars of her interview with Hargrave. The language of Laura's reply was not very perspicuous; the manner of it was more intelligible: and Montreville, instantly comprehended the nature of her conference with the Colonel. 'He has then given you an opportunity of repairing your former rashness,' said Montreville, with eagerness,—'and your answer?' 'Colonel Hargrave had his answer long ago, Sir', replied Laura, trembling at this exordium. Montreville sighed heavily, and, fixing his eyes mournfully upon her, remained silent. At last, affectionately taking her hand, he said, 'My dear child, the time has been, when even your caprices on this subject were sacred with your father. While I had a shelter, however humble—an independence, however small, to offer you, your bare inclination determined mine. But now your situation is changed—fatally changed; and no trivial reasons would excuse me for permitting your rejection of an alliance so unexceptionable, so splendid. Tell me, then, explicitly, what are your objections to Colonel Hargrave?'
Laura remained silent, for she knew not how to frame her reply. 'Is it possible that he can be personally disagreeable to you?' continued Montreville. 'Disagreeable!' exclaimed Laura, thrown off her guard by astonishment. 'Colonel Hargrave is one whom any woman might—whom no woman could know without—' 'Without what?' said Montreville, with a delighted smile. But Laura, shocked at the extent of her own admission, covered her face with her hands, and almost in tears, made no reply.
'Well, my love,' said Montreville, more cheerfully than he had spoken for many a day. 'I can interpret all this, and will not persecute you. But you must still suffer me to ask what strange reasons could induce you to reject wealth and title, offered by a man not absolutely disagreeable?' Laura strove to recollect herself, and deep crimson dying her beautiful face and neck, she said without venturing to lift her eyes, 'You yourself have told me, Sir, that Colonel Hargrave is a man of gallantry, and, believe me, with such a man I should be most miserable.'
'Come, come, Laura,' said Montreville, putting his arm around her, 'confess, that some little fit of jealousy made you answer Hargrave unkindly at first, and that now a little female pride, or the obstinacy of which we used to accuse you fifteen years ago, makes you unwilling to retract.'
'No, indeed,' returned Laura, with emotion, 'Colonel Hargrave has never given me cause to be jealous of his affection. But jealousy would feebly express the anguish with which his wife would behold his vices, degrading him in the eyes of men, and making him vile in the sight of Heaven.'