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Accordingly, she early one morning set out in a hackney-coach, which she took the precaution to leave at some distance from her old lodgings, ordering it to wait her return. Fanny was delighted to see her, and charmed with the improvement of her dress, and the returning healthfulness of her appearance; but the landlady eyed her askance, and surlily answered to her inquiry for her letters, that she would bring the only one she had got; muttering, as she went to fetch it, something of which the words 'secret doings' were all that reached Laura's ear. 'There, Miss,' said the ungracious Mrs Stubbs, 'there's your letter, and there's the queer scrawl it came wrapped up in.' 'Mr De Courcy's hand,' cried Laura surprised, but thinking, from its size, that some time would be required to read it, she deferred breaking the seal till she should return to her carriage. 'I suppose you're mistaken, Miss,' said Mrs Stubbs; 'Mr De Courcy was here twice the day it came, and he never said a word of it.'

Laura now tremulously inquired whether she might be permitted to visit her father's room; but being roughly answered that it was occupied, she quietly prepared to go. As Fanny followed her through the garden, to open the gate for her, Laura, a conscious blush rising to her face, inquired whether any body else had inquired for her since her departure. Fanny, who was ready to burst with the news of Hargrave's visit, and who was just meditating how she might venture to introduce it, improved this occasion of entering on a full detail of his behaviour. With the true waiting-maid-like fondness for romance, she enlarged upon all his extravagancies, peeping side-long now and then under Laura's bonnet, to catch encouragement from the complacent simper with which such tales are often heard. But no smile repaid her eloquence. With immoveable seriousness did Laura listen to her, gravely revolving the strange nature of that love which could so readily amalgamate with rage and jealousy, and every discordant passion. She was hurt at the indecorum which exposed these weaknesses to the observation of a servant; and with a sigh reflected, that, to constitute the happiness of a woman of sense and spirit, a husband must be possessed of qualities respectable as well as amiable.

Fanny next tried, whether what concerned De Courcy might not awaken more apparent interest; and here she had at least a better opportunity to judge of the effect of her narrative, for Laura stopped and turned full towards her. But Fanny had now no transports to relate, except De Courcy's indignation of Mrs Stubbs' calumny; and it was not without hesitating, and qualifying, and apologizing, that the girl ventured to hint at the insinuation which her mistress had thrown out. She had at last succeeded in raising emotion, for indignant crimson dyed Laura's cheeks, and fire flashed from her eyes. But Laura seldom spoke while she was angry; and again she silently pursued her way. 'Pray, Madam,' said the girl as she was opening the gate, 'do be so good as to tell me where you live now, that nobody may speak ill of you before me?' 'I thank you, my good girl,' returned Laura, a placid smile again playing on her countenance; 'but my character is in no danger. – You were kind to us, Fanny, when you knew that we could not reward you; accept of this from me;' and she put five guineas into her hand. 'No, indeed, Ma'am,' cried Fanny, drawing back her hand and colouring; 'I was civil for pure good will, and – .' Laura, whose sympathy with her inferiors was not confined to her bodily wants, fully understood the feeling that revolts from bartering for gold alone the service of the heart. 'I know it my dear,' answered she, in an affectionate tone; 'and believe me, I only mean to acknowledge, not to repay, your kindness.' Fanny, however, persisted in her refusal, and Laura obliged her to leave her at the gate, where, with tears in her eyes, the girl stood gazing after her till she was out of sight. 'I'm sure,' said she, turning towards the house as Laura disappeared, 'I'm sure she was made to be a queen, for the more one likes her, the more she frightens one.'

As soon as Laura was seated in her carriage, she opened her packet, and with momentary disappointment examined its contents. 'Not one line!' she cried in a tone of mortification; and then turned to the envelope addressed to Mrs Stubbs. Upon comparing this with the circumstances which she had lately heard, she at once comprehended De Courcy's intention of serving her by stealth, foregoing the credit due to his generosity. She wondered, indeed, that he had neglected to disguise his hand-writing in the superscription. 'Did he think,' said she, 'that I could have forgotten the writing that has so often brought comfort to my father?' She little guessed how distant from his mind was the repose which can attend to minute contrivance.

Delighted to discover a trait of character which tallied so well with her preconceived opinion, she no sooner saw Lady Pelham than she related it to her aunt, and began a warm eulogium on De Courcy's temper and dispositions. Lady Pelham coldly cut her short, by saying, 'I believe Mr De Courcy is a very good young man, but I am not very fond of prodigies. One can't both wonder and like at a time; your men with two heads are always either supposititious or disgusting.' This speech was one of the dampers which the warm heart abhors; real injury could not more successfully chill affection or repress confidence. It had just malice and just truth enough to be provoking; and for the second time that day Laura had to strive with the risings of anger. She was upon the point of saying, 'So, aware of the impossibility of being at once wonderful and pleasing, your Ladyship, I suppose, aims at only one of these objects;' but ere the sarcasm found utterance, she checked herself, and hastened out of the room, with the sensation of having escaped from danger. She retired to write to De Courcy a letter of grateful acknowledgment; in which, after having received Lady Pelham's approbation, she inclosed his gift, explaining the circumstances which now rendered it unnecessary.

Lady Pelham was not more favourable to the rest of the De Courcy family than she had been to Montague. She owned, indeed, that Mrs De Courcy was the best woman in the world, but a virtue, she said, so cased in armour, necessarily precluded all grace or attraction. Harriet she characterized as a little sarcastic coquette. Laura, weary of being exposed to the double peril of weakly defending, or angrily supporting her attacked friends, ceased to mention the De Courcys at all; though, with a pardonable spirit of contradiction, she loved them the better for the unprovoked hostility of Lady Pelham. The less she talked of them, the more she longed for the time when she might, unrestrained, exchange with them testimonies of regard. The trees in the Park, as they burst into leaf, stimulated Laura's desire for the country; and while she felt the genial air of spring, or listened to the early song of some luckless bird caged in a neighbouring window, or saw the yellow glories of the crocus peeping from its unnatural sanctuary, she counted the days till her eyes should be gladdened with the joyous face of nature. Only a fortnight had now to pass before her wish was to be gratified, for Lady Pelham intended at the end of that time to remove to Walbourne.

Laura was just giving the finishing touches to her aunt's portrait when a visitor was announced; and, very unwilling to break off at this interesting crisis, Lady Pelham having first scolded the servant for letting in her friend, desired him to shew the lady into the room where Laura was at work. The usual speeches being made, the lady began – 'Who does your ladyship think bowed to me en passant just as I was getting out of the carriage? – Why, Lady Bellamer! – Can you conceive such effrontery?' 'Indeed, I think, in common modesty, she should have waited for your notice!' 'Do you know, I am told on good authority that Hargrave is determined not to marry her.' Laura's breath came short. – 'He is very right,' returned Lady Pelham. 'A man must be a great fool to marry where he has had such damning proofs of frailty.' Laura's heart seemed to pause for a moment, and then to redouble its beating. – 'What Hargrave can this be?' thought she; but she durst not inquire. 'I hear,' resumed the lady, 'that his uncle is enraged at him, and more for the duel than the crim. con.' The pencils dropped from Laura's hand. – Fain would she have inquired, what she yet so much dreaded to know; but her tongue refused its office. 'I see no cause for that,' returned Lady Pelham; 'Hargrave could not possibly refuse to fight after such an affair.' 'Oh certainly not!' replied the lady; 'but Lord Lincourt thinks, that in such a case, Hargrave ought to have insisted upon giving Lord Bellamer the first fire, and then have fired his own pistol in the air. – But, bless me, what ails Miss Montreville,' cried the visitor, looking at Laura, who, dreadfully convinced, was stealing out of the room. 'Nothing,' answered Laura; and fainted.

Lady Pelham called loudly for help; and, while the servants were administering it, stood by conjecturing what could be the cause of Laura's illness; wondering whether it could have any possible connection with Colonel Hargrave; or whether it were the effect of mere constitutional habit.

The moment Laura shewed signs of recollection, Lady Pelham began her interrogation. 'What has been the matter my dear? What made you ill? Did any thing affect you? Are you subject to faintings?' Laura remained silent, and, closing her eyes, seemed deaf to all her aunt's questions. After a pause, Lady Pelham renewed the attack. – 'Have you any concern with Colonel Hargrave, Laura?' 'None,' answered Laura, with a smile of ineffable bitterness; and again closing her eyes, maintained an obstinate silence. Weary of ineffectual inquiries, Lady Pelham quitted her, giving orders, that she should be assisted into bed, and recommending to her to take some rest.

Vain advice! Laura could not rest! From the stupor which had overpowered her faculties, she awoke to the full conviction, that all her earthly prospects were for ever darkened. Just entering on life, she seemed already forsaken of all its hopes, and all its joys. The affections which had delighted her youth were torn from the bleeding soul; no sacred connection remained to bless her maturity; no endearment awaited her decline. In all her long and dreary journey to the grave, she saw no kindly resting-place. Still Laura's hopes and wishes had never been bounded to this narrow sphere; and when she found here no rest for the sole of her foot, she had, in the promises of religion, an ark whither she could turn for shelter. But how should she forget that these promises extended not to Hargrave. How shut her ear to the dread voice which, in threatening the adulterer and the murderer, denounced vengeance against Hargrave! With horror unspeakable she considered his incorrigible depravity; with agony, revolved its fearful consequences.

Yet, while the guilt was hateful in her eyes, her heart was full of love and compassion for the offender. The feeling with which she remembered his unfaithfulness to her had no resemblance to jealousy. 'He has been misled,' she cried; 'vilely betrayed by a wretch, who has taken advantage of his weakness. Oh how could she look on that form, that countenance, and see in them only the objects of a passion, vile as the heart that cherished it.' – Then she would repent of her want of candour. – 'I am unjust, I am cruel,' she said, 'thus to load with all the burden of this foul offence, her who had perhaps the least share in it. – No! He must have been the tempter; it is not in woman to be so lost.'

But in the midst of sorrow, whose violence seemed at times almost to confuse her reason, she never hesitated for a moment on the final dissolution of her connection with Hargrave. She formed no resolution on a subject where no alternative seemed to remain, but assumed, as the foundation of all her plans of joyless duty, her eternal separation from Hargrave; a separation final as death. By degrees she became more able to collect her thoughts; and the close of a sleepless night found her exercising the valuable habit of seeking in herself the cause of her misfortunes. The issue of her self-examination was the conviction, that she had bestowed on a frail fallible creature, a love disproportioned to the merits of any created thing; that she had obstinately clung to her idol after she had seen its baseness; and that now the broken reed whereon she had leaned was taken away, that she might restore her trust and her love where alone they were due. That time infallibly brings comfort even to the sorest sorrows – that if we make not shipwreck of faith and a good conscience, we save from the storms of life the materials of peace at least – that lesser joys become valuable when we are deprived of those of keener relish – are lessons which even experience teaches but slowly: and Laura had them yet in a great measure to learn. She was persuaded that she should go on mourning to the grave. What yet remained of her path of life seemed to lie through a desert waste, never more to be warmed with the sunshine of affection; never more to be brightened with any ray of hope, save that which beamed from beyond the tomb. She imagined, that lonely and desolate she should pass through life, and joyfully hail the messenger that called her away; like some wretch, who, cast alone on a desert rock, watches for the sail that is to waft him to his native land.

The despair of strong minds is not listless or inactive. The more Laura was convinced that life was lost as to all its pleasing purposes, the more was she determined that it should be subservient to useful ends. Earthly felicity, she was convinced, had fled for ever from her grasp; and the only resolution she could form, was never more to pursue it; but, in the persevering discharge of the duties which yet remained to her, to seek a preparation for joys which earth has not to bestow. That she might not devote to fruitless lamentation the time which was claimed by duty, she, as soon as it was day, attempted to rise, intending to spend the morning in acts of resignation for herself, and prayers that pardon and repentance might be granted to him whose guilt had destroyed her peace. But her head was so giddy, that, unable to stand, she was obliged to return to her bed. It was long ere she was again able to quit it. A slow fever seized her, and brought her to the brink of the grave. Her senses, however, remained uninjured, and she had full power and leisure to make those reflections which force themselves upon all who are sensible of approaching dissolution. Happy were it, if all who smart under disappointment, would anticipate the hour which will assuredly arrive, when the burden which they impatiently bear shall appear to be lighter than vanity! The hand which is soon to be cold, resigns without a struggle the baubles of the world. Its cheats delude not the eye that is for ever closing. A deathbed is that holy ground where the charms of the enchanter are dissolved; where the forms which he had clothed with unreal beauty, or aggravated to gigantic horror, are seen in their true form and colouring. In its true form and colouring did Laura behold her disappointment; when, with characteristic firmness, she had wrung from her attendants, a confession of her danger. With amazement she looked back on the infatuation which could waste on any concern less than eternal, the hopes, the fears, and the wishes which she had squandered on a passion which now seemed trivial as the vapour scattered by the wind.

At last, aided by the rigid temperance of her former life, and her exemplary patience in suffering, the strength of her constitution began to triumph over her disorder. As she measured her steps back to earth again, the concerns which had seemed to her reverting eye diminished into nothing, again swelled into importance; but Laura could not soon forget the time when she had seen them as they were; and this remembrance powerfully aided her mind in its struggle to cast off its now disgraceful shackles. Yet bitter was the struggle; for what is so painful as to tear at once from the breast what has twined itself with every fibre, linked itself with every hope, stimulated every desire, and long furnished objects of intense, of unceasing interest. The heart which death leaves desolate, slowly and gently resigns the affection to which it has fondly clung. It is permitted to seek indulgence in virtuous sorrow, to rejoice in religious hope; and even memory brings pleasure dear to the widowed mind. But she who mourned the depravity of her lover, felt that she was degraded by her sorrow; hope was, as far as he was concerned, utterly extinguished; and memory presented only a mortifying train of weaknesses and self-deceptions.

But love is not that irremediable calamity which romance has delighted to paint, and the vulgar to believe it. Time, vanity, absence, or any of a hundred other easy remedies, serves to cure the disease in the mild form in which it affects feeble minds, while more Herculean spirits tear off the poisoned garment, though it be with mortal anguish. In a few weeks, the passion which had so long disturbed the peace of Laura was hushed to lasting repose; but it was the repose of the land where the whirlwind has passed; dreary and desolate. Her spirits had received a shock from which it was long, very long, ere she could rouse them. And he who had ceased to be an object of passion, still excited an interest which no other human being could awaken. Many a wish did she breathe for his happiness; many a fervent prayer for his reformation. In spite of herself, she lamented the extinguished love, as well as the lost lover; and never remembered, without a heavy sigh, that the season of enthusiastic attachment was, with her, passed never to return.

But she cordially wished that she might never again behold the cause of so much anguish and humiliation. She longed to be distant from all chance of such a meeting, and was anxious to recover strength sufficient for her journey to Walbourne. Lady Pelham only waited for her niece's recovery; and, as soon as she could bear the motion of a carriage, they left London.

CHAPTER XXI

They travelled slowly, and Laura's health seemed improved by the journey. The reviving breeze of early spring, the grass field exchanging its winter olive for a bright green, the ploughman's cheerful labour, the sower whistling to his measured step, the larch trees putting forth the first and freshest verdure of the woods, the birds springing busy from the thorn, were objects whose cheering influence would have been lost on many a querulous child of disappointment. But they were industriously improved to their proper use by Laura, who acknowledged in them the kindness of a father, mingling with some cordial drop even the bitterest cup of sorrow. The grief which had fastened on her heart she never obtruded on her companion. She behaved always with composure, sometimes with cheerfulness. She never obliquely reflected upon Providence, by insinuations of the hardness of her fate, nor indulged in splenetic dissertations on the inconstancy and treachery of man. Indeed she never, by the most distant hint, approached the ground of her own peculiar sorrow. She could not, without the deepest humiliation, reflect that she had bestowed her love on an object so unworthy. She burnt with shame at the thought of having been so blinded, so infatuated, by qualities merely external. While she remembered, with extreme vexation, that she had suffered Hargrave to triumph in the confession of her regard, she rejoiced that no other witness existed of her folly – that she had never breathed the mortifying secret into any other ear.

In this frame of mind, she repelled with calm dignity every attempt which Lady Pelham made to penetrate her sentiments; and behaved in such a manner that her aunt could not discover whether her spirits were affected by languor of body or by distress of mind. Laura, indeed, had singular skill in the useful art of repulsing without offence; and Lady Pelham, spite of her curiosity, found it impossible to question her niece with freedom. Notwithstanding her youth, and her almost dependent situation, Laura inspired Lady Pelham with involuntary awe. Her dignified manners, her vigorous understanding, the inflexible integrity which descended even to the regulation of her forms of speech, extorted some degree of respectful caution from one not usually over careful of giving offence. Lady Pelham was herself at times conscious of this restraint; and her pride was wounded by it. In Laura's absence, she sometimes thought of it with impatience, and resolved to cast it off at their next interview; but whenever they met, the unoffending majesty of Laura effaced her resolution, or awed her from putting it in practice. She could not always, however, refrain from using that sort of innuendo which is vulgarly called talking at one's companions; a sort of rhetoric in great request with those who have more spleen than courage, and which differs from common scolding only in being a little more cowardly and a little more provoking. All her Ladyship's dexterity and perseverance in this warfare were entirely thrown away. Whatever might be meant, Laura answered to nothing but what met the ear; and, with perverse simplicity, avoided the particular application of general propositions. Lady Pelham next tried to coax herself into Laura's confidence. She redoubled her caresses and professions of affection. She hinted, not obscurely, that if Laura would explain her wishes, they would meet with indulgence, and even assistance, from zealous friendship. Her professions were received with gratitude – her caresses returned with sensibility; but Laura remained impenetrable. Lady Pelham's temper could never brook resistance; and she would turn from Laura in a pet: – the pitiful garb of anger which cannot disguise, and dares not show itself. But Laura never appeared to bestow the slightest notice on her caprice, and received her returning smiles with unmoved complacency. Laura would fain have loved her aunt; but in spite of herself, her affection took feeble root amidst these alternations of frost and sunshine. She was weary of hints and insinuations; and felt not a little pleased that Lady Pelham's fondness for improving and gardening seemed likely to release her, during most of the hours of daylight, from this sort of sharpshooting warfare.

It was several days after their arrival at Walbourne before they were visited by any of the De Courcy family. Undeceived in his hopes of Laura's regard, Montague was almost reluctant to see her again. Yet from the hour when he observed Lady Pelham's carriage drive up the avenue, he had constantly chosen to study at a window which looked towards Walbourne. Laura, too, often looked towards Norwood, excusing to herself the apparent neglect of her friends, by supposing that they had not been informed of her arrival. Lady Pelham was abroad superintending her gardeners, and Laura employed in her own apartment, when she was called to receive De Courcy. For the first time since the wreck of all her hopes, joy flushed the wan cheek of Laura, and fired her eye with transient lustre. 'I shall hear the voice of friendship once more,' said she, and she hastened down stairs with more speed than suited her but half-recovered strength. 'Dear Mr De Courcy,' she cried, joyfully advancing towards him! De Courcy scarcely ventured to raise his eyes. Laura held out her hand to him. 'She loves a libertine!' thought he, and, scarcely touching it, he drew back. With grief and surprise, Laura read the cold and melancholy expression of his face. Her feeble spirits failed under so chilling a reception; and while, in a low tremulous voice, she inquired for Mrs and Miss De Courcy, unbidden tears wandered down her cheeks. In replying, Montague again turned his eyes towards her; and, shocked at the paleness and dejection of her altered countenance, remembered only Laura ill and in sorrow. 'Good Heavens!' he exclaimed, with a voice of the tenderest interest, 'Laura – Miss Montreville, you are ill – you are unhappy!' Laura, vexed that her weakness should thus extort compassion, hastily dried her tears. 'I have been ill,' said she, 'and am still so weak that any trifle can discompose me.' Montague's colour rose. 'It is then a mere trifle in her eyes,' thought he, 'that I should meet her with coldness.' 'And yet,' continued Laura, reading mortification in his face, 'it is no trifle to fear that I have given offence where I owe so much gratitude.' 'Talk not of gratitude, I beseech you,' said De Courcy, 'I have no claim, no wish, to excite it.' 'Mr De Courcy,' cried Laura, bursting into tears of sad remembrance, 'has all your considerate friendship, all your soothing kindness to him who is gone, no claim to the gratitude of his child!' Montague felt that he stood at this moment upon dangerous ground, and he gladly availed himself of this opportunity to quit it. He led Laura to talk of her father, and of the circumstances of his death; and was not ashamed to mingle sympathetic tears with those which her narrative wrung from her. In her detail, she barely hinted at the labour by which she had supported her father; and avoided all allusion to the wants which she had endured. If any thing could have exalted her in the opinion of De Courcy, it would have been the humility which sought no praise to recompense exertion – no admiration to reward self-denial. 'The praise of man is with her as nothing,' thought he, gazing on her wasted form and faded features with fonder adoration than ever he had looked on her full blaze of beauty. 'She has higher hopes and nobler aims. And can such a creature love a sensualist! – Now, too, when his infamy cannot be unknown to her! Yet it must be so – she has never named him, even while describing scenes where he was daily present; and why this silence if he were indifferent to her? If I durst mention him! – but I cannot give her pain.'

From this reverie De Courcy was roused by the entrance of Lady Pelham, whose presence brought to his recollection the compliments and ceremonial which Laura had driven from his mind. He apologized for having delayed his visit; and excused himself for having made it alone, by saying that his sister was absent on a visit to a friend, and that his mother could not yet venture abroad; but he warmly entreated that the ladies would wave etiquette, and see Mrs De Courcy at Norwood. Lady Pelham, excusing herself for the present on the plea of her niece's indisposition, urged De Courcy to direct his walks often towards Walbourne; in charity, she said, to Laura, who being unable to take exercise, spent her forenoons alone, sighing, she supposed, for some Scotch Strephon. Laura blushed; and Montague took his leave, pondering whether the blush was deepened by any feeling of consciousness.

'She has a witchcraft in her that no language can express – no heart withstand – ,' said De Courcy, suddenly breaking a long silence, as he and his mother were sitting tête à tête after dinner. 'Marriage is an excellent talisman against witchcraft,' said De Courcy, gravely; 'but Miss Montreville has charms that will delight the more the better they are known. There is such noble simplicity, such considerate benevolence, such total absence of vanity and selfishness in her character, that no woman was ever better fitted to embellish and endear domestic life.' 'Perhaps in time,' pursued De Courcy, 'I might have become not unworthy of such a companion – But now it matters not,' – and, suppressing a very bitter sigh, he took up a book which he had of late been reading to his mother. 'You know, Montague,' said Mrs De Courcy, 'I think differently from you upon this subject. I am widely mistaken in Miss Montreville, if she could bestow her preference on a libertine, knowing him to be such.' Montague took involuntary pleasure in hearing this opinion repeated; yet he had less faith in it than he usually had in the opinions of his mother. 'After the emotion which his presence excited,' returned he, – 'an emotion which even these low people – I cannot think of it with patience,' cried he, tossing away the book, and walking hastily up and down the room. 'To betray her weakness, her only weakness, to such observers – to the wretch himself.' 'My dear De Courcy, do you make no allowance for the exaggeration, the rage for the romantic, so common to uneducated minds?' 'Wilkins could have no motive for inventing such a tale,' replied De Courcy; 'and if it had any foundation, there is no room for doubt.' 'Admitting the truth of all you have heard,' resumed Mrs De Courcy, 'I see no reason for despairing of success. If I know any thing of character, Miss Montreville's attachments will ever follow excellence, real or imaginary. Your worth is real, Montague; and, as such, it will in time approve itself to her.' 'Ah, Madam, had her affection been founded even on imaginary excellence, must it not now have been completely withdrawn – now, when she cannot be unacquainted with his depravity. Yet she loves him still. – I am sure she loves him. Why else this guarded silence in regard to him? – Why not mention that she permitted his daily visits – saw him even on the night when her father died?' 'Supposing,' returned Mrs De Courcy, 'that her affection had been founded on imaginary excellence, might not traces of the ruins remain perceptible, even after the foundation had been taken away? Come, come, Montague, you are only four-and-twenty, you can afford a few years patience. If you act prudently, I am convinced that your perseverance will succeed; but if it should not, I know how you can bear disappointment. I am certain that your happiness depends not on the smile of any face, however fair.' 'I am ashamed,' said De Courcy, 'to confess how much my peace depends upon Laura. You know I have no ambition – all my joys must be domestic. It is as a husband and a father that all my wishes must be fulfilled – and all that I have ever fancied of venerable and endearing, so meet in her, that no other woman can ever fill her place.' 'That you have no ambition,' replied Mrs De Courcy, 'is one of the reasons why I join in your wishes. If your happiness had any connection with splendour, I should have regretted your choice of a woman without fortune. But all that is necessary for your comfort you will find in the warmth of heart with which Laura will return your affection – the soundness of principle with which she will assist you in your duties. Still, perhaps, you might find these qualities in others, though not united in an equal degree; but I confess to you, Montague, I despair of your again meeting with a woman whose dispositions and pursuits are so congenial to your own; – a woman, whose cultivated mind and vigorous understanding, may make her the companion of your studies as well as of your lighter hours.' 'My dear mother,' cried De Courcy, affectionately grasping her hand, 'it is no wonder that I persecute you with this subject so near to my heart for you always, and you alone, support my hopes. Yet should I even at last obtain this treasure, I must ever regret that I cannot awaken the enthusiasm which belongs only to a first attachment.' 'Montague,' said Mrs De Courcy, smiling, 'from what romance have you learnt that sentiment? However I shall not attempt the labour of combating it, for I prophesy that, before the change can be necessary, you will learn to be satisfied with being loved with reason.' 'Many a weary day must pass before I can even hope for this cold preference. Indeed, if her choice is to be decided by mere rational approbation, why should I hope that it will fall upon me? Yet, if it be possible, her friendship I will gain – and I would not exchange it for the love of all her sex.' 'She already esteems you – highly esteems you,' said Mrs De Courcy; 'and I repeat that I think you need not despair of animating esteem into a warmer sentiment. But will you profit by my knowledge of my sex, Montague? You know, the less use we make of our own wisdom, the fonder we grow of bestowing it on others in the form of advice! Keep your secret carefully, Montague. Much of your hope depends on your caution. Pretensions to a pre-engaged heart are very generally repaid with dislike.' Montague promised attention to his mother's advice; but added, that he feared he should not long be able to follow it. 'I am a bad dissembler,' said he, 'and on this subject, it is alleged, that ladies are eagle-eyed.' 'Miss Montreville, of all women living, has the least vanity,' returned Mrs De Courcy; 'and you may always reinforce your caution, by recollecting that the prepossessions which will certainly be against you as a lover, may be secured in your favour as a friend.'