Great Britain -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Self-control -- Fiction; Women -- Fiction
Though, in the bustle of preparation, scarcely a moment remained
unoccupied, Laura could not always forbear from starting at the sound of
the knocker, or following with her eyes the form of a horseman winding
through the trees. In vain she looked--in vain she listened. The
expected stranger came not--the expected voice was unheard. She tried to
rejoice at the desertion: 'I am glad of it,' she would say to herself,
while bitter tears were bursting from her eyes. She often reproached
herself with the severity of her language at her last interview with
Hargrave. She asked herself what right she had to embitter
disappointment by unkindness, or to avenge insult by disdain. Her
behaviour appeared to her, in the retrospect, ungentle, unfeminine,
unchristian. Yet she did not for a moment repent her rejection, nor
waver for a moment in her resolution to adhere to it. Her soul sickened
at the thought, that she had been the object of licentious passion
merely; and she loathed to look upon her own lovely form, while she
thought that it had seduced the senses, but failed to touch the soul of
Hargrave.
Amidst these employments and feelings the week had closed; and the
Sabbath evening was the last which Laura was to spend at Glenalbert.
That evening had long been her chosen season of meditation, the village
church-yard the scene where she loved to 'go forth to meditate.' The way
which led to it, and to it alone, was a shady green lane, gay with
veronica and hare-bell, undefaced by wheels, but marked in the middle
with one distinct track, and impressed towards the sides with several
straggling half-formed footpaths. The church itself stood detached from
the village, on a little knoll, on the west side of which the
burial-ground sloped towards the woody bank that bounded a brawling
mountain stream. Thither Laura stole, when the sun, which had been hid
by the rugged hill, again rolling forth from behind the precipitous
ascent, poured through the long dale his rays upon this rustic cemetery;
the only spot in the valley sufficiently elevated to catch his parting
beam.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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