'That is the portrait of De Courcy,' replied Laura, with the simple majesty of truth. 'It is the sketch from which I finished a picture for his sister. That book too is his,' and she stooped to lift it from the ground. 'Touch not the vile thing,' cried Hargrave in a voice of thunder. With quiet self-possession, Laura continued, 'Mr De Courcy's father was, as you know, the friend of mine. Mr De Courcy himself was, when an infant, known to my father; and they met, providentially met, when we had great need of a considerate friend. That friend Mr De Courcy was to us, and no selfish motive sullied his benevolence; for he is not, nor ever was, nor, I trust, ever will be, known to me as a lover!'
The voice of sober truth had its effect upon Hargrave, and he said, more composedly, 'Will you then give me your word, that De Courcy is not, nor ever will be, dear to you?'
'No!' answered Laura, 'I will not say so, for he must be loved wherever his virtues are known; but I have no regard for him that should disquiet you. It is not such,' continued she, struggling with the rising tears--'it is not such as would pardon outrage, and withstand neglect, and humble itself before unjust aspersion.'
'Oh Laura,' said Hargrave, at once convinced and softened, 'I must believe you, or my heart will burst.'
'I have a right to be believed,' returned Laura, endeavouring to rally her spirits. 'Now, then, release me, after convincing me that the passion of which you boast so much, is consistent with the most insolent disrespect, the most unfounded suspicion.' But Hargrave was again at her feet, exhausting every term of endearment, and breathing forth the most fervent petitions for forgiveness.
Tears, which she could no longer suppress, now streamed down Laura's cheeks, while she said, 'How could you suspect me of the baseness of pretending a regard which I did not feel, of confirming engagements from which my affections revolted!' Hargrave, half wild with the sight of her tears, bitterly reproached himself with his injustice; vowed that he believed her all perfection; that, with all a woman's tenderness, she possessed the truth and purity of angels, and that, could she this once pardon his extravagance, he would never more offend. But Laura, vexed and ashamed of her weakness, insisted on her release in a tone that would be obeyed, and Hargrave, too much humbled to be daring, unwillingly suffered her to retire.