thought he was a man of ability and comprehension, but “too visionary,” he told the Colonel. The Colonel said he might be right, but he had never noticed anything visionary about him.
“He’s got his plans, sir. God bless my soul, at his age, I was full of plans. But experience sobers a man, I never touch any thing now that hasn’t been weighed in my judgment; and when Beriah Sellers puts his judgment on a thing, there it is.”
Whatever might have been Harry’s intentions with regard to Laura, he saw more and more of her every day, until he got to be restless and nervous when he was not with her.
That consummate artist in passion allowed him to believe that the fascination was mainly on his side, and so worked upon his vanity, while inflaming his ardor, that he scarcely knew what he was about. Her coolness and coyness were even made to appear the simple precautions of a modest timidity, and attracted him even more than the little tendernesses into which she was occasionally surprised. He could never be away from her long, day or evening; and in a short time their intimacy was the town talk. She played with him so adroitly that Harry thought she was absorbed in love for him, and yet he was amazed that he did not get on faster in his conquest.
And when he thought of it, he was piqued as well. A country girl, poor enough, that was evident; living with her family in a cheap and most unattractive frame house, such as carpenters build in America, scantily furnished and unadorned; without the adventitious aids of dress or jewels or the fine manners of society — Harry couldn’t understand it. But she fascinated him, and held him just beyond the line of absolute familiarity at the same time. While he was with her she made him forget that the Hawkins’ house was nothing but a wooden tenement, with four small square rooms on the ground floor and a half story; it might have been a palace for aught he knew.
Perhaps Laura was older than Harry. She was, at any rate, at that ripe age when beauty in woman seems more solid than in the budding period of girlhood, and she had come to understand her powers perfectly, and to know exactly how much of the susceptibility and archness of the girl it was profitable to retain. She saw that many women, with the best intentions, make a mistake of carrying too much girlishness into womanhood. Such a woman would have attracted Harry at any time, but only a woman with a cool brain and exquisite art could have made him lose his head in this way; for Harry thought himself a man of the world. The young fellow never dreamed that he was merely being experimented on; he was to her a man of another society and another culture, different from that she had any knowledge of except in books, and she was not unwilling to try on him the fascinations of her mind and person.
For Laura had her dreams. She detested the narrow limits in which her lot was cast, she hated poverty. Much of her reading had been of modern works of fiction, written by her own sex, which had revealed to her something of her own powers and given her indeed, an exaggerated notion of the influence, the wealth, the position a woman may attain who has beauty and talent and ambition and a little culture, and is not too scrupulous in the use of them. She wanted to be rich, she wanted luxury, she wanted men at her feet, her slaves, and she had not — thanks to some of the novels she had read — the nicest discrimination between notoriety and reputation; perhaps she did not know how fatal notoriety usually is to the bloom of womanhood.
With the other Hawkins children Laura had been brought up in the belief that they had inherited a fortune in the Tennessee Lands. She did not by any means share all the delusion of the family; but her brain was not seldom busy with schemes about it. Washington seemed to her only to dream of it and to be willing to wait for its riches to fall upon him in a golden shower; but she was impatient, and wished she were a man to take hold of the business.
“You men must enjoy your schemes and your activity and liberty to go about the world,” she said to Harry one day, when he had been talking of New York and Washington and his incessant engagements.
“Oh, yes,” replied that martyr to business, “it’s all well enough, if you don’t have too much of it, but it only has one object.”
“What is that?”
“If a woman doesn’t know, it’s useless to tell her. What do you suppose I am staying in Hawkeye for, week after week, when I ought to be with my corps?”
“I suppose it’s your business with Col. Sellers about Napoleon, you’ve always told me so,” answered Laura, with a look intended to contradict her words.
“And now I tell you that is all arranged, I suppose you’ll tell me I ought to go?”
“Harry!” exclaimed Laura, touching his arm and letting her pretty hand rest there a moment. “Why should I want you to go away? The only person in Hawkeye who understands me.”
“But you refuse to understand me,” replied Harry, flattered but still petulant. “You are like an iceberg, when we are alone.”
Laura looked up with wonder in her great eyes, and something like a blush suffusing her face, followed by a look of langour that penetrated Harry’s heart as if it had been longing.
“Did I ever show any want of confidence in you, Harry?” And she gave him her hand, which Harry pressed with effusion — something in her manner told him that he must be content with that favor.
It was always so. She excited his hopes and denied him, inflamed his passion and restrained it, and wound him in her toils day by day. To what purpose? It was keen delight to Laura to prove that she had power over men.
Laura liked to hear about life at the east, and especially about the luxurious society in which Mr. Brierly moved when he was at home. It pleased her imagination to fancy herself a queen in it.
“You should be a winter in Washington,” Harry said.
“But I have no acquaintances there.”
“Don’t know any of the families of the congressmen? They like to have a pretty woman staying with them.”
“Not one.”
“Suppose Col. Sellers should, have business there; say, about this Columbus River appropriation?”
“Sellers!” and Laura laughed.
“You needn’t laugh. Queerer things have happened. Sellers knows everybody from Missouri, and from the West, too, for that matter. He’d introduce you to Washington life quick enough. It doesn’t need a crowbar to break your way into society there as it does in Philadelphia. It’s democratic, Washington is. Money or beauty will open any door. If I were a handsome woman, I shouldn’t want any better place than the capital to pick up a prince or a fortune.”
“Thank you,” replied Laura. “But I prefer the quiet of home, and the love of those I know;” and her face wore a look of sweet contentment and unworldliness that finished Mr. Harry Brierly for the day.
Nevertheless, the hint that Harry had dropped fell upon good ground, and bore fruit an hundred fold; it worked in her mind until she had built up a plan on it, and almost a career for herself. Why not, she said, why shouldn’t I do as other women have done? She took the first opportunity to see Col. Sellers, and to sound him about the Washington visit. How was he getting on with his navigation scheme, would it be likely to take him from home to Jefferson City; or to Washington, perhaps?
“Well, maybe. If the people of Napoleon want me to go to Washington, and look after that matter, I might tear myself from my home. It’s been suggested to me, but — not a word of it to Mrs. Sellers and the children. Maybe they wouldn’t like to think of their father in Washington.
