LADY MACLAIRN, THE VICTIM OF VILLANY . A NOVEL. IN FOUR VOLUMES.
Transcriber’s Note:
The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.
BY MRS. HUNTER,
OF NORWICH,
AUTHOR OF LETITIA; THE UNEXPECTED LEGACY; THE HISTORY OF THE GRUETHORPE FAMILY; PALMERSTONE’S LETTERS, &c., &c.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR W. EARLE AND J. W. HUCKLEBRIDGE;
AND SOLD BY W. EARLE, NO. 47, ALBEMARLE STREET; GEORGE ROBINSON, PATERNOSTER ROW; B. CROSBY AND CO. STATIONER’S COURT; THO. OSTELL, AVE MARIA LANE; AND ALL OTHER BOOKSELLERS.
1806.
[Barnard & Sultzer, Water Lane, Fleet Street.]
INTRODUCTION. — CHAP. I.
iii
In presenting the following pages
to the Public, I conceive it to be
incumbent on me to say, that Miss
Cowley’s letters to her friend will
be found to contain nearly the whole
of a narrative, from which, I trust,
my readers may draw a lesson of
morality, as well as of gratification to
that curiosity which a new Novel often
excites, but sometimes disappoints.
My claims to candour are consequently
few; for as the Editor, rather
than the Author, I beg leave to
observe, that with the materials
before me, I have balanced, pretty
equally as I think, my hopes of my
readers’ favour, with my fears of their
frowns; and I stand chargeable with
ivno more than an error in judgment,
or too much partiality for Miss
Cowley’s talents, in having preferred
her pen to my own.
It is, however, indispensably necessary,
that I should prepare the way
for her appearance as a candidate
for public notice; and with as much
of brevity as of fidelity, do I intend
to make my first chapter useful to
this purpose, by detailing such particulars
of her family, birth, and
circumstances of fortune, as are requisite
for the better knowledge and
illustration of those occurrences
which engaged her time and attention,
and furnished the principal
subjects for her pen.
LADY MACLAIRN,
THE
VICTIM OF VILLANY.
1
Mr. Cowley, father of Miss Cowley,
was, at an early age, left an orphan,
with an ample inheritance in Jamaica,
the place of his birth. He was consigned
by the will of his father, who had survived
his mother, to the guardianship of
a gentleman who resided in London, and
who, in his commercial concerns, had for
a course of years evinced an integrity,
founded on the liberal principles of an
enlightened mind and a cultivated understanding.
The care of his estate was
left in the hands of a friend, not less
2qualified for this more subordinate office.
He lived on the spot; and was enriched
by the vigilance and honesty with which
he discharged his duty. His first care
after his benefactor’s decease, was to send
the young heir to England, for the purpose
of his improvement; and his London
guardian, not only placed him within
the reach of the attainments requisite for
his future happiness, but by his truly
parental care and tenderness, gave him
the fairest example of the influence and
benefits resulting from a conduct governed
by virtue and solid wisdom. Thus
secured on all sides by a gracious Providence,
Henry Cowley lived to reach his
twenty-first year; when, by the sudden
death of his benevolent friend,
he found himself master of his time, his
fortune, and his amusements. But love
had provided an armour of defence
against the seductions of the world; and
the difficulties he had to surmount in
3attaining the object of his affections,
gave to his youthful ardour pursuits far
remote from the dangers of dissipation. To
conquer the reluctance of Mrs. Dawson,
the young lady’s mother, to her daughter’s
marrying him, or any other pretender to
her favour, was a trial, not only of his
patience and perseverance, but also of
her daughter’s health and spirits; for she
had long since given her heart to young
Cowley, and well knew that the only
impediment in the way to her union with
the man she loved, was the excessive and
fond attachment of her mother to her
society, and the wish of having no competitor
for a heart which she conceived
to be made only for herself. The young
lady’s declining spirits, and the arguments
urged by her lover, at length gained
a cold consent, to which were annexed
conditions that Cowley cheerfully agreed
to. These were principally confined to
the young couple’s residence under her
4roof, and a promise, never to hazard a
voyage to Jamaica without her concurrence.
Satisfied on these essential points,
she hastened the nuptials, in order to
expedite her removal with her daughter
to Bristol Hot-Wells, whither she was
ordered by her physician; and entirely
regardless of procuring settlements, her
daughter being an only child, the party
proceeded from the altar to their destined
abode at Clifton; where health, peace,
and gaiety met the happy pair. Mrs.
Dawson’s apprehensions for the life of her
beloved daughter had not long subsided
before she became alarmed for herself:
the honey-moon continued longer than
her forbearance; she imagined herself
neglected. Fears and explanations were
succeeded by altercations, and fits of sullenness
and even rudeness to poor Cowley;
who, in consideration of his wife’s
tranquillity, redoubled his attentions to
her mother. This tribute of true affection
5gained him nothing with Mrs. Dawson,
for it unfortunately gave her daughter
an opportunity of observing, more than
once, that “Mr. Cowley’s behaviour to
her mother was of itself sufficient to engage
her love, her esteem and gratitude.”
During the space of three years the
amiable wife bore with patience these
jealous caprices of her mother; not so
acquiescent was the husband: he was
weary of the contest, and the tender
Marian trembled for her husband’s peace
and her own future happiness. The
death of Mr. Cowley’s faithful agent in
Jamaica, which happened at this period,
rendered a voyage thither indispensible
to Mr. Cowley. He explicitly placed
before his wife and her mother his intentions
to visit his patrimony; and left
them to decide whether he was to go unaccompanied
by the only person who could
solace him in his absence from England.
6Mrs. Cowley firmly declared her purpose
of going with him, and to every argument
and entreaty used by her mother,
applied the same answer:—“My duty, my
affection, my very life, urge me to undertake
a voyage which my husband
hazards; and were it round the world I
would cheerfully share the dangers with
my Cowley.” Let it suffice that Mrs.
Cowley persevered, and from the hour of
her daughter’s departure, her mother
nourished an irreconcilable hatred to Mr.
Cowley; attributing to his cruelty and
undue authority the absence of his wife,
“who was not permitted to love even her
mother, nor that mother to shelter her
from his tyrannical temper.”
Candour, as well as the proofs before me,
exact from my pen, however, some qualifications,
which will soften down to the
weakness of human nature these severe
traits in Mrs. Dawson’s character; for it
would be unjust not to give it more
7favourable lineaments, and amongst several,
it is proper to distinguish one, namely,
her generous cares in sheltering under her
roof a young lady, who was left an orphan
for more than three years, at the end of
which period she married happily. As
this act of friendship and benevolence on
Mrs. Dawson’s part produced a course of
active and important duties on the young
lady’s, and as these are materially connected
with my narrative, it must be
allowed me to mention more particularly
the advantages which had, at this period
of my history, accrued to Mrs. Dawson
from her kind protection of Miss Otway.
Her age, her various talents, and her attractive
virtues, had contributed to form
Marian Dawson’s mind, and to obviate the
evils of her mother’s unlimited indulgence.
Till her marriage with Mr.
Hardcastle, to whom she had been engaged
before she lost her father, and
whom from prudential motives she refused
8to marry when deprived of this support,
her whole attention had been given
to Miss Dawson’s education; and although
the instructress and the pupil
differed not in age more than two or
three years, nothing less than the blindest
folly could have overlooked the rich
recompence which Mrs. Dawson derived
from her kindness to Miss Otway: the most
perfect friendship and confidence subsisted
between the young women. Cowley was
the intimate friend of Mr. Hardcastle,
though several years younger than himself,
and few of Mrs. Dawson’s connections
doubted of the share which the
Hardcastles had taken in the unhappy
dissentions caused by Mrs. Dawson’s ill-regulated
fondness to her child. It is
certain, that both Mr. and Mrs. Cowley
had the concurrence of these friends in
regard to the measures they pursued;
and with the most sanguine hopes of
succeeding, they both engaged to spare
9no pains in reconciling Mrs. Dawson to the
temporary absence of her son and daughter,
nor in preparing her to expect Mr.
Cowley to have an establishment of his
own at his return. Faithful to their engagements,
they in part effected their purpose.
Their attentions soothed the afflicted
mother. She found that she was not
wholly abandoned; she talked of her
poor unhappy child till compassion had
subdued resentment, and time had banished
tears and bewailings; and Mrs.
Dawson again tasted the comforts of
health, affluence, and friendship, although
still dead to the pleasure of forgiveness,
probably, because it was less painful to
hate Cowley than to reproach herself.
Mr. Hardcastle’s succession to his uncle’s
estate of about five or six hundred
pounds per annum, induced a change
in his plans of life. He gave up his profession
in the law, and retired to his inheritance
10with his lady and child, then an
infant, Mrs. Dawson suffered little from
this change, for she passed months at a
time with them in the country, and enjoyed
the variety of the seasons with
health, and few regrets beyond her
usual topic for discontent. “Seven years
a wife without the chance of being a
mother,” had not been unfrequently adverted
to by Mrs. Dawson, as a proof of
Mr. Cowley’s demerits in the sight of
Heaven. “He, that so fervently wished for
children! But his wretched temper would
have its punishments.” Alas! his fond
and too eager wishes had most unquestionably
their disappointment in the hour
of their fruition; for, in consequence of
a fever which no skill could overcome, he
lost his wife six weeks after she had given
him a daughter. Mrs. Dawson sunk under
this heavy stroke. Nothing remained
but her enmity to Cowley; and in
order to gratify this, she made her will.
11To Rachel Marian Cowley, her grand-daughter,
she bequeathed all her property;
but subjected it to conditions, which
sufficiently marked her hatred to the
infant’s father. In case Mr. Cowley submitted
to relinquish the rights of a
parent, and to place his daughter under
Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle’s care, the child
was immediately after her decease to be
conveyed to England, and given into
their protection. On this condition, she
was entitled to the annual interest resulting
from the sum which constituted her
fortune, and which was vested in the
public funds, to the amount of a capital
which produced more than six hundred
pounds per annum. The father’s refusal
to concede to these terms, restricted her
from the fortune till she was twenty-one,
or till she married with the consent of Mr.
Hardcastle and the other trustee appointed
to this duty. In case of her death
before she could claim her fortune, the
12whole sum, with its accumulations, was
left to Mr. Hardcastle and his family. Satisfied
with this disposition of her worldly
possessions, she appeared to have recovered
her usual health and composure,
except when speaking of her grand-child.
On these affecting occasions, her only
consolation appeared to rise from Mr.
and Mrs. Hardcastle’s reiterated promises
to receive the child, whenever Mr. Cowley
should think it proper to claim their
kind offices. They repeated this assurance
in the most solemn terms, and Mrs. Hardcastle,
with ceaseless labour, endeavoured
to fix on her mind the persuasion, that
Mr. Cowley would think of no one but
himself for so precious a charge. Mrs.
Dawson was suddenly removed by an
apoplectic fit the following winter; and
Counsellor Steadman, her executor and
trustee, in communicating to Mr. Hardcastle
the contents of Mrs. Dawson’s last
will and testament, was neither surprised
13nor offended at the sentiments his old
friend so warmly expressed, though they
were so opposite to the gratitude usually
bestowed even on contingent donations;
and having informed Mr. Cowley of this
event, and its consequences, he left him
to determine at his leisure, on the fitness
of Mrs. Dawson’s arrangements for his
daughter’s benefit and security.
During this period of time, the unhappy
Mr. Cowley was giving the most unequivocal
and melancholy proofs to those
about him, of the affection he cherished
for his amiable and lost Marian. A long
and dangerous illness had succeeded to
her death, the consequence of his attendance,
fatigue, and grief; and when
rescued from the grave by the vigour of his
constitution, his friends found his mind
sunk into the deepest gloom. From this
deplorable condition, he was gradually
roused by the sight of his infant daughter.
14Happily the child was healthy, and had
for its preservation an attendant well
qualified to supply a mother’s cares.
Mrs. Cowley, on quitting England, had
fortunately secured in the female attendant
who accompanied her, more than the
talents and fidelity of a domestic. Mrs.
Allen was a widow; she had been well
instructed in her youth, and matured in
wisdom and knowledge by a natural good
sense, and the discipline of adversity.
The femme de chambre was forgotten
in the usual friend and companion of the
voyage, and Mrs. Cowley introduced
Mrs. Allen to her new circle in a manner suitable
to her merits. To this excellent
woman she in some sort bequeathed her
infant, engaging her, in the most affecting
terms, to watch over the child till it
was safe with Mrs. Hardcastle, who had
promised her to be its parent when in
England. This request was enforced by
Mr. Cowley also; and Mrs. Allen forgot
15not her obligations in the performance of
her duty. From the time of her lady’s
death, as she always called Mrs. Cowley,
she regularly corresponded with Mrs.
Hardcastle; and from her letters to this
lady, I have learned to judge both of Mr.
Cowley’s attachment to his wife and child,
and of Mrs. Allen’s good sense. I shall
transcribe a part of one of the letters she
wrote to Mrs. Hardcastle, when the child
was something more than three years old:
it delineates the condition of a father
seeking refuge from sorrow in the indulgence
of fondness, the fruits of which
are too often found in bitter repentance.
After an account of Mr. Cowley’s improved
health, and incessant demands on
her little charge for the cheerfulness he
still needed, she thus proceeds: “Judge,
my dear Madam, what must be the result
of this excessive fondness! what
must be the condition of a being, liable
to contradiction and disappointment from
16the very tenure on which she holds her
being, who must never be controuled in
her will, whose tears put Mr. Cowley
into a fever, and whose infant caprices
are laws which no one dare to disobey.
Nature, my dear Madam, has formed her
for a better purpose, than subduing her
father’s judgment by her attractive person
and irresistible vivacity. But with
all the sportive charms of infancy, with,
I may say, redundant health and activity,
with beauty to dazzle all sober judgment
that views her in her happy moments, she
cannot impose on me, nor quiet my apprehensions
for her future life; for she has
passions which need the curb, and
those are hourly strengthening. Already
she is more despotic with her father than
he is with his slaves; and my influence
with her depends only on her generous
nature. She cannot bear to see me
‘grieve,’ to use her language: she has
been just making her dear Allen ‘well.’
17This was the occasion: a young and
sweet-tempered negro girl in the house,
has been with my concurrence promoted
to her nursery; she plays with her, and
is docile to my instructions. This, with
the singular beauty she possesses, have
gained her an interest with me, and I
have taught her to read, and the habits of
order. Marian was busy in making a cap
for her doll this morning, when summoned
to romp with her little tyrant.
She begged for a moment—it was granted;
but Marian still plied her needle: a blow
on her face was the rebuke her tardiness
met with, and the poor girl’s tears
followed it. No ways softened, ‘her dear
Missee’ cuffed and kicked her, till I
interposed, and, with a sorrowful tone,
said, ‘I must leave you, my child, you
will make me sick and sorrowful, for I
cannot love you.’ The storm was allayed;
and taking Marian by the hand,
she left me without speaking a single
18word. In a short time she returned,
leading the poor girl laden with toys and
her finery. ‘Marian loves me now,’
said she, creeping to my knees, ‘she has
kissed me—will not you? I am sorry. I
will be good, if it will make you well;—do
smile, only smile once.’ Such is the
child that claims your forming hand:
have pity on her, Madam; use your influence
over her father, urge him to perform
his duty; every day she remains
with him will render your task of love
and friendship more difficult.”
This letter produced its desired effect;
for, some months after its date, the following
one appears to have been addressed
to Mr. Hardcastle, from Mr. Cowley.
As it will serve to ascertain his character,
I shall transcribe its contents.—“Your
wife has conquered, my dear friend. I have
at length summoned up resolution to be
a parent and a man. Good God! thou
19only knowest the price of the sacrifice to
my duty! and thou only canst render it
propitious to thy creature! But I will still
hope in thy mercies. My child, Hardcastle,
has been spared hitherto; she has
happily encountered, not only the diseases
peculiar to her tender age, but also the
small-pox, which she has had, since our
last dispatches, in the mildest form, and
is now in perfect health. To what purpose
has she been thus preserved? Not to
be the victim of my doating fondness.
My promise to her dear mother shall be
fulfilled, and whilst it is yet time to save
her from a father’s weakness. Captain
Vernon, who loved her mother, and whose
attachment to this child is little less than
my own, shall be entrusted with her;
and Mrs. Allen will attend her. You
may expect to see her with the next
Jamaica fleet.”
“I have only to observe to you, as I
20have done to Counsellor Steadman, that
I consider Mrs. Dawson’s legacy to my
daughter, as totally remote from any calculations
of her expences as my child;
I shall never interfere with him as to the
disposal of the money. I have long since
forgotten Mrs. Dawson’s weaknesses and
prejudices, nor did I need any inducement
for my conduct of the nature she
supposed. My wife’s dying request in
regard to her infant, shall be religiously
observed; and it is an unspeakable consolation
to me to know, that the friend
whom she appointed as her substitute, is
as willing to engage in the duty as she
expected. I shall remit you annually
eight hundred per annum for her and
Mrs. Allen’s maintenance under your roof.
You know that this excellent woman is
bound by her engagement to her mother
to serve her. You know the station she
has filled in my house since the death of
my wife. Mrs. Hardcastle is prepared to
21meet in her a valuable addition to her
family: she will not be disappointed; for
her modest worth will ensure her a welcome
in any abode where virtue dwells.
“I entreat you, my dear Hardcastle, to
curb your disinterested spirit, whilst I indulge
my provident one, as it relates to
my child’s accommodations. She must
have a nursing maid, she will need a carriage;
and I have explained myself fully
to the counsellor on these points. In regard
to my expectations as these relate to
my child’s advantage, they are incalculable!
I fondly hope when we meet again
to behold her adorned in the attractive
graces of modesty and gentleness, rich in
piety, and principled in duty: such was
her mother, and to Mrs. Hardcastle was
she indebted for the example she rivalled.
Forget not to prepare her for wealth, she
will be probably amongst the number of
those whom the world envies. Teach her,
22Hardcastle, the duties annexed to wealth,
and give her those treasures that will amply
supply the want of gold.”
The remaining part of the letter is suppressed
as useless to the subject before us,
although it marks the utmost anxiety and
tenderness for the object of Mr. Cowley’s
cares.
Rachel Cowley had nearly attained
her fifth year, when she was joyfully received
in London by Mrs. Hardcastle.
Mrs. Allen had prudently refused to have
any attendant with her on the voyage,
and had not Captain Vernon’s fondness
for her pupil frustrated her designs, it is
probable the little rebel to authority
might have appeared to greater advantage
in the eyes of wisdom than she did.
But the extreme loveliness of her person,
her near affinity to a friend still tenderly
regretted, and the circumstances under
23which she beheld her, soon rendered Mrs.
Hardcastle favourably disposed towards a
child whose misfortune it had been, to be
from her birth the idol of slaves, and the
ruler of their master. A few days were
given to Mrs. Allen’s business and the
child’s repose in town, when they were
conducted to the home which Heaven had
graciously destined for them.
Mr. Hardcastle’s house was a fit abode
for its inmates, and from the hour it became
the family residence, Mr. Hardcastle
had given up a profession he never
loved, and relinquished the pursuits of
the barrister for those of the farmer, and
the indulgence of a taste which had rendered
his habitation an ornament to the
adjacent country. The little stranger
was met at Worcester by Mr. Hardcastle
and his two children. This excursion was
short for them, but its delights were of
importance, for it prepared the new
24comer for the pleasures of Heathcot-Farm;
and by the time the little group
had reached the room appointed for their
recreation, the epithets of brother and
sister were become favourites. It may
appear useless minutia to delineate the
characters of the children thus become
our heroine’s playmates; but no author
is without opinions of his own: and in
consequence of the privileges which my
own pen at this period of my history
gives me, I think it necessary to describe
Mrs. Hardcastle’s pupils.
Lucy Hardcastle had nearly attained
her eighth year, when her mother’s duties
were called upon in favour of Miss
Cowley. Horace, her brother, was not
yet seven, and of a disposition so similar
to that of the little stranger, that he soon
engrossed her favour and preference. Of
Lucy it might be said, that nature had
cast her in a mould so perfect, that for
25every proof of punctual care and tenderness,
she paid “love—fair looks—and true
obedience.”
“Still thinking all too little payment
for so great a debt,” the judicious mother
of these children had, from the first
indications of the difference which nature
had marked in their characters,
applied to each the peculiar culture which
each demanded; and though the bold
and vigorous shoots of her son’s ardent
spirit were still unsubdued, yet she had
trained him to obedience and docility by
the firmness and gentleness of her guiding
hand; and force could meet contradiction
without petulance. His activity,
his gay and volatile spirits, endeared
him to a companion as fearless
of danger and fatigue as himself, and
whose ingenuity rivalled his own in expedients
to direct and enjoy every interval
of time allotted to play. In the first
26instance of Mrs. Hardcastle’s exercise of
her jurisdiction, she had found Horace
a very useful agent in her purposes of
wisdom. Her new pupil, with infantile
fondness, was ambitious of learning all
that Horace learnt, and she became stationary
at his elbow with her lesson
whilst he studied his, in order that she
might run and frolic with him when his
task was accomplished. Without tracing
the probable effects of these early
impressions on minds constituted to love
and harmonize with each other, it shall
suffice, that it was frequently observed
in the family, that the habit of yielding
up her will to Horace, was become so
easy a lesson to Rachel Cowley, that she
practised compliance even with her maid-servant.
As she advanced in age, this
preference became more useful to her, and
more noticed by those around her; and
the obvious stimulus to every exertion of
her talents, was the wish to please her
27“brother Horace.” Mrs. Hardcastle
was gratified by the effects which had
resulted from the uniform principles of
her pupil’s mind, and from which had
sprung the most promising of her hopes,
as these fondly contemplated the future
excellencies and happiness of a young
creature endeared to her heart by time,
and ties not less strong than those of the
mother to a favoured child. The good
Mrs. Allen, engaged in her subordinate
duties of watching over the personal
comforts of the children, saw with delight
the impetuosity of her darling’s
temper gradually yielding to the mild
controul of the timid Lucy, and every
angry passion bowing down to the check
of Horace’s eye. But Mr. Hardcastle,
alive to every suggestion of a mind scrupulously
just, and whose acquaintance
with the human heart was founded on experience
more than on the speculations of
theorists and philosophers, could without
28difficulty recal the period, at which, in
the elegant language of our poetress, he
might himself have addressed his wife
when a girl of eleven or twelve years old
with these harmonious lines:
“When first upon your tender cheek
I saw the morn of beauty break
With mild and cheering beam,
I bow’d before your infant shrine,
The earliest sighs you had were mine,
And you my darling theme.
“I saw you in that opening morn,
For beauty’s boundless empire born,
And first confess’d your sway;
And e’er your thoughts, devoid of art,
Could learn the value of a heart,
I gave my heart away.”
The peculiar circumstances of fortune
in which Miss Cowley had been left by
Mrs. Dawson’s will, her prospects in life,
and above all, the confidence which her
father had placed in her principles,
29strengthened his apprehensions for his
son’s future conduct, and the consequences
to be expected from so apparent
an attachment and sympathy in character,
as his vigilant eye detected in the
mutual, though childish conversation of
a boy and a girl. He communicated his
fears to his wife; and the separation
which followed, was the tribute which
virtue and rectitude exacted from the
tender parents. Horace was sent to his
maternal uncle’s, to complete his education;
and the same year Mrs. Hardcastle
commenced her annual visit to London,
for three months, in order to give her
young charge, then in her twelfth year,
the advantages of the first-rate masters
in those accomplishments which her fortune
rendered necessary. A circle of
friends, who, like herself, conceived that
no girl beyond the age of infancy could
be better placed than in the drawing-room,
in a society composed of both
30sexes, qualified and disposed to be useful
to their innocence and improvement,
bounded Mrs. Hardcastle’s town amusements,
and spared her the lessons necessary
to the young candidate for notice,
who at a certain age is emancipated from
the routine of a school, or a nursery in
the attic; or in other words, “brought
out” for the gaze of idle curiosity, and
to be disposed of to the highest bidder.
Rachel Cowley’s introduction to the
world was unmarked by any eclat of this
kind; and whilst probably she and her
friend Lucy were daily acquiring good
manners and knowledge, they neither
suspected nor thought of the extent of
the obligations they were under to those
who were forming their minds, and determining
their future taste for the enjoyments
of rational and responsible
beings.
31During this period of Miss Cowley’s
life, her father had gradually recovered
his health and spirits; urged by the remonstrances
and arguments of his friends,
he had, on parting with his daughter, employed
his leisure, and diverted his mind
by building a house on a newly purchased
plantation nearer to Kingston, and within
the reach of a friend to whom he was
peculiarly attached. Amused by this
object of pursuit, he was led to other
improvements of the spot; and in his new
abode he saw another Eden bloom,
without the sad recollection which had
haunted his footsteps in the favourite
retreat of his still regretted wife and his
beloved child. Mr. Cowley, in consequence
of his multiplied avocations, and
the renewal of his social feelings, became
satisfied with mentioning from time to
time his intention of visiting England.
Mr. Hardcastle was no stranger to
32the real cause of his friend’s delay, but
his prudence concealed from his ward a
subject of regret to himself, and of concern
to his wife and Mrs. Allen. The
negro girl who had been selected, for the
sweetness of her temper and the graces
of nature, as the playmate in Miss Cowley’s
nursery, had gained the notice of
her father, and had enjoyed Mrs. Allen’s
attentions to her improvement in useful
learning. It had been debated whether
Marian might not have been serviceable
to her young lady during the voyage:
the proposal had been rejected; for
Mrs. Allen perfectly understood that the
compliances of a slave were not of that
sort which her pupil needed. She therefore
left the girl to the care of the housekeeper,
and in a condition of ease and
comfort under Mrs. Cowley’s roof. Poor
Cowley was soothed in his first depression
of spirits on losing sight of his idol,
by finding he had a sharer in his sorrow;
33and he gratified his benevolence by being
Marian’s consoler. She in her turn
solaced his lonely hours by talking of
her “dear missee,” and accompanying
him in his walks. Habits of affection
and kindness were thus mutually formed,
and gave rise to an attachment incompatible
with innocence and honour. At an
early age Marian was formally emancipated
from her chains as a negro slave,
in order to bear the shackles of a mistress.
But in this deviation from his hitherto
regular and moral conduct, Mr. Cowley
forgot not decorum; his favourite resided
with privacy at the more remote plantation,
which was called the Creek Savannah,
and he lived in the new house already
mentioned. His friends, who loved him,
overlooked a frailty which unfortunately
was not particularly Mr. Cowley’s weakness:
but they did more; for they attributed
his conduct to the steady purpose of remaining
unmarried for his daughter’s sake.
34Mr. Hardcastle’s opinions were not of
this pliant sort; but he well knew that
his arguments would be lost on a man
who had silenced his own principles of
religious observances: certain that Miss
Cowley had experienced no failure of
her father’s affection or generosity, he
contented himself with performing his
duty, and providing against the consequences
so unavoidably connected with
Mr. Cowley’s absence from his child.
He well knew, that without the reciprocal
acts of love and duty, the ties of consanguinity
would be feeble. He had
daily proofs that Miss Cowley was little
affected by the protracted promises contained
in her father’s letters; that her
happiness was centered in the bosom of
his family, and that the thought of being
separated from it, never occurred as within
the line of probability. Every means
of prudence had been applied to obviate
this evil. Conversations had been purposely
35appointed, to keep up in her memory
“her dear father,” his affection for
her, “his sacrifice of his comforts for
her benefit.” “His generosity and amiable
temper” were traced with minuteness;
and her petitions to Heaven included
mercies for a parent, so justly entitled
to her duty and love. These lessons
of wisdom had not been lost on the
docile heart of the child. She listened
with pleasure to these tales of her “good
papa,” and forgot him when clinging to
her “mamma Hardcastle.” As she advanced
in age, Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle
more assiduously attended to the views
before them; and with the entire persuasion
of their own minds, that the time
was rapidly approaching, when Mr.
Cowley would recal his daughter, they
endeavoured to prepare her for the summons.
To this intent, Mrs. Hardcastle
sometimes read to her extracts from her
mother’s letters, in which she described
36the natural beauties of Jamaica; the society
she had met with; the estimation
in which her husband was held; her
own amusements and happy life; and
the activity and benevolent cares which
supplied to her husband an indemnification
for the absence of his London
friends. Unacquainted with disguise,
Miss Cowley left no doubt on Mrs.
Hardcastle’s mind as to the impressions
which these letters and her conversations
produced. Anxious wishes for her
father’s settling in London, and a declared
repugnance to living in Jamaica, were
the constant result of these attempts;
and it was now become necessary to call
upon a reason sufficiently cultivated to
yield an assent to every argument of
duty. Alarmed by an earnestness which
she considered as immediately springing
from Mr. Hardcastle’s knowing her father’s
intention of recalling her home,
she wrote to him a letter expressive of
37her fears, and to implore him to leave a
country in which she should be miserable.
The reply to this letter is before
me. Mr. Cowley assures his daughter,
that he has no intention of endangering
her health and safety in a voyage to
him, nor any plans before him which
will remove her from the protecting arms
of “her dear Mrs. Hardcastle.” He
thus proceeds: “The habits of many
years have made my avocations pleasurable:
indecision and indolence stand
in the way of your wishes and my own
views; yet I hope to be with you next
year in your dear foggy island. Be satisfied,
my dear Rachel, with this assurance,
and believe that my procrastination
proceeds from my regard for
your happiness, not from any abatement
of my tenderness. You are, my child,
under the eye of a mother, qualified to
render you worthy of the one who bore
you. I am not jealous of her ascendancy
38over you; tell her so; and that you
have my permission to love her as tenderly
as you can. She will be too just
and too generous to monopolize your
whole heart; but she will not forget to
decorate that corner of it which your
father occupies, and which a husband
may share, with the ornament which
passeth shew. Continue, as you have
done, to deserve her maternal cares, and
remain the hope of your truly affectionate
father,
“Henry Cowley.”
“P. S. I write to Hardcastle, and
Captain Vernon will inform you of my
good looks, tho’ not in the rapturous
style in which he speaks of my lovely
girl, and his Heathcot holidays.”
CHAP II. — “ To Counsellor Steadman.
39
Thus passed the first transient cloud
which had depressed the gaiety of Miss
Cowley’s temper; and, delighted by the
contents of her father’s letter, the glow
of gratitude gave him an interest in her
bosom which she had never before felt,
and supplied her with a never-failing
motive for proving herself worthy of such
a father. In the following winter all was
gloom and sadness at Heathcot. Mrs.
Hardcastle was at first, to use her own
encouraging words, “only slightly indisposed
with a cold;” but the malady was
of that sort which, whilst it represses
hope, fallaciously invites it; and the calm
40and patient invalid, unwilling to break
down its deceitful promises, aided the deceiver
by her endearing smiles and uniform
serenity, till her strength was subdued,
and medicine was found useless. Month
had thus succeeded to month: during this
period Mrs. Hardcastle contemplated,
with a foresight of that recompense she
was shortly to reach, the fruits of welldoing,
by witnessing the conduct of a
child who had for so many years shared
her maternal cares, and had been so peculiarly
an object of her solicitude and vigilance.
She beheld the restless, and volatile
girl, stationed in the sick room,
sedate, tender, and assiduous; prompt
in every soothing, kind office; dexterous
in every expedient to relieve and alleviate;
patient of all opposition, and unwearied
in watching by her side. She
saw her character rising into magnanimity
as the danger augmented; supporting
by her fortitude the sinking spirits
41of Lucy, and cheering the despondency
of Mr. Hardcastle by arguments drawn
from a faith in which she herself trusted
for support. She saw the pang of anguish
checked by a smile of tender sympathy;
and with the greetings of love
and assumed cheerfulness, she saw the
cheek of her beloved pupil pale with fatigue
and grief. Horace could not be
kept from a scene of this kind; he had
been summoned home some weeks before
his mother’s case was judged hopeless;
and Mrs. Hardcastle, either too
much occupied with different thoughts,
or too happy in the presence of her son
to attend to those cautions which had
banished him from his home, saw, without
shewing any inquietude, that time
had not weakened the affection of her
children. Miss Cowley seemed rather to
invite her animadversions on her conduct,
as this related to Horace; and one day
she even ventured to observe to the contented
42mother, who had been gratified
by some tender office in which Horace
had assisted, “that she at least could
not be surprised by seeing that Horace
Hardcastle was still Rachel Cowley’s
favourite.” The smile with which this
observation was received had in it nothing
for discouragement; and Mrs.
Hardcastle added, “that she hoped he
would always be the favourite with the
wise and virtuous.”
A few days before she expired, she
found, on awaking from a lethargic slumber,
Miss Cowley and Horace watching
at her bedside. “You have been sleeping,
my dear mother,” said Horace, “and
we have insisted on Lucy and Mrs. Allen’s
going into the garden for a little
air.” Miss Cowley during this time
was prepared with a cordial for the patient;
and she, raising herself, was supported
by her son. She took the offered
43medicine in her feeble hands, and fixing
her eyes on Miss Cowley, said something,
but so low, that neither of the interested
witnesses of this scene could understand
it. “Oh, it was her blessing,” cried the
agonized Horace, “her last blessing on”——“my
children,” said the subdued
mother, sinking on her pillow, and
convulsively holding their hands in her
own. Horace, unable to maintain any
longer his self-command, hastily left the
room, and Miss Cowley silently gave
herself up to tears. The exhausted
invalid again dosed; and she breathed
her last sigh, without further confirming
the ardent wishes of those to whom her
concurrence would have been a sanction
for that affection which both believed
she wished not to oppose, and which
both as fondly hoped would have rendered
her happy.
Mrs. Hardcastle’s death appeared for a
44time to have overwhelmed the family
with all the force of a sudden and unexpected
blow; every one wanted consolation,
but none was found who could
administer it. Mr. Hardcastle was the
first who was capable of exertions; he
recollected Lucy, and the feelings of
the husband awakened those of the father.
Religion sheds its balm on its true
votaries: domestic comfort succeeded;
and Mr. Hardcastle in contemplating the
child before him, blessed Heaven for the
solace it gave to his sorrow.
Lucy was not long without discovering,
that her brother had found a sweet
consolation in Miss Cowley’s sympathy
and society; and she began to wonder,
that her father should have so apparently
overlooked what had so recently called
forth her observation, namely, that Horace,
near twenty years old, was a more
dangerous guest than when short of fifteen.
45Perfectly acquainted with the motives
which had led her father to submit to
his absence, she took an opportunity
of remarking to her friend, that Horace’s
unguarded behaviour would soon
banish him again from Heathcot; and
that she was surprised he had been permitted
to stay so long, which she solely
attributed to his father’s state of mind,
and his being so much alone. “If you
had been as observant of my conduct
as of your brother’s,” replied Miss
Cowley with seriousness, “you would
have perceived what you call the same
indiscretion on my part: for the truth
is, we wish not to conceal an affection
on which our happiness depends. Horace
knows that I love him, and I
know he loves me, and whether at
Heathcot or in the deserts of Arabia, we
shall live for each other. I am too
young, you will say,” continued she
with increased seriousness of manner,
46“to decide thus positively on a business
of such importance to my future happiness.
But I answer, that I am not a
romantic girl. I will stand the test of
time with cheerfulness; for either I have
no title to the name of a natural being,
or I am qualified to judge of Horace’s
title to my esteem and regard. I shall
place before my father, as soon as we
meet, the solid grounds I have for my
preference of your brother: I will leave
to his judgment and liberality of mind
to determine the time when I may be
supposed to know my own heart, and to
consider whether Mr. Hardcastle’s son
will be any disgrace to Mr. Cowley or
his supposed wealth. But I have no
apprehensions on this point. My father
is a generous minded man. He married
for happiness himself, and he would
revolt at the idea of sacrificing his
daughter at the shrine of avarice or
ambition. No, no, Lucy,” added she
47with animation, “in attaching my affections
to an honest and worthy man, I
have not sinned against that authority
which my father claims; and to give me
to a Hardcastle for life will be the consummation
of that parental love which
consigned me into the hands of your
excellent mother. He will soon be here;
he will appeal to your father’s understanding
and tried friendship; Mr. Hardcastle
will discard his scruples, and sanction,
with his consent, my right to the
name I revere.” “We shall be sisters,”
continued she, fondly kissing Lucy’s
cheek. “One bond of love will unite
us for life. I have no fears.”
Miss Hardcastle, fully convinced that
nothing could be gained in favour of
prudence and circumspection during the
influence of hopes so sanguine in favour
of love, suffered her friend’s earnestness
to abate, without opposing her fond belief
48by producing those difficulties which
she foresaw would arise to baffle her intentions
and to disturb her brother’s
happiness. She soon quitted the room,
in order to consider those steps necessary
to its security, and the conduct she had
to pursue. But Lucy Hardcastle had
been taught to consider a positive duty
as liable to no appeal from inclination.
She knew, that, in order to prevent Miss
Cowley’s growing attachment to her
brother, her parents had yielded up a
point, on which depended their highest
satisfactions. Her mother had frequently
mentioned losing sight of her son, as one
of those privations which had exercised
her fortitude in a peculiar degree; and
that she could never have supported his
absence from his father’s tuition, and her
own love, but from the considerations
of the duty she owed to Mr. Hardcastle,
and the reverence she felt for his judgment.
With this example before her,
49Lucy hastily repaired to her father and
ingenuously imparted to him her own
suspicions. “Disposed as I am,” continued
she smiling, “to favour those
lovers, I think it my duty, my dear Sir,
to refer myself to you. I shall soon be
Rachel’s confidant, and governed as I
shall be, by my affection for her and for
my brother, I may be led to oppose your
will, and frustrate your plans of wisdom
and prudence. I am certain that their
early attachment is confirmed and
strengthened by their respectively discovering
the improvements which time has
produced in both.”
“I would rather see your brother dead,
than the husband of this young creature!”
replied Mr. Hardcastle, rising with
emotion; “or rather, let me implore death
for my relief, before I see him pointed
at as the base and interested purloiner of
this girl’s affections! I know too well,
50my child, the malignity of human nature.
In a case like this, no allowance
would be made, by far the greater part
of the world, for motives more pure and
honourable than a sordid consideration
of her wealth,—her attractive beauty, and
his age of passion. The natural results of
undepraved youth and innocence would
be set aside, in order to brand that father
with infamy, who thus provided for
his own son, by cheating another of
his daughter. But this is not all: you
know the tenor of Mrs. Dawson’s will.
My honour and reputation have hung on
this child’s life from the hour she has been
under my roof; for her death would secure
to me her grandmother’s property.
Your dear mother, in this single instance,
opposed her opinion to mine. On pointing
out to her the hazard of receiving
into our hands a child thus circumstanced,
she laughed at my fears, and
asked me, whether her husband had so
51lived, as to be in danger of any imputation
on his integrity. ‘Be more just to
yourself,’ said she, with honest pride;
‘the virtue which has marked your life,
will be your security. You stand beyond
the reach of that malice which
would dare to conceive that Hardcastle
would take advantage of the helpless innocence
of an infant committed to his
care.’ She urged her promise to Mrs.
Cowley, and to Mrs. Dawson, and with
dignity, added, that Rachel Cowley could
be no where so secure as with her heirs.
‘We will perform our duty, my dear
husband,’ said she, ‘and trust to Heaven
for a recompence, of more value than
her money.’ I was conquered; and Heaven
in its mercy has preserved this child’s
life. But what think you would be the
conclusions drawn from Horace’s marrying
her? They are too apparent not
to be seen. ‘Foiled in one expectation,’
it will be said, ‘Hardcastle has
52succeeded in a more lucrative project.
A marriage will not only secure to his
son Mrs. Dawson’s fortune, but Mr.
Cowley’s princely revenue also; and by
favouring his son’s views, and entangling
the girl’s heart, he has enriched his family.’
How would you repel a scandal
of this nature, my dear child? Not by
saying, that Miss Cowley loved your
brother; for that would only prove that
she had been betrayed by the insidious
flattery to which she was exposed.—I
have been too heedless,” added Mr.
Hardcastle, “my mind of late has been——!”
Mr. Hardcastle’s firmness yielded—he
pressed Lucy to his bosom, and
wept audibly.
On reassuming his composure, he proceeded
to inform his daughter, that he
had, for nearly a week, been hesitating
in what manner to answer an application,
which Mr. Freeman, her uncle, had
53transmitted to his consideration, relative
to Horace. “You have, my dear girl,
been useful to your father; by your information,”
added he, “I shall no longer
want resolution. In regard to Miss Cowley,
remember that I wish not to interrupt
the confidence which subsists between
you, nor will I tempt your honesty
by a single question. You know
the reasons which force me to refuse to
your brother an object so worthy of his
admiration, and my tender regard. I
leave to your prudence to point out the
conduct you ought to pursue with your
friend; and after you have perused your
uncle’s letter, you will be prepared to
mention to her Horace’s removal from
England.”
Poor Lucy felt that virtue had its conflicts
in her bosom; and hastily retiring,
gave herself up to the regret of having,
by her interference, doomed her brother
54to an undetermined course of banishment.
The subject of the letter in question
necessarily requires some information relative
to the character and situation of
the writer, Horace’s uncle. The Rev.
Mr. Freeman having succeeded to a village
living, of about four hundred pounds
per annum, in the vicinity of Exeter, at an
advanced period of his life, and with the
peculiar habits of a man who had for
many years lived in his college, appeared,
on settling in his excellent parsonage-house,
to have forgotten that “it was not
good for man to be alone.” His friends
and neighbours frequently reminded him,
notwithstanding, that his house was too
large for a bachelor, and that he was
losing time. Mr. Freeman had already
experienced the justness of this latter
observation; for, with painful regret, it
recalled to his memory, that his season for
55happiness was irrecoverably passed. He
had been tenderly attached to an amiable
young woman at an early period of his
life; and whilst his expectations were undecided
in regard to that provision necessary
for her security, his talents and
conduct soon distinguished him at the
university; and, supported by mutual
esteem and hope, the lovers looked forwards
to happiness. The death of the
lady interrupted this calm prospect. Mr.
Freeman became a “book-worm,” “a
quiz,” and a tutor in his college, who
suited no young man of spirit. Notwithstanding
this character, he had, with
all his singularities to boot, acquired
such a reputation for learning, and the
happy talent of communicating it, that
his friends seemed determined to pursue
him to his retreat; and he at length
yielded to the plan they proposed, of
receiving four pupils under his roof.
These were young men whose fathers
56conceived a couple of years noviciate,
passed with Mr. Freeman, fully adequate
to the advantages of being freed from the
restraints of a grammar-school, for the
enjoyment of a fellow-commoner’s gown.
Amongst the number of those who had
respected the “sanctified” tutor at ——
college, was the Duke of J——, then at
the university. Some short time after
Horace Hardcastle had become an inmate
in Mr. Freeman’s house, this nobleman’s
son was also consigned to his uncle’s
care, for the twofold purposes of his
education and the preservation of his
health. Lord William S—— had, from his
cradle, been extremely delicate; and in
proportion as he grew up, consumptive
symptoms had appeared. Scotland had
been judged too unfriendly a climate for
so tender a plant, and the duchess had
serious arguments to produce against
every public seminary of learning. The
young man’s father had not forgotten
57his college tutor, and the mild air of
Devonshire promised an amendment in
health for his son. Mr. Freeman yielded
to a solicitation thus urged; and although
the pupil was not yet fourteen,
and intruded on the fixed number, he
was admitted. The amiable boy reached
the priory before Horace had ceased
to repent his absence from Heathcot-Farm;
and the young nobleman soon
found in him a companion more peculiarly
attractive to his gentleness of temper,
from the absence of that gaiety and
activity of spirit, which was so distinguished
a characteristic of Horace’s
mind. Grateful to a youth, who, although
his senior, did not overlook him, as the
more advanced pupils did; and who was
neither too wise for his amusement, nor
too insignificant for his associate, he
attached himself to Hardcastle, with all
the enthusiasm which results from warm
affections and an unperverted nature;
58and leaving to themselves the young
men whose attainments placed them
beyond their sphere of action, the newly
arrived pupils gradually cemented those
bonds of friendship, which, with the virtuous,
not unfrequently prove the most
indissoluble. When Horace was summoned
to his mother’s sick room, he had
left his companion under a severe attack
of the unrelenting cough; and so
serious were now the symptoms of decay,
that it was determined he should try the
effects of sea-air and a voyage. A vessel
was prepared with the sole view to his
accommodation; a medical gentleman was
engaged to accompany him, and a tutor
was appointed for his guide and companion.
Frequent voyages and short intervals
of refreshment in more southern
latitudes, were the objects of these arrangements;
and the mild and uncomplaining
invalid looked forwards with
delight to the prospect of thus visiting
59every port in the Mediterranean. Nothing
was absent from this sanguine
picture of hope, but his friend Horace;
and without him, the gay colouring sunk
at once into the flat and insipid sameness
of a ship’s cabin, or was charged
with the desponding tints of never beholding
him again. His father, who was
with him, soon discovered his wishes;
and immediately applied to Mr. Freeman
for his good offices with Mr. Hardcastle,
assuring him, that neither the young
gentleman’s time nor interest should be
lost by a compliance with his request.
This proposal was the subject of Mr.
Freeman’s letter to Horace’s father; and
the plan recommended, was not only
favourable to Horace’s future views, but
also advantageous to his further improvement.
The difficulties which had suspended
Mr. Hardcastle’s decision, will be
easily imagined: his honour silenced the
fond remonstrances of his heart; and he
60determined on a separation, which would
at once exclude his son from all personal
intercourse with Miss Cowley for a longer
time than he conceived her father
would permit her to remain unmarried.
He lost no time in placing before his
son his uncle’s proposal, and his own entire
concurrence in the plan. “In this
sacrifice of my own comforts for your
advantage,” added the father, “I shall,
I must be amply indemnified by seeing
you escape from the danger which menaces
you under my roof. In the duties
of friendship, you may, my son, safely
indulge the sensibility of a warm and
affectionate nature; but in the presence
of a beautiful girl, endeared to you by
the sweet ties of infant sportiveness and
familiar approach, you have forgotten,
Horace, that passion and imagination
are the usual rocks on which the honour
and security of a young man are shipwrecked.
61I know that your principles
are sound; I also know, that in the present
delusion of your senses, there is no
mixture of a sordid consideration in regard
to Miss Cowley’s wealth. No, Horace,
you are too generous for such views,
and she is too attractive to need them.
But tell me, with what arguments would
you confute the charge so strongly to be
inferred from the circumstances in which
we are placed relatively to this young
lady, by her grandmother’s will? I
know Mr. Cowley, and I believe him to
be a liberal-minded man; but would
Horace Hardcastle find in an extorted
consent to his union with his daughter,
the approbation needful for his honour?
Recollect, that a gift not freely bestowed,
is, and must be, oppressive to a noble
mind; and the tenderness and weakness
of a parent, who yields to the importunities
of a fond, love-sick girl, furnish
no excuse for the man who has fraudulently
62counteracted her parent’s views and
expectations, by gaining an empire over
her affections. Be more just to yourself,
my son. You want not wealth to elevate
you, nor firmness to conquer your
present feelings. Be not deceived by the
enthusiasm which now governs you.
The good report of your fellow-creatures
is of more importance to your happiness
than you believe; and from the censure
which will involve you and myself of
having made a property of this lovely
girl, and cheated her unsuspecting and
generous father, there will be no appeal
even to the candid.” “I will go,” answered
Horace, his face crimsoned with
blushes, “I will go to the farthest part
of the globe, to spare you from such calumny.
But I must love Rachel Cowley,
or cease to live. Suffer me to depart
with this shield to guard my youth,
with this invigorating hope, that I may
one day convince her father that I am
63worthy of her, if not of his fortune. Let
him, if it please him, build hospitals
with his money: I shall not want it!”
“Trusting to the effects of time and absence,”
answered Mr. Hardcastle, “I
will finish this conversation, by my positive
prohibition of your corresponding
with Miss Cowley, either directly or indirectly,
during your absence. I wish
you to receive this command, as qualified
by parental love. She is young, my
dear Horace, as well as yourself; trust
to your father; you may both change
your present sentiments. Leave her to
the only test of a permanent affection—more
acquaintance with the world, and
more knowledge of herself. Her situation
and sphere in life will soon be very
different from what they are at present.
The society and the pleasures of the
world will solicit her attention, and although
I do not believe she will ever
forget her early friends, time and absence
64may, and will weaken the present impressions
of her mind. Trust also something
to my experience; even you, my dear
Horace, may forget to a certain degree,
this amiable young woman. You will be
engaged in pursuits, which may, without
any miracle, direct your thoughts from
present objects; and you may live to
feel, that Mr. Cowley’s daughter is not
necessary to your happiness.” Poor
Horace’s agitations were not concealed.
“Before we part,” added the tender father,
“let me assure you, that were this
young creature any but what she is, I
would select her from amidst thousands
as a wife for my son. Let this assertion
content you, and convince you of the
importance I affix to the firm opposition
I make to your affection. Be then a
Hardcastle; and submit your passions
to that controul which will secure to you
the blessings of a Hardcastle.”
65A short interval was allotted for the
young man’s preparations in order to his
joining Lord William. Miss Cowley’s
firmness not only supported this hour,
but also her friend Lucy’s more tender
spirits. She spoke of Horace’s departure
with calmness, and observed from time
to time, that he could not better fill up
a year or two than by travelling. On
the morning he left the parental roof,
she further manifested her resolution and
spirit. Poor Horace rose to obey the
third or fourth summons which had announced
that “all was ready.” “We
part,” said she, offering him her glowing
cheek, “as brother and sister—such be
our adieux. But when next we meet,
Horace, this hand shall testify the faith
and truth of Rachel Cowley. Thus I
plight it!” She raised her eyes to heaven,
grasped his hand a moment, and
then darted from the room, leaving Mr.
66Hardcastle to his surprise, and to comfort
his son.
A few weeks after Horace had quitted
England, Miss Cowley’s tranquillity was
again interrupted. She had sent her
father, with some specimens of her own
talents in drawing, her picture at full
length; this was the work of the first
artist in London, and was acknowledged
to be not only a capital picture, but also
a striking resemblance of her by those
friends who had seen it. Mr. Cowley,
on receiving it, appears to have given
indulgence to all the feelings of nature,
in beholding the portrait of a child so
dear to him, an object of delight and
admiration to his friends. He praises the
design, the attitude; in a word, the skill
of the painter in the highest terms.
“But,” adds he, “if such be thy external
endowments, he has had a subject for
his labours worthy of them.” He continues
67in this stile of gaiety to inform
her, that, notwithstanding “the hazel
eyes,” which are said to be his gift, he
thinks she so much resembles her mother,
that he had placed her picture opposite
to her mother’s portrait; and that he
passes from one to the other, with sensations
at once pleasurable and painful.
“Your arrival, in the mean time,” continues
he, “has been celebrated by a
grand dinner, to which my friends resorted
in crowds. Curiosity and admiration
at length gave place to a contest
between the ‘dove-like blue eyes,’ and
the ‘saucy hazel ones.’ Your champions
were Captain Vernon and your
old friend Oliver Flint, whom you will
remember as your favourite, although
you threw your wax doll at his head,
because he said it was prettier than Marian.
As to your other valorous knight,
I have only to recommend to you, when
you next see him with his cargo of
68sweetmeats, to caution him to be more
moderate in his zeal for your glory; for
had he not been arrack-proof as completely
as he is salt-water proof, he had
been a dead man; for by maintaining
your cause he has had a fever, which
frightened his poor wife into a sick bed.”
This letter finishes by mentioning the
arrival of two strangers in Jamaica;
namely, a gentleman of the name of
Flamall, with his nephew, Mr. Philip
Flint, the posthumous brother of Mr.
Oliver Flint, the gentleman already mentioned
in his letter. “My worthy old
friend,” continues Mr. Cowley, “has
drooped ever since the loss of his sons.
I do not wonder that this has been the
case. They had been his support under
the severe trials of losing a good wife,
and several other children. They had
attained to an age in which he might,
and had reasonably hoped to find in
them a support and comfort to his grave.
69In one week an epidemic fever rendered
him childless. Poor Oliver was for a time
overwhelmed by this dreadful blow; but
the constitution of his mind and body
have saved him. He turned his thoughts
to remedy his grief, not to repinings for
an affliction sent him, as he said, ‘for
his good;’ and he has found one in this
young brother, whom he never knew till
lately. This child was the fruit of his
father’s second marriage, who died at an
advanced age, leaving his young widow
pregnant. The young man’s name is
Philip, and his age nearly that of poor
Oliver’s eldest son, who was also christened
Philip. On this slight conformity
the good old man erected his hopes of
supplying to himself an heir and a consolation.
The appearance of this young
man, who is accompanied by his maternal
uncle Mr. Flamall, has renovated
poor Oliver. He is, indeed, a most promising
and handsome young man, and
70my friend already fancies he resembles
his son: no one contests this point with
him; nor is there any one who does not
think the young man worthy of his
brother’s protection. He is well educated,
and his manners are pleasing and polite,
though rather too reserved and circumspect
for some amongst us. These strangers
have made a rake of me for some
time; but I have refused to dine with
the heir apparent, in order to write to
you more at my leisure. Since your
picture has graced my saloon, your old
friend Oliver can talk of nothing but
getting a wife for his idol; and this
morning Mr. Flamall explicitly began a
negotiation for my girl, stating his
nephew’s great expectations from his
sister, an old maiden lady, whose name
is Lucretia Flint. This, with Mr. Flint’s
fortune, is a bait, but not one for your
father, my child. I have not forgotten
your dear mother: to her undivided affection,
71not her money, was I indebted
for my happiness; and, instead of years
passed in contention and wretchedness,
I had the satisfaction of knowing that
my wife preferred her husband to his
rival, although that rival was her mother.
I do not believe you have been instructed
to despise a man, simply because he
stands well in your father’s opinion; nor
will that father, my dear child, bargain
away your happiness, in order to add
acre to acre. I told Mr. Flamall, with
more jocularity than seriousness, that
I meant to see my girl before I gave her
away, and to know the value of my
merchandise before I sold it. Be not,
however, surprised should you see your
old friend Mr. Flint; for, coward as he
is, I verily believe he would cross the
Atlantic in a boat to plead with you for
his darling Philip.”
Kind as this letter was, it alarmed
72Miss Cowley. She once more renewed
her entreaties on the subject of her father’s
leaving Jamaica; and in the most unequivocal
terms declared her repugnance
to any matrimonial overtures. “Let me
conjure you, my dear Sir,” urged the apprehensive
pleader, “to return to England,
and to renew with me those endearing
ties of an undivided duty and
the purest gratitude. I seek to emulate
my mother, but it shall be in first shewing
that I am your child, and not as a
wife. Oh, let me for a time be your own
Rachel Cowley!”
The father’s reply to this appeal to his
heart restored Miss Cowley to her usual
cheerfulness. He good-humouredly rallies
her on the needless rhetoric she employed
to restrain the ardours of a lover,
apparently as little disposed to be
shackled as her herself. “From the
little I have seen of this young philosopher,”
73adds Mr. Cowley, “I believe he
left his heart behind him; for our notable
mothers, who are nibbling at the
prize, can make nothing of him, and the
girls already call him the stoic. I was
much amused the other day by Captain
Vernon’s and Mr. Flamall’s debate, in
which you were the subject of contention.
The uncle insisted that his nephew
had been engaged in taking a drawing
from your picture whilst I was at Oliver’s
with a gay party of ladies and gentlemen,
and from which young Philip had contrived
to absent himself for a long time.
Vernon doubted of this employment of
the youngster’s time; ‘but be this as it
may,’ added he, with his usual bluntness,
‘I tell you that young Flint will
never do for a suitor for Miss Cowley,
whatever he may for her picture; she
would laugh at him.’ Mr. Flamall was
not much pleased by this frankness, and
he coldly replied, that he presumed
74Miss Cowley had not made a confession
of her faith to Captain Vernon. ‘There
is no need she should,’ answered he;
‘her spirit and sense speak for themselves:
and whilst all the world acknowledge
her beauty, she shews them that she will
not easily be won.’ I shall spare my
pen the labour of writing the remainder
of his rhapsodies; but he finished by
telling Flamall that he could recommend
a wife to his nephew, who would exactly
suit him; and that was Miss Lucy Hardcastle.
His description of the young
lady satisfied Flamall that the honest
captain did not think his nephew undeserving
of a good wife, though disqualified
to manage a saucy one. I have,
however, reason to believe I shall hear no
more of Mr. Philip Flint’s passion for
Miss Rachel Cowley; therefore she may
take one feather from vanity’s plume.”
Mr. Cowley finishes this letter by mentioning
75the steps he had taken preparatory
to quitting the island; and, with
much satisfaction, informs his daughter
that he has retained Mr. Flamall as his
agent: he enlarges on this gentleman’s
talents and capacity for business, and
concludes with the highest eulogium on
his manners and agreeable qualities.
It appears that the honourable veteran
in the service of Neptune and Bacchus,
delivered, as was usual, this packet and
his sweetmeats, in person, at Heathcot,
where he passed a few days with a young
creature, who, from her birth, had shared
in his warm heart an affection which he
had carried to idolatry for her mother.
His account of his patron, Mr. Cowley,
by no means tallied with the apparent
ease and gaiety contained in the letters
he brought; and Mr. Hardcastle was
told that Mr. Cowley had been seized
76with a fit whilst at Mr. Flint’s table,
which dreadfully alarmed all present:
happily a medical gentleman was one of
the guests, and immediate relief was
given. “It has shaken him,” added the
captain; “but we hope he will rally
again. I saw him the day I embarked;
he made me promise not to say a word
of this business to you; but I did not
like his looks, and I thought he walked
but poorly: God grant I may see him in
my next trip! It should be the last
labour of the Charlotte. She was launched
to carry him and his angel wife to
Jamaica; and if she swims safely till he
is with his daughter, she will have been a
lucky vessel to me.” He passed his hand
over his eyes, and whistled away an emotion
that he could not otherwise conquer.
The captain’s apprehensions were but
too well founded. Mr. Cowley lived not
77to reach England. A second and third
attack of the palsy proved fatal; and
poor Vernon found at his return many
mourners to sympathize with him in a
sorrow legitimately founded on his knowledge
of the man, and on gratitude to
his benefactor. We will pass over in
silence the effects which this melancholy
intelligence produced at Heathcot-Farm.
Miss Cowley was roused from the deepest
dejection of spirits by the events
which succeeded to the first shock. Mr.
Steadman summoned her and Mr. Hardcastle
to London; and with precautions,
which he judged necessary, placed before
the orphan a copy of her late father’s
will, which, with all its requisite documents,
had been formerly sent to him by
the executor, Mr. Flamall.
The contents were, indeed, calculated
to astonish and afflict his daughter. She
was named as the successor to his fortune
78in the usual terms. His property stood
answerable, however, for the provision of
his two natural children and their mother.
These children were boys, the eldest not
yet ten years old. To each was bequeathed
five thousand pounds; to the
mother three hundred pounds per annum.
To the survivor of the boys this property
devolved, unless the mother lived till the
children had both reached twenty-one,
in which case her annuity was to be divided
between them. To Mrs. Allen two
thousand pounds; bequests to some domestics,
and hundred-pounds rings to
several friends; amongst these Counsellor
Steadman, Mr. Hardcastle, and Mr. Oliver
Flint were named. Mr. Flamall, with
a thousand pounds legacy, was named as
the guardian of his two sons, and appointed
agent for the trust of superintending
his concerns in Jamaica. An income
of five hundred pounds per annum
was annexed to this trust; and provision
79was made for Mr. Flamall’s residence at
whichever of the plantations he chose
for his abode. The important clause
next follows, and in these words nearly:
“Having had the most unequivocal
proofs of the integrity of those trustees
named by Mrs. Dawson, for the security
of her property in favour of Rachel Cowley,
he still leaves to their wisdom the
entire management of the trust in their
hands; but it behoved him to shew to
the world, and to his daughter, that he
had neither relinquished his rights as a
parent, nor been unmindful of the duties
annexed to the name of a father; and, not
doubting his child’s ready obedience to
his commands, he had, with the concurrence
of the parties most nearly concerned,
chosen her a husband in the person of Philip
Flint, &c.” On the celebration of this marriage
Mr. Flamall’s jurisdiction terminated,
as far as it related to Miss Cowley.
She was immediately to enter into
80the full and unconditional enjoyment of
her fortune when she became Mr. Philip
Flint’s wife.
The penalty of a refusal to comply
with the terms thus briefly specified, was
a minority, which reached to her twenty-fifth
year; and in case she married any
other man, save the aforesaid Philip Flint,
without the consent of Mr. Flamall, the
whole of the Jamaica property was tied
up for her children’s benefit; and in case
of no issue, devolved to his two sons.
He further enjoins his daughter’s obedience
to this his representative, even as
it regards her place of residence: stipulating,
however, that he has conditioned
for her remaining in England, not only
while she bears the name of Cowley, but
also under that of Mrs. Flint, having received
the most satisfactory assurances
that Philip Flint will not live in Jamaica. In
a word, Mr. Cowley’s will firmly makes
Mr. Flamall the sovereign arbitor of
81Miss Cowley’s fate till she becomes his
niece; and the harsh and dictatorial language
of the law was exhausted to sanction
and confirm this excess of parental
authority.
Miss Cowley, with indignation, pronounced
the will a forgery; and she produced
as evidence for this opinion her
father’s character, his unlimited affection
for her, his confidence in Mr. Hardcastle,
and his letters, in which Philip Flint had
been named. Her friends admitted her
reasoning, but the will was legally executed
and witnessed by Oliver Flint, Mr.
Cowley’s valet de chambre, and two of
the most respectable gentlemen in the
island. Juba, the faithful Juba, had carried
Rachel Cowley in his arms. He
had long been a free man, and he had
written the first letter to England of his
beloved master’s death; in which he
dwelt with comfort on the calmness and
82clearness of the deceased man’s faculties
till the last moment. She persisted in
her opinion, and with great firmness said,
she would seek redress in a court of
Chancery, ordering the counsellor to
enter a caveat to the will immediately.
The dignity which she assumed, the
acuteness of her observations, and the
absence of those fears which the gentlemen
were prepared to expect, gave them
at once to understand that the client was
not a minor in good sense. The counsellor
was struck with a character so superior
to what he expected in a girl not
much more than eighteen; and he told
her candidly, that his opinion and Mr.
Hardcastle’s entirely agreed with her
own. “I have gained,” continued he,
“some information respecting this Flamall.
He was, I find, one of those men
who in the practice of the law are its disgrace;
he is expert in all the tricks and
83chicanery of his tribe; and your property
is too valuable a trust to be wrested
from him without a struggle on his part.
The means of justice are slow, and we
must contrive to counteract his villainy,
not to dispute his right to be a villain.
Have patience, my dear Miss Cowley, I
have more than once caught a rascal in
his own toils. A false will cannot easily
be produced without confederates; something
may transpire, for rogues are rarely
faithful to each other. Be satisfied
that you are at liberty to refuse the husband
he has so carefully provided for
you. You want nothing from Jamaica,
and in a few years you will be mistress
of your father’s fortune, and in a situation
to support your brothers in their
difficulties with a man certainly disqualified
for their guardian. We will know
more of him, and appear his dupes for a
season; he will only rob you with the
84more avidity from finding he is suspected.”
Miss Cowley assented to this advice,
and determined to be governed by her
zealous friend; secretly hoping, that
the restrictions of her father’s will, to
which she appeared disposed to submit,
would at least secure her from the solicitations
of lovers; and thus silence Mr.
Hardcastle’s scruples in regard to his
son.
Before she left Mr. Steadman, she saw
her formal rejection of Mr. Philip Flint
dispatched to her new guardian. Counsellor
Steadman wrote this letter, and
Miss Cowley’s attestation of its being
dictated by her, satisfied her, that she
had crushed the hopes of the insolent
pretender to her hand. Her natural
cheerfulness returned, and Lucy found
her friend the better for the little journey.
85But this season of tranquillity
lasted not many months; a letter from
Mr. Flamall, which it is necessary to
transcribe here, will assign the cause of
new anxieties at Heathcot-Farm. Mr.
Flamall, who seemed to consider Mr.
Steadman as the only friend of Miss
Cowley, and, as a professional man, the
proper medium through which his authority
was to be announced to the heiress,
thus writes to him:
“Bound as I am by the duties of my
appointed trust, and prompted by my
veneration and gratitude to fulfil in every
point Mr. Cowley’s intentions, as these
related to his daughter, I think it proper
to remove Miss Cowley from her
present residence. From the period of
Mrs. Hardcastle’s death, her father had
this intention; and I have frequently
heard him regret, that his delay, and her
reluctance to visit Jamaica, had postponed
86a resolution he thought indispensibly
incumbent on him to execute. In
his last illness he requested me to make
it my first concern to place his daughter
with a lady qualified to protect and guide
her. I have, in consequence, written to
my sister, Lady Maclairn, on this subject,
and you will prepare my ward for her
removal to Tarefield, the place of my
sister’s residence. I am not discouraged
by Miss Cowley’s refusal of my nephew.
She does not know Philip Flint, who
will, I am confident, convince her, and
her friends, that her father was not less
attentive to her happiness than to her
fortune, in selecting him as her protector
for life. More on this subject does not
become me to say, less would be injustice
to a man whose merits are acknowledged
wherever he is known. I will not,
however, pursue this subject further at
present than by observing, that Miss
Cowley may be led by her knowledge
87of Mr. Philip Flint’s connections in England,
to consider more favourably of her
good father’s wishes. In the mean time,
my nephew has cheerfully acceded to
mine; and flatters himself, that by postponing
his voyage to England for some
months, he is not only gratifying Miss
Cowley’s delicacy in this hour of filial
sorrow, but also offering her an homage
which will not be unacceptable to her,
as it will be of use to her interest; Mr.
Cowley’s large concerns requiring an inspection,
and an arrangement which, in
the first pressure of business, is more
than I am equal to. The retirement in
which Sir Murdock Maclairn’s family
lives, will not, in the present state of
affairs, be irksome to my ward; the society
of an accomplished woman will, I
hope, compensate her for the temporary
suspension of more unconfined amusements.
Taking it for granted, that you
will still hold the trust committed to you
88by Mrs. Dawson’s will, I shall annually
remit to Sir Murdock Maclairn the same
sum which Mr. Cowley assigned for his
daughter’s maintenance with Mr. Hardcastle,
from the age of infancy. Being
willing to shew my respect for Miss Cowley’s
wish, as this relates to Mrs. Allen’s
continuance in her service, I have prepared
Lady Maclairn to receive what she
might otherwise judge an useless appendage
in a house regulated as Tarefield-hall
is.” Mr. Flamall concludes by informing
his correspondent, that Miss
Cowley’s fortune is very ample; that he
has to encounter the obstinacy of the
boys’ mother, who will not be parted
from the children, nor suffer them to
remain in their father’s house. Mr. Philip
Flint had, however, compromised
matters; and the mother and children
were placed by him in the family of a
Mr. Dalrymple, a Scotchman, whom he
had known at the university, in Edinburgh,
89and who kept a school in Kingston,
with reputation. The boys were
handsome, promising children; and he
had no fears for them, but such as arose
from the ignorance and excessive fondness
of their mother, whom he always
thought unworthy of the place she had
held in Mr. Cowley’s heart. It was, however,
his intention to send the children
to England for education, with his nephew,
if he could prevail on the mother
to consult their real good. Statements
of effects in a general way, and details
of his conduct, as regulated by the dying
words of Mr. Cowley, in regard to
the negroes on the plantations, to whom
he had been a father, finish Mr. Flamall’s
letter.
Mr. Hardcastle, judging of the effects
of this letter on Miss Cowley, from the
sorrow with which it filled his anxious
bosom, and justly apprehending the danger
90which might result from his “child’s”
removal to a family devoted to Mr. Flamall’s
views, strenuously concurred with
Mr. Steadman, in advising Miss Cowley
to take such steps as would at least secure
her person from Mr. Flamall’s controul.
But she was not to be moved in
her resolution of complying with his
orders. “The future happiness of my
life,” said she, “depends on my compliance
with this act of usurped authority.
He will find,” added she, with an air of
triumph, “that in the hands of Providence
the vilest instrument is made subservient
to the purposes of mercy. I must quit
Mr. Hardcastle’s house; I have for some
time wished to do so. Yes, I have wished it.
I will convince that world which Mr. Hardcastle
so much fears, that Rachel Cowley
has not been influenced by those who
have been her protectors, to prefer Horace
Hardcastle for her future guardian.
I will shew my independence, and maintain
my claims to a choice which virtue
91sanctions. It is of no moment where I
pass this term of my banishment from
all whom I love,” continued she, melting
into tears. “These people will soon
discover, that I am not a girl to be trampled
on, and their own advantage will
secure to me civility. When I am five-and-twenty
years of age, I presume the
world, as well as the laws of my country,
will deem me a free agent; and I should
be the first to laugh at an attachment
that could not stand my trial of its permanency.
It is possible, that in the first
instance Mr. Hardcastle’s scruples will
yield to his sorrow for my absence, and
my own firmness, to some censures of
his wisdom and circumspection; but we
shall both find consolation in those principles
which require the sacrifice of present
security and happiness, to a more
lasting and greater advantage.” Mr.
Hardcastle, unequal to the conflict, retired,
not daring to trust his integrity
with so irresistible a pleader.
92Soon after, the following letter was
in his hands; its contents will evince to
the reader, the solicitude of Miss Cowley’s
friends at once to ascertain the safety
of her removal from them.
“Bishops-Auckland, Durham.
“MY DEAR FRIEND,
“My short residence in this part of
the world, will unavoidably subject the
intelligence you require to errors, notwithstanding
my zeal and diligence.
The truth is, that, as I have only the
voice of the parish of Tarefield and its
environs for my authorities, I am forced
to place before you the history of a family
at once peculiarly marked as the object
of a fond partiality, and of inveterate
93hatred. I leave to you to sift and resift
the documents thus obtained: for my
history includes a number of years and
facts which are still the topics of conversation
in this neighbourhood.
“Flamall was, as you have heard, for
some years a practitioner in the law; and
succeeded his father in the business of an
attorney, with the credit which that father
left him, who was an honest and an able
man. His sister, now Lady Maclairn, was
left to his direction, and, to the surprise of
old Flamall’s connections, to her brother’s
generosity. She was young and
remarkably handsome, had been carefully
and liberally educated, and was a virtuous
and elegant young woman; but from
some proofs of her brother’s intentions,
of making her subservient to his ambition
or vices, she sheltered her own innocence
by accepting the hand of old
Mr. Flint, then in his seventieth year;
94and in the full blaze of beauty, not being
more than four or five and twenty, she
appeared as a bride at Tarefield-hall.
Mr. Flint at this period had four children.
Oliver, his eldest son, was settled
in Jamaica, had married there, and was
the father of a family. Lucretia, the
present despot at the hall, was single;
but something older than the bride.
Percival Flint, the second son, had just
finished his academical studies, and had
quitted Oxford. Mary Flint, the youngest
of the family, was then about seventeen,
and in one word, a paragon of perfection,
for such my authorities proclaim
her. Domestic feuds and discontents
still kept their ground, in spite of the
young mother-in-law; who, it appears,
was little calculated to maintain even her
own rights: she sunk into a nurse to
her husband. Percival Flint left his
father’s house secretly, and for some
years, whilst serving his country as an
95officer in the marines, was supposed by
the neighbourhood to have fallen a victim
to misery. Mr. Flamall had an
active part in all the transactions at
this period. He was useful to the infirm
father of the family, in managing his
business; and his ill treatment of his
own sister, gave him favour with Miss
Lucretia Flint. Love now engaged in
the struggle for power. A new curate,
of the name of Howard, appeared at
Tarefield. Miss Lucretia made love to
him; and he made love to the beautiful
Mary Flint. Here again I could fill
volumes with the praises and blessings
still given to this matchless pair! After
many trials, and the utmost cruelty from
the jealous sister, the lovers married.
Mr. Flint’s death is the next event. He
left a will, which utterly excluded Percival
Flint and Mrs. Howard, his darling
child, from any portion of his property
beyond a shilling. The Jamaica estate
96became his eldest son’s, and Miss Lucretia
became the mistress of Tarefield-hall,
with a large sum in money, some say,
not less than thirty thousand pounds.
The young widow had her provision of
four hundred pounds per annum, for her
life, on the Tarefield estate, and her name
was not even in the will but in order to
ascertain this claim. A new wonder succeeded
to this. In a short time after the
funeral, Mrs. Flint declared herself pregnant;
and to the astonishment of every
one, Miss Flint received the intelligence
with joy, and observed, it was an event
for which Mr. Flint had prepared her.
She was happy; for it would now appear,
that her father had chosen her for the
stewardship of that fortune destined to
be shared with a child who had not
offended him. The odious title of mother-in-law
was forgotten, and she called
Mrs. Flint her friend and sister: by
this latter appellation they still call each
97other. Anxious for the preservation of
the infant, Miss Flint removed her sister,
whose health was in a very precarious
state, to London. There Philip Flint
was born; I need not add, that this posthumous
child is the young man who
pretends to Miss Cowley’s hand. I have
suppressed the affecting stories of Mr.
and Mrs. Howard’s difficulties, and their
untimely death. They left a daughter,
who is the idol of her parents’ partial
friends: till lately, she has lived with a
wealthy farmer, where also boards her
uncle Percival. She is now, I am told,
noticed at the hall, and I believe she is
under Miss Lucretia’s protection. But to
proceed.
“Soon after the birth of Philip, Mrs.
Flint chose a second husband, and married
Sir Murdock Maclairn, with whom
she became acquainted during her residence
in or near London. The baronet
98was poor, and Mr. Flamall was for a time
averse to this union; and for the reasons
my Irishman assigns, namely, ‘that
Flamall knew of no standard by which
to appreciate honour and intrepidity.’
Observe here, that the Duke of ——
gave me this observation, who formerly
knew the baronet. Miss Flint, whose
best actions are viewed only in one direction
by the circle of her irritated
judges, was however useful to the poor
widow Flint on this occasion. The
union was effected by her mediation,
without an open rupture with the domineering
brother. ‘But she took care
of herself, for she wished to attach Mr.
Flamall, and conditioned for Sir Murdock
and his lady, living with her at
Tarefield, by which means the lover had
a pretence for his visits.’ I shall pass
over this lady’s supposed frailty, and the
motives assigned for her not marrying
the man whom she favoured. These are
99contained in the following hints: ‘They
knew one another too well for that folly,
&c.’ I have even continued to suppress
the current report of the hall being
haunted by the unquiet spirit of old
Mr. Flint, ‘who knows the will produced,
was never made by him.’ Compassion
for Lady Maclairn has not been
worn out. Her conduct to her unfortunate
husband during many years infirmity
of mind, nearly approaching to
insanity, has obliterated the remembrance
of her neglect of Mr. and Mrs. Howard,
and every one concurs in believing, that,
to her love and unremitting tenderness,
the poor baronet stands indebted for his
present amendment in his health and
faculties. She has one son by her second
marriage. It is enough that I say this
young man is the reigning favourite here;
for ‘Malcolm Maclairn is in no favour
with Miss Flint, or his uncle Flamall.’ I
suspect he has more of his father’s blood
100in his views than suits his dependant fortune;
for he has been from his childhood
constantly attached to Percival Flint,
and Miss Howard, the orphan child of
Mary Flint, who is the admiration of
the parish, and the cherished object of
compassion.
“It is no unpleasing nor unprofitable
reflection, my good friend, to trace in
my gleanings relative to this family, the
pure and genuine love of justice with
which the heart of man is endowed by
his gracious Maker. Neither the wealth
nor station of Miss Flint have been able to
screen her from the odium of those about
her. Percival Flint has more homage paid
him than if lord of the manor-house;
and with the stipend annexed to an invalid
captain of marines, a wooden leg,
and his niece Howard in his hand, confers
an honour on every cottage he enters.
The farmer, at whose house they live,
101has acquired an influence and authority
in the parish beyond what his opulence
would give him; ‘for every thing has
prospered with Mr. Wilson from the
hour he sheltered Mr. and Mrs. Howard.’
Such is the belief here.
“To conclude. It appears that Mr.
Philip Flint has been carefully educated,
and is a young man of spirit. The
usual comments on him finish with,
‘Aye he is too good for those to whom
he belongs! they could not spoil him;
but he will never be worthy to carry his
brother Malcolm’s shoes.’ You will
translate these expressions to this young
man’s advantage, for they bespeak his
worth.
“Depend, however, on one thing as
certain: Sir Murdock Maclairn is no fit
instrument for cunning or baseness. His
wife is an unoffending, depressed woman:
102I am told she is highly accomplished.
Miss Howard is now I find with her aunt
Miss Lucretia. The captain occasionally
visits the hall. The baronet is regaining
his health; and Malcolm is a second
Æneas. Whatever be the result of your
measures, recollect that Miss Cowley is
within my reach; and prepare her to
expect a steady and vigilant protector
“In your sincere friend,
“George Woodley.”
CHAP III.
103
Mr. Hardcastle read the above letter
to his attentive hearer: he waited for
some moments for her observations on
its contents; but finding she remained
silent, he said, “My dear child, recollect
that you are not obliged to comply with
Mr. Flamall’s orders.” “I have never
for an instant supposed myself in his
power,” answered she calmly. “This
account of his connections, however,
gives me satisfaction, because it will
serve to remove from your mind all fears
for my personal safety. It is of no importance
to me what are the characters of
this Flamall’s relations at present, it is
104sufficient that they appear neither dangerous,
nor interested in using me ill;
for the rest I am prepared.” “Be also
prepared to be just,” replied Mr. Hardcastle.
“Mr. Woodley says his information
rests on public rumour and public
opinion. Your father knew Mr. Philip
Flint and Mr. Flamall: suppose, for a
minute only, that his will was the result
of that knowledge, and that the man
he recommends to your notice is one
that is worthy of you; without binding
yourself to any conditions, you ought to
see this young man whenever he arrives,
and to listen dispassionately to whatever
he has to plead, both for his honour and
his pretensions. Consider him only as
Oliver Flint’s brother, and as standing
remote from Mr. Flamall and the family
at Tarefield. His affinity to worthless
people, granting it be so, is no proof of
his worthlessness; and surely the estimation
in which he is held even by your
105father’s report of him, entitles him to a
fair hearing whenever he appears at Tarefield.”
“I shall, whenever that happens,”
replied Miss Cowley, “receive him without
resentment or caprice, and soon convince
him that my resolution is unalterable.”
“And what answer am I to make
to this letter?” asked Mr. Hardcastle,
producing a renewed application from
a young baronet in the neighbourhood.
“If you will have the goodness to
transmit my answer to Sir George,”
replied Miss Cowley, “you will oblige
me; it is a brief one: I am an engaged
woman; and should not this silence him,
he will prove that he is not a gentleman,
nor a man of sense.—To what purpose
should I conceal from him, or the world,”
added she, throwing her arms around
Mr. Hardcastle’s neck, “an attachment
in which I glory? To what purpose
refrain from telling my father, and my
friend, that I love Horace Hardcastle?
106He knows that I love him, and have
loved him for years.” “My dear child!”
said the subdued Mr. Hardcastle, tenderly
returning her embrace, “endowed as
you are, I would with pride acknowledge
you as my daughter were you pennyless;
but circumstanced as I am, I dare not
listen to your pleadings. I am too old,
and too tenacious of a good name, to
risk it by a compliance so evidently in
favour of my son’s fortune: and you are
too young, and too inexperienced, to
know whether that compliance would
secure to you the happiness it promises.
I will imitate you in frankness: regard
me as your best friend, not as Horace’s
father. Leave to time the discussion of
a subject of which you are at present
disqualified to judge. Horace, like
yourself, is young, I advise you to avoid
entering into any engagements with him
till more acquaintance with life shall
have decided his character and rendered
107you a better judge of his merit. Remember
also, that should you persist in
cherishing the sentiments you now entertain
of this young man, that you
cannot give to your friends any apology
for your preference more ostensible,
than that of placing no temptation in
the way of his integrity. It will be the
only wealth he can bring to the account
of yours; and although many will say it
is nothing in the scale they judge by,
some will be candid enough to confess,
that virtue knows no inequality of condition.
But let me say yet a few words
more,” added he; “and think you are
listening to your mother, to that being
who trained you to be what you are.”—He
paused for a moment.—“She would
tell you, my dear Rachel, that there is
no period of a young woman’s life, in
which she is less qualified to judge for
her own happiness, than the one in which
you are at present. You are under an
108influence which renders your judgment
weak. Unacquainted with vice, and
with all the affections of nature and innocence
glowing in your bosom, you
give to imagination an office with which
it ought never to be trusted; and to the
lover it selects the qualities of your own
pure heart. For a time, this delusion
passes; but what is often the conclusion?
Sometimes, a too late conviction that
what had been cherished as a supreme
good, is a certain ruin; and still as frequently,
that what had been called a
permanent affection, is discovered to be
nothing more than a flight of youthful
inclination. I may surprise you by
saying, that, without any imputation
on your principles, or degradation of
your understanding, you may cease to
love Horace Hardcastle.” “Never!”
exclaimed the impatient Miss Cowley.
“We are not the children of folly, nor
the slaves of passion! Read that letter
109which I received from your son, and
then judge of the basis on which our
hopes rest. I have promised Horace to
respect his father’s honour, and to preserve
his, and I will never write to him
till I have your consent.” “I am satisfied,”
answered Mr. Hardcastle, hastily
rising to quit the room. “Oh hear
me!” cried Miss Cowley; detaining him
by his clothes: “as a sister, as to my
early friend, surely now and then I may
be indulged.” “You shall want no information
of his safety,” answered the retreating
Mr. Hardcastle, interrupting her and
instantly retiring. “Inflexible man!”
said she, bursting into tears. “Ah,
would to Heaven that mother to whom
he referred, lived to confute his arguments!
She only knew Rachel Cowley—she
only knew her Horace.”
Relieved by this effusion of sorrow,
her spirit took its natural bias, and
110though disappointed in her wishes of
gaining permission to write to her
brother Horace, it may be at least
conjectured, that the opposition she
had been unable to conquer, did the
lover no injury; for it is most certain,
that she attributed Mr. Hardcastle’s
conduct to a pride and scrupulosity
far removed from good sense,
and deficient in kindness to her.
CHAP. IV. — LETTER I. From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle. — LETTER II. Miss Cowley, in continuation. — LETTER III. From the same to the same.
111
Miss Cowley lost nothing of her
firmness in relating the above conversation
to her friend Lucy. “I must think
Mr. Hardcastle too rigid,” said she, “in
prohibiting all correspondence between
me and Horace; but I will obey him as
my father. I leave you, my dear Lucy,
but it is to defeat malice. The honour
of Mr. Hardcastle is not less dear to
me than my own, and I will prove to
the world that I am qualified to judge,
and to determine. I have now duties
before me that will give solidity to my
mind. My father has left two children
besides myself, and convinced as I am,
that Flamall is a villain, I will omit no
112occasion of detecting his artifices.
Sheltered under this roof, I can never do
this; but by bending to his authority I
may make him tremble. Should I fail
in this purpose, I am still secure; for
Horace will not want my father’s wealth
to make him happy; and when I am of
age, it will depend on you to determine
whether Mrs. Dawson’s legacy to her
grand-daughter is to be a curse.” Poor
Lucy, unable to reply, only wept, and
saw with bitter regret her friend’s preparations
for leaving Heathcot. A letter
from Sir Murdock Marlain hastened her
departure; and Mrs. Allen and Miss Cowley
were escorted to London by Mr.
Hardcastle a few days previous to the
baronet’s arrival, and took up their
temporary abode at Counsellor Steadman’s.
Few of my readers will refuse their
sympathy to the dejected and faithful
113guardian during this anxious period.
With a father’s apprehensions, Mr. Hardcastle
saw youth and beauty torn
from his protecting care; and with
anguish of soul, did he now contemplate
the traits of his pupil’s mind, and the
charms of her person; but of this person
no more will be said, than applying to
Rachel Cowley the poet’s interrogation,
Can Virgil’s verse, can Raphel’s touch impart,
Those finer features of the feeling heart,
Those tend’rer tints, that shun the careless eye,
And in the world’s contagious circle die?
Rogers’s Pleasures of Memory.
Having now brought my readers to
the point in which my history may be
said to commence, I hasten to place
before them a correspondence, which
will better serve my purpose than any
talents I possess. I shall content myself
114in future with supplying the few breaks
I find in the narrative; and leave the
reader to judge of my discernment in
thinking the unstudied language of
truth and nature better than any I could
substitute in their place. Miss Cowley
shall speak for herself.
Tarefield, June 24th.
The short note which your father has,
before this, delivered to you, and which
I trust you have destroyed, my dear
Lucy, as a proof unworthy to be preserved
of your poor Rachel’s little
advancement in self-knowledge, shall, if
it be possible, be rendered useful to me
as a warning against presumption. But
although I have been taught by experience
115not to think too highly of my
wisdom, yet I mean not, Lucy, to give
up the reins to folly. You will have no
more despairing rhapsodies from me.
The question has been decided, and
reason tells me, that in a difficulty which
admits of no other alternative but that
of either laughing or crying, it is but to
take that which will least disagree with
my constitution. You have, my dear
Lucy, called me many times a twin
sister of my favourite Beatrice. Whether
you meant to compliment me as
having a portion of her wit, or meant
to repress in me the superabundance of
her spirit and flippancy, remains with
you to settle. I am contented with the resemblance,
and I will, if I can, preserve
a light heart, and her disdain of fools
and knaves. I will, however, effect my
purpose of breaking through the web of
mischief which now entangles me, without
wishing “I were a man,” or “eating
116Mr. Flamall’s heart in the market-place;”
a more severe punishment will only satiate
my vengeance. He shall live to feel
the stings of a wounded conscience, and
to see me happy.—But again Heathcot
rises between me and my heroic intentions!
Alas, my Lucy, it will, for a
time at least, defeat every purpose of
wisdom! I must weep! Its beloved inmates
are before me! I see them silently
glancing their humid eyes to my vacant
place at their peaceful table; and, with
looks of sympathy, pitying each other
for the absence of their fondled, cherished
Rachel. Who will now, my Lucy, defend
you in your walks from the terrific
cows? Who will now guard you from
the wasp’s approach? Who will now
explore your path in your evening’s ramble,
and secure your timid footsteps from
the tremendous frog? Alas! you have
no Rachel Cowley to guard and to
laugh at you! She is, and well may I
117say, alas! and alas! far remote from
these her accustomed and sweet duties!
She is too remote, also, to hear the gentle
and persuasive admonitions of her Lucy.
Who is there here to repress with a smile
my too volatile spirits, “to divert my petulance
and check my pride?” Where
am I now to seek that friend, whose approbation,
like the dew from heaven,
tempered my rough elements with her
own simple and mild virtues? We were
formed, Lucy, to be each other’s aid and
support. We are made for Heathcot
and contentment. Will Mr. Hardcastle
persist, think you, in thus defeating, as it
appears to me, the designs of Providence?
Oh no! nor can he long remain unconvinced
that my father was incapable of
defrauding his child of those rights of
nature which he granted to his slaves.
He cannot, Lucy, persist long in prohibiting
Horace from writing to me. He
must perceive the injustice, as well as
118severity, of his present conduct. Never
to write to the companion of my youth,
to a brother endeared to me by a thousand
and a thousand fond remembrances
of pure and unimpassioned affection!
Surely this is being too rigid! Such is
not Mr. Hardcastle’s mind. He will
relent in compassion to himself. In this
hope only can I find a relief from my
present state of mind. I cannot, Lucy,
support my plan of conduct with fortitude
whilst I find your father thinks
meanly of me; and is it not obvious,
that he believes me weak and childish?
Why am I not to be confided in? His
honour is my own; Horace’s disgrace
would be my destruction; and, again I
repeat it, I would not now marry your
brother were the world your father so
much dreads, to solicit me to be his wife.
No, Lucy, Horace Hardcastle shall have
no accounts to settle with my new guardian!
Farewell, I cannot proceed. Mrs.
119Allen’s blessing and your Rachel’s must
not be omitted. She is contended with
me, and bids me tell you that I am a
very good girl. Will not this please
you? You smile.
Tarefield.
Finding myself somewhat the wiser
for a few hours repose, I will profit by
the unavoidable delay of my yesterday’s
letter to add to its bulk, and to pour into
your patient ear a larger portion of those
thoughts which I know not what to do
with till they are communicated to you.
I shall therefore inform you, that I lost
no time in giving Sir Murdock Maclairn
a specimen of that damsel’s temper whom
it had cost him so many wearisome miles
to seek. But I will be modest, and tell
you also, that I had been spirited up to this
120undertaking by Counsellor Steadman;
for as he has no son to beguile me of my
heart, and is too old himself to wish for
more of it than he has, he was determined,
without consulting your father, to see
whether I could fight my own battles.
Thus prepared, I asked the courteous
baronet, before my dear counsellor, when
he meant to commence his journey to
Tarefield. A solemn bow prefaced his
reply.—“He was at my directions on
that point.”—“Indeed,” answered I,
smiling, “you surprise me! I suspect
my new guardian has ill-chosen you for
his substitute. I fancy he would not
altogether approve of your complaisance
to your prisoner.” He fixed his eyes on
my face, but was silent. “I mean not
to bribe you,” continued I, “for you
appear too indulgent to need it; but I
do wish to make our journey to Tarefield
pleasant; and that cannot be unless
we travel as good friends. By a will now
121substantiated as legal, and called my father’s
will, Sir Murdock, I am committed
to the controul of a man, who, till within,
a few months, was a stranger to that parent
I deplore, and to whose name and office
was affixed a post at Mr. Cowley’s writing-desk.
It ought not to surprise you,
therefore, if I think it necessary to act
with caution under these circumstances.
I am an entire stranger to Mr. Flamall’s
character and principles; and yet I am
ready to accept of your house, Sir Murdock,
as an asylum proper for me. But,
understand me: motives absolutely remote
from Mr. Flamall’s power and
authority over me, have induced me to
give up a protection under which I have
been safe and happy from my infancy.
I trust to you voluntarily, for I believe
you to be a man of honour. To Mr.
Flamall I leave the provision he may
judge necessary for his master’s daughter
whilst under your roof. If I am to give
122credit to my partial friends, I am not
capricious; but I am very jealous of my
independence. Lady Maclairn, as well
as yourself, Sir Murdock, must be told
that I have decidedly and firmly refused
the husband provided for me by my father’s
will. I expect to be exempted
from all importunities on the subject of
Mr. Philip Flint. These would not only
tend to make my residence with you
unpleasant, but also short; for I shall
without delay convince Mr. Flamall that
Rachel Cowley’s person is not included
in his extraordinary trust. I have only
to add, that I am ready to set out whenever
you please, and shall with cheerfulness
attend you to an abode which I
promise not to disturb by any discontents.”
Sir Murdock, who had not for an instant
taken his eyes off me, started when I
ceased speaking, and for several moments
123appeared extremely agitated; his countenance
varied with the oppression within,
and he paced the room once or twice
in profound silence. At length, with
collected firmness, he said, I had surprised
him. “I am not prepared to
answer Miss Cowley’s suspicions of Mr.
Flamall,” said he, addressing the counsellor,
“but I know that I have had no
sinister views in coming hither. I have
no designs either on her person or property;
nor can I easily conceive that
Mr. Flamall has. We were strangers
till very lately, to all that regards this
young lady. The proposed alliance was
transmitted to us, as an argument in
favour of the plan now under consideration.
It produced the effect Mr. Flamall
wished, it conquered our reluctance to
receiving under our roof a stranger to
our habits of life. These are so retired,
that we naturally judged they could not
be agreeable to a young lady; and we
124should have persisted in our refusal, had
not Mr. Flamall pointed out to us the
propriety of the measure he recommended.
If Miss Cowley, or Miss Cowley’s
friends, be not satisfied with what I have
asserted,” added he, spreading his hand
on his chest and colouring, “I would
not for all the riches in the world have
her under my protection; but I have yet
to learn, that Sir Murdock Maclairn has
been judged a fit agent for dishonour!”
His eyes were again turned on me, they
instantly softened, and I saw he trembled.
“Say no more, my good Sir,” cried I
with my usual eagerness, and taking his
hand, “I bless Providence for conducting
me to you, under the necessity which
forces me to quit Heathcot. I will love
Lady Maclairn for your sake, and tell
her, that I am grateful to you for hearing
me with so much patience.” Never
shall I forget him, Lucy, when with a
countenance expressive of the utmost
125sensibility, he said to Counsellor Steadman
with solemnity—“She will be safe
as the child of my bosom. She will be
guarded by a vigilance equal to your
own and Mr. Hardcastle’s. As a deposit
sent by Heaven, I will receive her.” Do
you know that I was so affected that I
wept, and repented of having urged
him to this explanation. Mr. Steadman
assured him, that he was perfectly satisfied,
and the conversation gradually
became less interesting. I mentioned
with diffidence my friend Mrs. Allen.
“My wife will rejoice to find you bring a
companion with you,” said he; “she
fears that you will think Tarefield very
dull. My bad health has produced a
love of home in her, as well as myself,
that will not easily be overcome.” “Be
under no fears on that head,” observed I,
smiling, “I am one of those profound
philosophers who are never alone.” He
smiled in his turn at my vivacity. “You
126will like my wife, Miss Cowley,” said he,
“she is the gentlest and the best of
women. One so peaceable, that she will
not quarrel with you for your barbarity
to her son. I am not yet at home,”
added he with more cheerfulness, “therefore
not yet tongue-tied; but permit me
to assure you, that Philip Flint is not
undeserving of your good opinion, though
he may be too presumptuous in his hopes.
I have, however, nothing to do with this
affair,” continued he; “having from his
cradle strictly adhered to one rule of
conduct, namely, that of leaving him to
his tender mother’s care, and the direction
of his more immediate connections.
Happily his education has not been neglected.
But I was unequal to the
duties of a father, even to my own Malcolm.”
His poor head mechanically sunk,
and he took, greedily, three or four
pinches of Scotch snuff. We finished by
settling the hour of our departure;
127for I found he wished to leave London.
My next letter shall place before you
more particularly this interesting Sir
Murdock Maclairn, the originality of
whose person and manners has so powerfully
excited my compassion and curiosity,
that I cannot but bless fortune for
throwing him in my way. He is no
common character, Lucy; and the peculiar
sadness which from moment to moment
pervades his countenance, is to me
inexpressibly touching. I should have
detested a stupid laughing face for le
compagnon du voyage, that conveyed
me from my Heathcot; and as the next
best thing to being happy oneself, is
making others so, I forgot in my endeavours
to make Sir Murdock comfortable
that every milestone was to me a memento
mori. It is yet rather problematical,
whether I shall like his lady as well as I
128do him. But I know not how it happens,
that I am less disposed to fall in love
with my own sex than with the other.
I have loved, dearly loved, men old
enough for my great-great-grand-father,
but rarely have I been attached to old
ladies. Must we acknowledge the truth,
Lucy? We may as well; the poet has
spoken it: “most women have no characters
at all.” So farewell, and be sure
to love even the follies of your own
Rachel Cowley, for they are not borrowed,
at least, my dear girl. Supply
for me kind words to Sedley.
Your father’s wisdom in hurrying
you away to Barton-lodge, instead of
permitting you to remain at Heathcot,
129like another Niobe, dissolving in tears, is
so like him, that it neither surprises me
nor Mrs. Allen; and if the cheerful
mistress of the most cheerful mansion
contentment ever found, cannot comfort
you, I shall be angry and chide my
Lucy.
You tell me your father smiles, and
refers you “to Rachel’s pen” for all that
relates to Sir Murdock Maclairn’s first
interview in town; “he (Mr. Hardcastle)
being too jealous of the baronet’s
favour with me, to be impartial.” In
reply to Mr. Hardcastle I make him one
of my best and most saucy curtesies;
and tell him that I understand perfectly
the cause of his discretion and humility.
He is like many other sinners, willing to
compromise matters with conscience,
and to tempt others to do that which he
dare not do himself, in order to share the
130gratification of wickedness at a less price.
How often have we seen him check his
mirth and spoil a good story, by saying,
“this is folly, neither the weaknesses nor
the frailties of our fellow-creatures, my
children, are proper subjects for mirth:”
and yet he can lay a snare for me. However,
I have neither his charity nor
benevolent toleration, and think folly
fair game. But I have not folly to laugh
at, in the subject before me; yet, Lucy,
in the dearth of all rational amusement, in
a separation from all whom I love, do you
think I can want an excuse for my pen,
should it offend charity? Self-preservation
is a duty no less obligatory than
self-government; and as I am cut off
from the banquet of wisdom, have I not
a right to cater for myself? “Certainly:”
and if I can live upon worse fare, and can
be contented with what is wholesome,
though not delicate, will any one blame
me? “No:” well then, this privilege
131being granted, please to understand, that
neither my compassion nor good nature
are yet starved out; for were that the
case, Sir Murdock Maclairn would be
the most unsuitable dish for the cravings
of my hunger. It is, however, most assuredly
true, that this gentleman’s first
appearance produced on me not only
surprise, but the most powerful incitements
to be wicked. Figure to yourself
a very tall large-boned man, meagre as
“pining atrophy;” high cheek-bones,
which still more hollowed his sunk features;
a complexion jaundiced by sickness and
tinged by Scotch snuff, which he takes
in immoderate quantities; a long crane
neck, which is tightly bound with a
narrow black stock; a few scattered
hairs, which still maintain their carroty
colour, tyed in a queue; a sunk,
though broad chest, and a plaintive
voice, in which however are cadences to
please the ear whilst attending to an articulation
132slow, and sometimes laboured.
Add to this picture, an abstracted manner,
and an air of sadness; and you will not
be astonished that I should for a few
minutes fancy Malvolio present, and that
I looked for “his yellow stockings and
cross garters.” The eagerness with which
he gazed upon me strengthened my
imagination, and I did not dare to smile,
lest I should hear him say—
“Thou canst not chuse but know who I am:
If thou entertainest my love, let it appear by thy smiling.——
Thy smiles become thee well.”
At this moment my eyes encountered
those of Sir Murdock’s, and my heart
smote me; for in language more touching
than sounds of harmony could impart,
they said, “Pity me, for I am the
child of sorrow; respect me, for I am
acquainted with grief.” I blushed, and
forgot Malvolio.
133For several days, however, I could not
reconcile myself to the keenness and peculiar
attention with which these large
blue eyes surveyed me. An expression
in them of a famished look (I cannot
better define its eagerness) yielded, as he
continued to gaze on my face, to a
melancholy softness, not unfrequently
heightened by a tear; but I found that
he was subject to an absence of mind,
which it appears has resulted from many
years bad health and low spirits. This,
with his ceremonious demeanour, and the
no inconsiderable degree of his national
accent, render him peculiarly singular.
Not expecting much amusement on the
road with a companion to whom you
may speak half a score times before he is
sensible you expect an answer, I took
care to provide myself with a book; and,
by chance, I robbed the counsellor of
Macpherson’s Ossian. The united libraries
of the ancient and modern world,
134could not have better supplied me with
an author calculated to rouse the attention
of Sir Murdock. I was tempted to
read aloud some passages, and he listened
with a feeling that surprised me to
the sorrows of Malvina. “Have you
never read Ossian?” asked I. “If I
have,” replied he, “I have forgotten
him during an indisposition that left me
nothing but a capacity to feel my own
wretchedness.” A deep sigh and the
depression of his head silenced me. He
soon urged me for more of my book;
but I was grieved that I had introduced
to his acquaintance a work so powerfully
calculated to “awaken fancy, and to
touch the heart” of the poor baronet.
I cannot describe to you the enthusiastic
bursts of feeling and admiration
which followed every sublime passage I
selected; and his tears flowed to the pathetic
touches of the poet. “I will read
135no more to you,” said I, with good humour
and closing the book: “Ossian is,
to a mind like yours, a bad writer.”
“There is a joy in grief, when peace
dwells in the breast of the mourner,” answered
he in a plaintive tone. “It may
be so,” replied I, “but the mourner
ought to remember, ‘that sorrow wastes
him.’” “I do not attribute my faintness
to grief,” observed Mrs. Allen laughing,
“but to downright hunger; and I must
beg to stop at the next stage for something
more substantial than Ossian.” Sir
Murdock instantly began his apology
for his omission at the last inn. “I forgot,”
said he, “that every one could not
like myself fast twenty-four hours without
inconvenience. Early habit has
made abstemiousness of no account with
me,” added he, “I have fasted six-and-thirty
hours formerly, without experiencing
any considerable diminution of
strength.” “Have you never thought
136such a disregard to the wants of nature
pernicious?” asked I, surveying with
compassion his lank figure. “I had then
other cares,” answered he; “my soul,
like that of Oithana, was not as careless
as the sea which lifts its blue waves
to every wind, and rolls beneath the
storm.” He fixed his eyes on my face,
and spoke no more till we reached our
destined post-house. Here Mrs. Allen’s
orders were quickly obeyed, and we
pressed him to take some refreshment
with us; and to judge by the voraciousness
of his appetite, he must have exceeded
his usual time of fasting. We
were, however, too well pleased with the
effects of ham and cold chicken on him,
as well as on ourselves, to trust to his
memory for a repetition of the cordial;
and Mrs. Allen undertook the management
of us for the remainder of the
journey. The replenished baronet became
more and more conversible as we
137proceeded. He had even transient gleams
of cheerfulness, and finding that I persisted
in keeping back the “tales of the
times of old,” till he, like other poor
mortals, eat three meals a day, he contented
himself, and amused us by describing
in glowing colours the grand and
picturesque scenery he remembered in the
western isles of his beloved Scotland;
and with evident delight he traced a
similarity of manners and customs between
his country and ancient Greece,
marking with precision the common
features of resemblance that had struck
him between the heroes of Ossian and
Homer. From this learned dissertation
he condescended to talk of France, in
which country he had passed his youth.
He praised my accent, and seemed pleased
that I knew the language, speaking
with rapture some passages from Racine.
“Do you also understand Italian?” asked
he. I replied, “As a school-girl.” He
138smiled most graciously—I wish you could
see him smile, Lucy! and with a suppressed
sigh he said, “It may serve to fill
up your time, my dear Miss Cowley, to
accept of the assistance of ‘a school-boy’
in this language; there was a time,
when it was as familiar to me as my
mother tongue, or the French; but my
memory has been many years lost to me
as a source of pleasure.” A reverie succeeded
to this observation, and Mrs.
Allen and I insensibly retraced our steps
and got to Heathcot-Farm. We talked of
Lucy Hardcastle; when, to our surprise,
the good baronet interrupted us by
observing, that our friends at Heathcot
had an advantage of which it was probable
they were not aware. “Heathcot,”
added he mournfully, “will never recede
from your mind whilst you are at Tarefield.—This
is my fear: yet still I think
you will be pleased with my Harriet.
She is as gentle and pure-hearted as your
139dear Lucy. She will be miserable, if she
fail in making you comfortable.” You
will supply our answer. He continued
to talk of his wife, and told us, that to
her persuasions he had yielded reluctantly
to undertake a journey which had
separated him from her more hours, than
for many years before he had been minutes:
“but she thought,” added he, “that
it would be beneficial to my health and
spirits; and these are of value to me,
because essential to her happiness.” He
spoke with animation of her faithful love,
and added, “She is now counting the
hours till she sees me.”
When arrived within five miles of
Durham we left the road, and pursued our
way through a flat country, unmarked by
any thing cheerful; and reached Tarefield-hall
at about eight o’clock in the
evening of our third day’s journey. The
house, as we approached it, struck me
140as having been originally built in that
style of architecture for which we are
indebted to William the III. and Dutch
taste; but as each successive proprietor
conceived his own to be as good, and
had money for its indulgence, it exhibits
at present samples of all: turrets and
chimneys: high roofs and flat ones;
latticed bows and Venetian windows, and
wings added to wings.
I find, however, many good-sized
rooms within; and when we get acquainted
with the five staircases, and as
many thresholds, we shall, I believe, have
seen all that is curious in the manor-house,
commonly called Tarefield-hall.
I must not, however, omit as its beauty,
a noble avenue of elms and horse-chesnuts,
the latter in full bloom, and which
embellishes the dull scenery around.
This avenue is flanked on each side by a
rising plantation of some extent, and is
141devoted to modern improvement; the
walks are neat and trim, and it is filled
with shrubs.
Now mark me, Lucy: here I am at
Tarefield; and here does my history finish,
unless you are good and tractable.
Horace was not even named in your last
letter.—This will not do. You had better
not provoke me: I have rich materials
before me, but I will have my price for
them. Take in the mean time the kiss
of peace from your
Rachel Cowley.
CHAP. V. — LETTER IV. From the same to the same. — LETTER V. From the same to the same.
142
Your dear letter, in which I find you
can be reasonable and good, was delivered
to me yesterday, by a gentleman
who lives in this neighbourhood; the
Mr. Woodley, our Counsellor’s correspondent.
He is, I find, land-steward to
the Duke ——, and resides at Bishop’s-Auckland,
the nearest market town from
hence. He was frank and cordial in his
offers of service, and we soon settled our
terms of amity. He will be our postmaster,
and from this time you may
143swell your budget at your pleasure, and
send it to Counsellor Steadman’s. Our
servants will carry mine to Mr. Woodley’s,
for we have daily intercourse with
the market.
But now for your reward. It shall be
ample, for I wish to encourage young
beginners; and being positively convinced
myself, that you may, without
breaking any one commandment in the
decalogue, fill a page with intelligence
relative to my brother Horace, I do hope
to convert you, and strengthen your
faith in my tenets. A mistaken and
punctilious observance of an injunction,
which your father’s fears, rather than his
reason, have given you, would be downright
sinning against friendship; so
“look to your ways and be wise.”
It was evident, that some ceremony
144had been judged necessary for the reception
of the heiress; and I was received
with much form and some parade
in the best parlour. But as nature had
not been consulted in these arrangements,
she chose to spoil them; for poor lady
Maclairn, instead of remembering her
compliments, rushed into her husband’s
arms and wept. It was no longer Malvolio,
Lucy! No; it was the toil-worn
Ulysses soothing his faithful Penelope.
The picture was complete; for an old
spaniel was licking his feet at the
moment. I cannot take a more favourable
time for giving you a sketch of
Lady Maclairn’s person; for whilst her
beautiful black eyes were still humid
with tears of joy, and her delicate face
suffused with the mixed emotions of
contentment and a recollection of her
neglect of the strangers, I forgot she
was Flamall’s sister.
145I should judge Lady Maclairn to be
nearly fifty years old; she is of the middle
size and elegantly formed. Her beauty
is of that sort which I have heard called
pure English; namely, hair approaching
to black, black eyes, and a complexion
of the finest texture and colour. Her
features are small and regular. She is
extremely pale, but not with the hue of
sickness; and it behoves Lady Maclairn
to think aright, for every feeling of her
mind is accompanied by a soft blush on
her face. This, with a certain timidity
and peculiar gentleness of manners, renders
her appearance more feminine and
youthful than matronly; yet she is
graceful, and speaks with propriety and
judgment. So far my conscience acquits
me of malice.
She had no sooner finished her fluttered
welcome, than she presented to me
the Brobdingnagian, Miss Lucretia Flint,
146who, in a stiff green damask gown and
petticoat, might have conveyed to a
soberer imagination than mine the idea
of a mountain clothed in the livery of
spring; but on raising my eyes to measure
its elevation, a stern countenance of
“Burdoth’s” sort intercepted my curiosity,
and I caught only a glimpse of its
snowy summit. She condescended to
bend, and offered me her glowing cheek,
which I approached with fear and trembling.
In order to recover myself, I
begged Sir Murdock to introduce me to
his son, who had modestly kept at a distance.
He made his bow; and we began
to chat on the little occurrences of the
journey. “You must have found it
very tiresome,” observed the stately
Miss Flint, fixing her eyes on the contented
baronet, “I am sure I have pitied
you, Miss Cowley.” “Pitied me!” repeated
I, with an air of astonishment,
“I wished our journey had been as long
147again! and could Sir Murdock have forgotten
the road to Tarefield, I would have
kidnapped him, and made the tour of
England.” The saver of links and
torches was silenced, and I talked with
Malcolm Maclairn of a country and a
route which he appeared to know perfectly.
Miss Flint at length with much gravity
asked how long we should have to
wait for supper. Mrs. Allen requested
permission to retire to her room before it
was served, pleading a slight sense of
fatigue. The courteous mistress of the
mansion accompanied us to the destined
apartments, and with the utmost solicitude
for Mrs. Allen’s accommodation,
urged her to have a maid-servant to
assist her. This she declined; and I
returned to the family party with her
ladyship, well knowing that Mrs. Allen’s
whim, not the head-ach, was at the bottom
of the business; for she will have it that
148the spoiled child does not sleep unless
she places the pillow.
Malcolm Maclairn is the image of his
mother; but he is glowing with health,
and his manly countenance is embrowned
by air and exercise: I do not believe
that Sidney’s Arcadia has a handsomer
shepherd than this village beau.
In a few minutes my attention was
called from Malcolm, by the appearance
of a beautiful apparition, which gliding
softly by me, told Lady Maclairn that
supper was served. She was retreating
with the same light foot, when she hesitated,
and courtesying to Sir Murdock,
she said with gentle accents, she was
rejoiced to see him. “Thank you, my
dear Mary,” was his laconic reply, at the
same time taking her hand. As the
beautiful phantom passed me, she blushed,
and quickened her pace. “Good
149Heavens!” cried I, “why, Sir Murdock,
how has it happened that you did not
prepare me for the sight of that angelic
creature, now gone out of the room! I
I never beheld so lovely a girl!” “She is
indeed, a very beautiful creature,” answered
Lady Maclairn in an under-toned
voice. “She is Miss Flint’s niece, and
lives with her here.” We moved to the
supping room; and I eagerly looked for
the niece, recollecting Mr. Woodley’s
history. “Do we not wait for the young
lady?” asked I. “Oh, dear no,” answered
Miss Flint, commencing with a
hot lobster, “Mary does not sup with
us.” Malcolm pursed up his rosy lips,
as if to whistle, and his knuckles gave
the tune of “The Babes in the Wood.”
I became tired in a minute, and as dry
as the dry toast I swallowed. Willing
to reserve my petulant humour for this
ungracious aunt’s sole use, I retired to my
room as soon as the cloth was removed.
150I found, as I had suspected, the indefatigable
Mrs. Allen still engaged in
arranging her pet’s clothes. Before I
could begin my lecture she eagerly asked
me whether I had seen Miss Flint’s orphan
niece. “I never was more ashamed
of a mistake in my life,” pursued she;
“but after you left me I began to unpack
what I knew you would want in the
morning.” A maid-servant entered to
take my orders for supper; she mentioned
several things, but I requested a sandwich
and a glass of table beer: these
were brought and placed on the table.
Some little time after, some one tapped
at the door, and the prettiest girl I ever
saw in my life entered with a small
waiter, on which was a tart and some
cream. “I have ventured to intrude,
Madam,” said she, “in the hopes that
you may be induced to add something to
your supper.” She glanced her eyes to
the sandwich, which had remained untouched.
151“Permit me to assist you,”
added she, placing her dainties on the
table, “let me try to uncord that box
whilst you take some refreshment.”
Thinking from her dress that she was a
domestic, I complied and sat down to
eat my supper: during this interval I
looked at her with admiration; which
soon changed to pity, when I saw how
delicate she was, and what hands I had
employed. “I beg,” said I, “you will
cut the cord, you seem no more equal
to it than myself. You are not strong,
my poor child; your labours, I trust are
light here.” She blushed, and her sweet
eyes filled with tears. “My feebleness
is a misfortune,” replied she, “which I
owe in part to the tenderness with which
I was reared. I lament it, although my
station in this family imposes no labour
on me: I am Miss Flint’s niece.” I made
a thousand excuses. “Indeed, Madam,
you have given no offence,” said she,
152wiping her eyes. “On the contrary, I
envy the condition of those in every class
of life, who are able to fill up usefully
that station to which Providence calls
them; too much care, too much tenderness
have, I fear, unfitted me for mine.”
She again dissolved into tears. “I
should not have said thus much,” added
she, “for I have nothing to regret, but
being a burden to my relations. Your
residence here, however, would soon inform
you that Mary Howard lost every
thing at the death of her mother.”
“My dear young lady,” answered I,
endeavouring to sooth her, and now
observing that she wore a black cotton
gown, “you must not despair; your loss
has probably been recent; time will do”——She
interrupted me. “Oh, no!”
cried she. The chamber door opened,
and the chamber-maid hastily said, “My
dear Mary, you forget how time goes;
153your aunt will be enquiring.” The poor
girl took the friendly hint and hastily
withdrew. I now employed the maid to
untie the trunk, and, with my praise of
Miss Howard, mentioned something of
my error. “No wonder,” said she, with
honest indignation, “dressed as she is!
But she is Mr. Howard’s child for all
that, and would be so in rags. Such
relations! say I: I would weed in a ditch
rather than owe my bread to such.” A
bell sounded, and the girl withdrew,
saying, “You will soon see, Madam,
that I am right.”
“Good God!” continued the anxious
Mrs. Allen, “what will you do, my dear
child, in a house where a niece envies
the condition of a servant, and where a
servant is kinder treated than an aunt?”
“Do!” replied I, “why I will make
those who are in it blush.” She shook
her head, and I took it into mine that she
154had not met with proper deference. The
storm of passion was rising, Lucy; but
I was pacified by Mrs. Allen’s assurance
that she had not been overlooked, and I
found there had been no difference made
in the accommodations prepared for the
heiress and her friend. It was well; for,
is she not my friend? Did not my dying
mother give me to her? Did not yours
bid me cherish her? and when I fail, may
Heaven abandon me! Let these people
dare to be impertinent, you will soon see
us at Heathcot; at present, however,
my anger flows only in one channel. My
first employment here shall be to teach
Miss Flint a lesson, and to shew her that
Rachel Cowley abhors oppression.
I will finish this three day’s journal by
sending you a description of the damsel,
for whom I mean to draw my sword
should it be necessary; you will say it
has an edge; so much the better when
employed to correct cruelty.
155In stature, Miss Howard is about my
height, but in symmetry and proportion
of form, so completely Grecian that you
must look for her model in the gallery
at Florence. To perfect the resemblance
the more, she wears her light-brown
locks, nearly flaxen, braided up and
fastened round her head, whilst a black
ribband confines the redundancy of the
ringlets from covering her snowy forehead;
her eyes are the darkest blue I ever
saw, and, perhaps, to their colour it is
owing that I never yet saw eyes so expressive
at once of spirit and softness:
at one moment they make their appeal
to the heart by the imploring look of
infant-trust and confidence; at another,
they bespeak a soul within, equal to the
duty of checking insolence; but these
emanations are transient, and a melancholy
expression of tenderness, rather
than of sorrow, more commonly beams
from them. To what shall I liken her
156complexion? I can find nothing but a
white rose newly refreshed by the dew
of heaven: its delicate smoothness and
modest blush exactly correspond with
Mary’s skin; for its tints would confound
the painter to imitate; her smile would
convert frenzy to peace, though lost on
Miss Flint’s flinty heart; and her voice
would soften the tigress when robbed of
her young.
I know what you will say: “This is a
sketch in Rachel Cowley’s style, when
compassion guides her pencil. It is a
thousand to one that this poor girl is
any thing more than a pretty one; her
youth and depressed fortune have lent
their aid to an imagination that always
employs vivid colours. We must place
Miss Howard’s picture by the side of
Miss Flint’s.” Do so, Lucy; the time may
come, and I hope will come, when you
157shall recant, and the triumph of truth
shall be that of your
Rachel Cowley.
Without entering into your comments
on the power of bribery when in such
hands as mine, I will content myself
with my influence over an affection which
can be just to friendship and yet faithful
to duty. I appeal to your understanding,
Lucy; has there been one wish to
render your good offices hurtful to your
father, or pernicious to Horace and myself,
yet offered to ensnare you? I have
a right to hear of his welfare; and by
detailing the little occurrences which
mark our respective existences, you are
158doing no harm. Your conditions are
accepted with joy, as the means of producing
comfort to my brother. You
shall have my day-journals, and night-journals,
if you will; my very dreams
shall be sent you. Ah! would to Heaven
you could give me Horace’s!
To begin, however, with your “method.”
My first night’s repose at Tarefield
was disturbed by Mary Howard’s
image and my own fretfulness. The
dawn of day presented to my sight
Solomon, in his judgment-seat, who grinned
upon me with an aspect not less
savage than that of the two viragoes
who held the sprawling boy between
them; for, sooth to say, no one could
have traced the mother’s features, or the
clemency of the judge in the mass of
worsted employed; and I believe the face
of the lions that decorated the ascent to
159the throne, was the common one for the
whole multitude of countenances that
filled the room. Weary of looking at
this odious tapestry, I arose, and explored
my way into the garden. Here, indeed,
I found the sweet perfumes of nature and
the god of day; but for the rest let the
poet speak—
“Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other;
The suffering eye inverted Nature sees,
Trees cut as statues, statues cut as trees.”
This being too much in the style of the
tapestry in the bed-chamber, soon tired
me; and seeing the servants about,
I sauntered into the avenue. Here the
horse-chesnut trees, in all their pride,
attracted my attention for a few minutes;
but I was soon allured towards an object
still more inviting. Mary was before me,
walking with the light-foot of a Dryad,
and your not inactive friend bounded
160after her. Exercise and surprise heightened
the vermillion in her cheek, and
with a sweet and graceful modesty she
saluted me with the usual compliments.
I gave the reins to my heart, and it was
not idle. She said I was very good;
that indeed it would greatly enhance to
her the pleasure of walking in a morning
if she were permitted to attend me, but
her aunt frequently wanted her services.
She would, however, endeavour to gain
an hour sometimes, for the honour of
walking with me. A certain trepidation
and looking on all sides marked some
fear; and I was on the point of encouraging
more confidence, when we saw the
baronet approaching us. He was wrapped
up in an old plaid morning gown,
his head enveloped in a black silk cap,
and his attention was engaged by clearing
a tattered silk sash from the interposing
brambles. He started on seeing
me, and would, I believe, have retracted
161had not my voice detained him. On
accosting him his poor sallow face was
in confusion, and with a forced smile he
asked me whether he had not frightened
me, glancing his eyes to his uncouth habiliments.
I took his arm, and rattled
over some account of my having frightened
Miss Howard. He became easy
and cheerful, and told me that Mary and
he had very often an assignation to keep
in the avenue at too early an hour for
the business of the toilet. The turret
clock sounded eight, and Mary left us.
You may suppose she became the subject
of our conversation. “She is,” said he,
“as faultless in mind as in person; my
wife says she is the image of her mother’s
pure and now beatified soul; but that
she is also like her father, not only in
her person, but in a firmness of character
which her mother wanted. Her parents
were unfortunate,” continued he, with
his usual depression of voice and head
162when afflicted. “She is in the hands of
an aunt who hated them; a woman naturally
harsh and violent. We cannot
controul her power, without danger to
ourselves; but we suffer deeply from being
the witnesses of this poor girl’s mortifications.
My wife, Miss Cowley, is a
mother; her son Philip is Miss Flint’s
favourite; she has called him her heir
from her cradle, and she has exacted in
return from his mother, a submission
which has annihilated even the wish of
being independent. She is gentle, humane,
and unambitious, but she is—a
slave——! These domestic grievances will
not long escape your observation. I am
passive; for my Harriet wishes me not to
interfere. I only dread lest you should
despise us.” “Be assured, Sir Murdock,”
answered I with seriousness, “that this
fear is groundless; I am more disposed
to pity than to blame. As a stranger I
remarked Miss Flint’s ungracious and
163petulant manner, and I honestly confess
I pitied her. She might yet be corrected;
a little wholesome contradiction is all that
is necessary.” “You have only to try an
easier experiment,” replied he, smiling,
“and you will succeed by only engaging
to marry her idol.” “Were I but privileged,”
answered I, “you should see
her perfectly tamed by my employing
nothing more than her own arts of tormenting.
I doubt not but in the first instance
her idol, as you call her young
brother, secured his power in this way.”
“Indeed you are mistaken,” said he,
“Philip Flint was ever mindful of his
own honour, though grateful for an affection,
unbounded in its liberality to
him.”
Lady Maclairn’s appearance prevented
more. She came to summons us to breakfast,
and with the utmost frankness told
me that she had been to pay her respects
to Mrs. Allen, who was very busy with
164her band-boxes, and had ordered a breakfast
and a maid-servant into her apartment.
She conducted me, whilst chatting,
to the “Old Wing,” in which Miss
Flint more particularly holds her state;
and we found her richly decorated, and
waiting for us at a tea-board most splendidly
set out. Sir Murdock had mechanically,
I suspect, followed our steps,
and entered the room with us. Miss
Lucretia’s face flushed a deeper dye.
“Good God, Sir Murdock!” exclaimed
she, “you are enough to frighten one in
that trim.” “Did I frighten you?”
asked he in a plaintive tone, and with a
look which would have softened any
Flint but the one before him. He was
retreating. “I will have no infringement
of our treaty of amity,” cried I
gaily, and gently placing him on the
sofa beside me. “It is my turn to
frighten you to-morrow morning, by
shewing myself in my wrapping gown
165and night-cap. We have nothing to do
with ceremony and constraint: let those
have it who fancy they are never dressed
without white-fingered gloves.” I
glanced my saucy eyes on Miss Flint’s
starched muslins; she perceived the application,
but I was en train; and affecting
to be hungry, I took a roll and divided
it between my silent neighbour and
myself; and finding Lady Maclairn was
to preside at the silver tea-board, I impatiently
begged a cup of chocolate.
Then, with well-counterfeited recollection,
I said, “But where is Miss Howard?
she is better entitled to her breakfast
than I am, for she was walking before
me.” “Mary does not breakfast with me,”
replied Miss Flint, “she has it in her own
room.” “I am glad I have so good a
precedent to produce for my humour,”
answered I, “though it deprives me of
present pleasure; I also usually breakfast
in my own room, for I regard an hour
166in the morning as the most precious in
the day. But as a stranger,” added I,
smiling, “may I presume to ask when,
and at what hour, I may hope to see this
beautiful creature? Does she dine also in
her own room?” This question was answered
with much haughtiness. “As a
stranger, Miss Cowley,” said she gravely,
“it may surprise you, to find so near a relation
of mine under restrictions which I
deem proper. Mary knows my views;
these extend no farther than to make her
useful, and to qualify her for the station
in life which the imprudent conduct of
her parents has destined her to fill. She
must be humble. Besides,” continued
she, relaxing into more civility, “your
praises of her beauty quite alarm me,
and would turn her silly head. She is
young, and vain and silly enough to
think herself a very pretty girl.” “Why,
my dear Madam,” asked I, laughing
at the extreme gravity of this remark,
167“how in the name of common sense, can
Miss Howard think otherwise of a face
and a person so exquisitely formed, and
so consonant to every idea she can have
of beauty and grace?” “Oh, as to that
point,” answered she with a toss of her
head, “she will soon discover, if her
pride do not stand in her way, that
beauty is all fancy, and the face she
worships may not be thought worth a
second look by another.” “I grant,”
answered I, “the justness of your observation
in a general way: I know that
our ideas of beauty are in many instances
local, and depend on taste; I will do
more, I will grant, that in many parts of
the habitable globe Miss Howard’s personal
charms might be regarded as deformities:
but as she is in a country which
secures her from any competition with
flat-nosed, long-eared, and black-skinned
beauties, I do not see how you can prevent
her knowing that she is peculiarly
168endowed with those external advantages,
to which her situation and the acknowledged
taste and opinion of those around
her, have given the power of attraction
and the tribute of admiration.” “You
may say what you will,” replied Miss
Lucretia, with an asperity of tone in
unison with her harsh features; “but I
wish from my soul this poor girl had no
beauty. We have had enough of that
perishable commodity in our family!
Besides,” added she, softening her voice,
“you appear to have overlooked a lesson
which every handsome girl ought to
know. I have heard many sensible men,
Miss Cowley, observe, that the best
sauce for the relish of beauty, is the
ignorance which the possessor has of its
power to call forth admiration, or to
attract notice and favour.” “I should
have told ‘your sensible men,’” replied
I, “that I well knew the taste for ‘Moliere’s
Agnes’ was not yet worn out.
169Ignorance is more friendly to the sensualist
than to the moralist; and I always
suspect those who wish to see a young
woman unconscious of her own advantages.
It is also, in my opinion, illiberal,
and unjust to conclude that a woman
is vain because she is handsome. A
weak understanding has, in numberless
instances, given to even ugly and deformed
women a conceit of themselves, which
is as pitiable as it is ridiculous; and we
see them daily exhibiting faces and persons
with the most entire persuasion of
their being attractive, which excite only
disgust and ill-natured animadversions.
No, no, Madam,” continued I, “beauty
does not of necessity make a woman
a fool; a plain understanding and a very
little experience will teach her to appreciate
it justly; but she will, and she
ought to bring it into that account of
gratitude she owes to her Maker; for it
is a good gift, inasmuch as it renders
170us pleasing in the eyes of our fellow-creatures,
and conciliates that affection
which would otherwise be languid and
careless.”
The baronet had not apparently given
his attention to one word of this conversation,
for though his eyes were fixed
on me, he seemed totally absorbed in his
own reflexions. “You have not listened
to this debate, my dear Sir Murdock,”
observed his wife, pressing his passive
hand, “otherwise I would call upon you
as umpire between the contending parties.”
“You are mistaken,” answered
he smiling, “I have not lost a syllable
of what has passed, and my decision is
ready. No adventitious advantages will
engender conceit or vanity in a mind
that has solidity, and that rests upon
those principles which alone can bestow
real excellence and produce permanent
esteem. But I am curious to know by
what means Miss Cowley has acquired
the wisdom to estimate so justly an
171advantage which it must be confessed,
with her face and at her age, one would
not have expected.”—“I will convince
you,” replied I with gravity, “that if I
am not vain, it is because I am proud. I
was educated by a woman, who, to good
sense, joined every virtue that adorns
the female character.” Her example, as
much as her precepts, contributed to
form me: and such was her influence,
that to resemble Mrs. Hardcastle was
the purpose of my life, even before I was
qualified to judge of her merit, or to
measure the ascent I had to gain in my
approaches to her perfections. Mrs.
Hardcastle was a handsome woman; but
she was neither vain nor affected. Yet
I will confess, I wished to be as handsome
as Mrs. Hardcastle, who was indeed
a beautiful woman; for I particularly noticed
the consideration her elegant person
produced before strangers. But a lesson,
which I still remember, checked, it may
172be, the vanity of the girl. I was, when
about twelve or thirteen years old, one
morning alone with my mother, as I
called Mrs. Hardcastle, when our reading
was interrupted by the visit of a neighbouring
gentleman, who had however
been some months on a tour. No sooner
had he received the frank and easy
welcome of Mrs. Hardcastle, than he
examined me; and with the most elaborate
praise spoke of my improvement,
growth, and extraordinary beauty. During
these commendations, which, although
they made me blush, did not
offend me, my maternal friend was good
humouredly caressing his dog, which was
a very ugly cur. “You have not lost your
enthusiasm for beauty I perceive,” observed
she smiling. “But what is become
of your pretty Italian grey-hound? and
how happens it that her post is filled up
by this miserable looking animal?” “I
would not give that dog,” replied he,
173“for an hundred Italian grey-hounds,
each more beautiful than Fidêle. She
was not worth the keeping, except as a
plaything to my little nephew: but this
dog has qualities which are inestimable.”
Mrs. Hardcastle laughed, and turning
towards me said, with that sweetness
which so distinguished her, “You see, my
dear girl, the worth of beauty when unfriended
by useful talents: remember
poor Fidêle, and take heed to be something
better than a plaything for a school-boy.”
I did not forget this lesson, and it
was the more useful to me, from finding,
in the gentleman’s subsequent visits, that
whether it was a piece of old china, a
tulip, or a young lady’s eyes or complection,
he was equally liberal of his praise,
and employed much the same language.
I was therefore offended by his encomiums;
and I am become so proud and
fastidious on this point, that I always
think the compliments paid to my person,
174include a sarcasm on my understanding.
“All this argues nothing against my
opinion,” said the inflexible virgin. “With
your understanding, beauty may not be
a dangerous gift, but in ninety and nine
instances out of a hundred it is so, and
leads the possessor into danger.” “So
you may say of health, of spirits, of intellectual
endowments, nay, even of life
itself,” replied I; “for each in its turn
is abused by the folly and passions of a
mind unchecked, and uncultivated. But
our neglect of a blessing does not lessen
the value of the gift; and for my part,
were I in your place, I would recommend
to Miss Howard, in the enumeration of
those mercies she owes to her Maker, gratitude
for a form and a face which open
to her every bosom in which humanity
resides.”—“You ought to be very pious
indeed,” replied she, with an air of pique,
“for most assuredly there is no comparison
175between your beauty and Mary’s.
She has a pretty baby-face”——“For
charity’s sake stop there,” cried I, “I am
contented with my face at present, but I
do not know what your comparison may
produce. I think it too good a one to
be mended by cold cream or Spanish
wool; and I know it is too honest a one
for a deceitful heart. As a good title
page I am thankful for it, and I will
take heed that the work within shall not
disgrace it, when read by the eye of
truth.”
What, my Lucy, could occasion the
deep blush which suffused Lady Maclairn’s
countenance when I said this,
merely with a view to finish a conversation
I was weary of, and which detained
me from going to Mrs. Allen? I had risen
from my seat whilst speaking, and saw
a tear escape from her eye. Would a
mind unacquainted with guilt have felt so
random a dart? I know what will be
176your answer. However, it was evident
I had touched a sensitive plant; and my
retreat was necessary. I reminded the baronet
of his promise to assist me in arranging
our books, without any diminution
of my gaiety. “Do with me what
you please,” replied he, “so that I am
not in your way: but shall I not surprise
Mrs. Allen by my appearance?” He
glanced his eyes to his tattered gown,
“We will run the hazard,” said I, passing
my arm through his, “for it is
ten to one but she is in her night-cap,
and chiding my idleness.” He smiled.
“Lucy, I would you could see this man’s
countenance when thus lightened up!
Surely, never did Heaven more graciously
decorate the face of woe! It is with an
expression, which not only awakens
compassion, but which also produces
reverence.”
As I had foreseen, Mrs. Allen had
made our task light. It was well she
177had; for to say the truth, the baronet
was so entirely engaged by Humphrey
Clinker as to forget his office altogether.
Lady Maclairn soon after
found Mrs. Allen and myself busily
engaged in our work. She with alacrity
assisted us, and, with a look of sweet and
composed tranquillity directed to her
husband, she said, in a half whisper,
“Are you aware, my dear Miss Cowley,
that I am incurring a debt which I can
never pay? Heaven, who appears to have
commissioned you to heal the broken-in-spirit,
can alone recompense you. But
you will know more of the being you
will save; and you will understand that
my gratitude must need language, for I
have not words that can express my
feelings.” She pressed my hand with
fervour. “What will you say,” continued
she, “when I tell you that he has
been inquiring after his turning-wheel,
and talking to me of renewing an employment
178in which he formerly delighted!
You are the spring of his activity;
he means to make you a reading-desk.
Are not these blessed indications of his
amendment?” I found no difficulty, Lucy,
in translating Lady Maclairn’s language
or expression while she was thus speaking.
She loves her husband. Time, your grand
specific, will settle my opinions as they
relate to this lady; in the meanwhile, I
cannot well account for her secret in
making me like and dislike her by turns.
Sometimes she appears the most artless
and ingenuous of her sex; her conversation
becomes animated, and her thoughts
flow with a frankness as unpremeditated
as your giddy Rachel’s. The next hour
I see her, she is silent and ceremonious,
conceding to all that is done, tremblingly
alive to all that is said. To-day she
offended me at dinner. Miss Flint sharply
reprimanded her niece, for not being
in the room before the last bell rang.
179The innocent creature mildly said, she
had been in the garden with Sir Murdock,
who had detained her. Why was
Lady Maclairn silent? Ought she not to
have checked Miss Flint in the display
of an ill humour, for which the cause was
so trifling? I wish to see more of a decided
protection in her manner to this
poor girl. Her civility does not content
me, and I sometimes fancy there is a servility
in her observances, that marks a
little mind.
I have well earned my promised recompence.
I shall expect a long detail
of Horace’s adventures by sea and land:
if you fail, farewell to your gossiping
historian,
Rachel Cowley.
CHAP VI. — LETTER VI. From the same to the same. — LETTER VII. From the same to the same. — LETTER VIII. Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle. — LETTER IX. From the same to the same. — LETTER IX. In continuation. — LETTER X. From the same to the same. — Note to the Reader.
180
Since my last, I have had some conversation
with Mr. Malcolm Maclairn,
which, as it interested me, will make the
subject of my present lucubrations. He
returned home last night from an excursion
which almost immediately followed
my arrival here. I met him this morning
in the garden, and he joined me.
After civilly apologizing for an absence
from home so soon after I was his mother’s
guest, he said, his father had not
been for many years in a state of health
181which admitted of any interruption by
business. “But,” added he, with seriousness,
“with what satisfaction do I
now devote my time to his ease and comfort,
when I compare his present condition
with the sufferings of his mind that
I have witnessed! This morning he was
not only curious to learn the success of
my little journey, but conversed with
me on the subject of it with precision
and interest. In time his long habits of
seclusion and indolence will yield to the
natural energy of his character, and the
activity of his mind. I have cherished
this hope, Miss Cowley, from the hour I
was capable of reflecting on the nature
and operations of my father’s malady. I
never could believe he was what he was
called, nor that his case was incurable
lunacy. The event has justified my opinion.
After many years of suffering
under the most afflicting hypochondriacal
attacks, he was suddenly seized by a
182violent fever, which for many days baffled
medicine, and repressed every hope; the
crisis was favourable. We were prepared
to expect not only extreme weakness in
his bodily powers, but also that debility
of mind which inseparably belongs to a
state of nearly renovated existence. He
remained for a time a mere infant; but
we perceived that with his increasing
strength, his mind was clear from those
gloomy images which had so long obscured
it. He continued to gain strength;
but unfortunately his memory, too faithful
for his advantage, represented the
scenes which had passed. He became
painfully susceptible to a sense of humiliation
the most unfriendly to his perfect
recovery. No arguments could prevail
on him to appear, even before the servants
of the family, for a considerable
time, lest he should terrify them; and
his persuasion was so strong that he
was disqualified to appear in society,
183that my dear mother ceased to importune
him on the subject. Unsupported, and
I may add, friendless as we are on the
side of connections, no efforts were made
to combat opinions which were more the
result of extreme delicacy and habitual
indulgence, than of a still disturbed
imagination. I was convinced that my
father wanted only a stimulus sufficiently
powerful to rouse his mind, and to
recover his native powers of acting.
About this time, we received Mr. Flamall’s
letters, with his plan of your becoming
an inmate at the hall. My
father was extremely averse to the proposal.
He affectingly drew a picture of
himself, and with tears appealed to
his wife to determine whether he was a
fit object for the observation of a girl
who had no acquaintance with misery,
and who would shun him as an object of
dread and disgust, or laugh at his eccentricities.
Miss Flint’s wishes were answered
184with firmness. ‘He should quit
Tarefield.’ I had arguments more potent.—Let
it suffice for the present,”
continued Malcolm with emotion, “that
I know Mr. Flamall; and that my father
knows him to be a villain. I urged, and
seriously urged, that by his rejection
of the proposal Flamall had made, you
might fall into less honourable hands;
that he might, by an apparent acquiescence
circumvent designs, which, as
originating in a mind devoid of every
principle, must be liable to suspicion.
‘You may not,’ added I, ‘be able altogether
to redress the grievances which
this young lady will have to endure under
the controul of such a guardian; but
under your protection she will be secure.
Convince Miss Flint, and let Mr. Flamall
understand, that you are no longer
the ‘idiot,’ ‘the lunatic,’ they have
proclaimed. At no period of his life was
Sir Murdock Maclairn better qualified to
185become the defender of innocence. My
arguments prevailed, and his journey to
London to receive you, was determined
on. My poor mother’s spirits sunk into
terror. She resolved to attend Sir Murdock,
and urged with many tears, the
danger of his going by himself; but I
was resolute. It was indispensibly requisite
to renew in my father’s mind a
confidence in his own strength, and to
permit him experimentally to feel that
he was a rational being, and fully competent
to the care of himself and of you.
He departed alone; and with a solicitude
and terror which I will not attempt to
describe. I followed his carriage. I
had the comfort of finding on the road,
that although the singularity of his manners
excited curiosity, no one called in
question his faculties of action, or suspected
he had been deranged. I lodged
at the same coffee-house in which he did,
and slept in the next room to him. I
186followed his footsteps, and watched his
return from Counsellor Steadman’s by
means of a young man who was in his
office. From this gentleman I also learned,
Madam, some particulars relative to
your situation at Mr. Hardcastle’s, and,
with this information to appreciate justly
your character, and that of the friends
from whom you were to be separated. I
reached the hall not more than two hours
before your arrival, with the unpleasant
conviction on my spirits, that you would
experience under its roof many privations
of your accustomed enjoyments.
But I also knew, that nothing would be
omitted on my mother’s part to render
your banishment from your friends as
easy and as secure as possible.—This mother,”
continued Malcolm, “you must
love; for she merits your esteem, and
you are just. No language I can employ
can describe her conduct as a wife
or a mother. Judge then of her gratitude
187to you, for the humane and delicate
attention you give to a husband, for
whose sake and for whose comfort she
has lived! You will no longer be surprised,
my dear Madam, by the singularities
of Sir Murdock, or at the retirement
in which we live.—Observe those
grated windows,” continued Malcolm,
directing my notice to two in the attics,
“in that apartment did my mother, like
an angel of peace administer every tender,
soothing balm to the desponding
and disturbed imagination of her beloved,
idolized husband! There it was,
Madam, that I perceived from time to
time the emanations of a mind which
neither sickness nor sorrow could entirely
extinguish. There it was, that I saw
the spirit of a Maclairn struggling with
affliction, and nobly sustaining its claims
to the meed of virtue!”—He spoke with
an animation which proved his affinity
to his father.—“Need I,” pursued he,
188“recommend to Miss Cowley the continuance
of those acts of kindness which
have already produced the most flattering
hopes to my dejected mother’s spirits. She
tells me Sir Murdock delights in your society,
and that he talks of you as a blessing
sent to comfort her, and to heal him.”
“God Almighty grant it may prove so!”
said I, with fervour. “To be an agent in
such a work would make a prison pleasant
to me! But I find nothing at Tarefield,”
added I, “to put my philosophy
to the trial. I am perfectly contented in
my banishment, except on one point;
and I bespeak your good offices, Mr.
Maclairn, to remedy this grievance.
Contrive to conquer Miss Flint’s dread
of my being an improper associate for
her niece. From the precautions that are
used, I should have thought those grated
windows to have been poor Miss Howard’s
boundaries.”—“She is another of
my dear mother’s cares,” replied Malcolm
189with eagerness——“But see, Lady
Maclairn approaches.” He bowed and
turned towards the gate, whilst I quickened
my steps to meet her Ladyship.
“I come a petitioner,” said she with
cheerfulness; “my husband wants to see
you, and to have your recommendation
of another book. I dread lest he should
become too importunate; but only give
me a hint, and I will prevent his intruding.”
“Let me at once,” answered
I, taking her hand, “tell you, in unequivocal
language, that my enjoyments
at Tarefield are so dependent on Sir Murdock,
that I shall have no spirits, but
in proportion as I find myself useful to
the return of his. From the first day we
met, I promised that we should be mutually
useful to each other. He shall
teach me wisdom, and in requital I will
endeavour to cure him of his indolence.”
“God will reward you!” said her Ladyship,
with emotion.—“The endeavour
alone,” answered I, “will be a recompence;
190yet I am on the point of shewing
you I can be selfish. I entreat you to
assure Miss Flint that I am a very harmless
young woman, and that she may
with safety permit her niece to be familiar
with me.”—“Would to Heaven,” said
she, “it was in my power, Miss Cowley,
not only to oblige you in this request, but
also to convince you of my own opinions,
as they relate to this amiable girl! But
I can only deplore her aunt’s harshness
of temper. I have neither the authority
nor the influence necessary to remedy
the evil. Lucretia must be left to the
bitter experience which will result from
her temper; and Miss Howard must be
satisfied with knowing, that she is not
the only one under this roof who suffers
from its caprices. I am this poor girl’s
friend, but I cannot lessen the oppression
under which she lives, although I abhor
it.” The Baronet appeared, and I thought
his wife was not displeased by the relief
his presence brought her. He gladly accepted
191my invitation to breakfast, and it
was no sooner finished than he became so
engaged with a book as to resemble a
statue.
You say you do not yet know where to
find me, should you be favoured with
the gift of the renowned Puss and her
Boots, and take it into your head to step
from Heathcot to Tarefield. Conceiving
that, in the fancy of the moment, your
imagination had conquered the difficulty
of the staircases and thresholds, I will
in my turn, fancy you are now in my
domicile. My apartment forms the south
wing of this irregular building, in which
are two specious parlours, which command
the east and south, by which means I
have the avenue and the garden for my
solace. But on discovering that Lady
Maclairn had, from indulgence, a more
peculiar privilege in the appropriation of
these rooms to her own use, I have insisted
on their being regarded as hers;
192and I have erected my throne of independence
on the second floor, where the
rooms are correspondent, only divided
into three. It is in the south room you
must look for your Rachel Cowley: but
you may, if it please you, imagine you
are still at home; for all in this sanctum
sanctorum is Heathcot. My work-table,
the drawings we did together, Horace’s
biographical chart—all present to my
mind those
“Friends of reason, and my guides of youth,
Whose language breath’d the eloquence of truth;
Whose life beyond preceptive wisdom taught,
The wise in conduct, and the pure in thought.”
To gratify Sir Murdock, who by no
means relished my preference of the second
floor for my domain, I have placed
my books and the piano-forte in one of the
parlours, which has wonderfully domesticated
us to that room. He is too well bred
to intrude on my private hours; but he often
induces me to shorten them, for there is a
193pleasure which belongs to sympathy;
and when I see the poor baronet’s eyes
brighten at my approach, I feel the gaiety
which I often assume, settling into contentment.
Have I said enough to satisfy
your curiosity? Will it not be my own
fault if I am dissatisfied with a prison
regulated by order and neatness, and inhabited
by people who wish to make it
pleasant? I promise you, Lucy, that I
will be all you wish me to be; but I
must have intelligence of our dear wanderer.
Neither Tarefield-hall, nor Heathcot
itself, would content me, without this
indulgence; and, to say the truth, I
would rather be the “Wet sea-boy” in
Lord William’s yacht, “even when the
visitation of the winds takes the billows
by the top,” than dwell in a terrestrial paradise.
But this is the romance of a girl!
and as Solomon, from the next room, is
glaring his large eyes on me, I will profit
from the admonition they give me, and
194close this letter and my own eyes for the
night. Heaven will, in its mercy, receive
the petition I offer for all that is dear to
Rachel Cowley, for in that confidence do
I live.
P. S. Mrs. Allen bids me tell you that
she finds Tarefield has a worse report
than it deserves. It is haunted only by
one unquiet spirit, and that may be said
of nine hundred and ninety-nine houses
out of a thousand. She has, by her usual
address, found the means of quieting this
nuisance as it approaches her; for Miss
Flint affects to have a great veneration
for Mrs. Allen’s judgment, particularly in
physic, in which she is or seems to be an
adept. I heartily wish she may be converted
to Mrs. Allen’s creed, of being
“good to all,” it would do more for her
weak nerves—could you but see this
woman!—than a course of valerian and
bark.
195
Obedience in most cases is the best
test of love; and as you command me, my
Lucy, to continue faithfully to detail all
the minutiæ of my domestic comforts,
till you are certain I want only you, I
will continue to please you. In time you
will, I presume, wish for other subjects;
and I beg you will point out to me the
means of attaining any more important
than my present one. What think you
of my studying heraldry, for the purpose
of amusing you? I should have a good
preceptor in Sir Murdock; he frequently
descants very learnedly on armorial bearings,
and with much philosophical precision
traces the influence of “blude,”
from the father to the son, for centuries
past. According to Sir Murdock’s favourite
hypothesis, every cardinal virtue
depends on having “gude blude” in our
196veins; but a truce with nonsense. I believe
the good people I am with will
please me in all essential points. They
have already forgotten that I am a stranger.
Miss Flint has put aside her damask
gown and laced suit, and I saw her
this morning walking in the garden, in a
dishabille not far removed from dirty
negligence. By the way, the baronet
now exhibits a new wrapping gown with
Morocco slippers; and as we walk before
breakfast, he usually continues to
take that repast in the parlour with us.
This hour is gradually becoming useful to
him, and his wife also, for she appears to
enjoy it as much as he does. I am now
convinced that I have innocently occasioned
to Miss Howard the privation of
her morning exercise. I caught a glimpse
of her to-day in the garden, and instantly
availing myself of the opportunity,
took a direction which led me to her.
When remote from the windows, I at
197once entered upon the subject of my
fears, and told her that I had been vexed
and disappointed by not seeing her in
the avenue. “I must not abridge you of
liberty,” added I, “and unless your
aunt becomes more reasonable, I shall
lose my temper. What can be the humour
she gratifies by opposing my wish
to enjoy your society?” The poor girl
was confused—“You are very kind,
Madam,” replied she, “but my situation
here does not admit of the honour
you wish to confer on me. I have
to learn many things, and my time
is necessarily engaged by my duties.
I have unfortunately been reared with
too much tenderness for the station of
life to which Providence has destined
me, and it is sometimes difficult for me
to forget.”—She could not proceed.—“Say
rather,” observed I with indignation,
“that it is difficult for you to bear,
unmoved, a cruelty which disgraces your
198aunt, and will destroy you.”—“Indeed,”
answered she, with an alarm which
surprised me, “your generous nature
and sympathising temper have misled
you. My aunt is not cruel: she thinks
I want a discipline to fit me for the world
and a low condition of fortune. Perhaps
she judges right. In the mean time, I
would not, on any account, give her
room to imagine that I am discontented
or ungrateful for the shelter she affords
my helpless youth. But I must leave
you,” added she, whilst her eyes swam
in tears. “I have walked an hour, and
my aunt likes to see me exact.” You
will believe that this short interview was
not the exact preparation I needed for
the scene I witnessed at dinner. Her
aunt actually sent her from table with
the soup and beef, neither of which she
had tasted, because she had not done her
allotted task. God, I hope, will forgive
me for the thought that half choaked
199me, and which would have finally choaked
Miss Lucretia, had it been successful.
I was so angry with Lady Maclairn, that
I believe she perceived it; for nothing
escapes her observation. After dinner
we were by ourselves; and, in the most
unqualified terms, I noticed Miss Flint’s
want of humanity and good manners to
a girl whom she was bound to treat as a
daughter. “I am astonished at your
forbearance,” added I; “for these instances
of her unfeeling temper put me
into a fever.”—“You are mistaken,” answered
she with seriousness, “if you
suppose I suffer the less for being patient.
I am as sensible as you can be of the improper
treatment Miss Howard has to
support: but I know I am more effectually
serving her by being silent, than
I could be by opposing her aunt. You
know not this woman so well as I do;
nor the necessity which forces me to
witness her harshness and severity to
200this sweet and innocent girl. I must be
passive, Miss Cowley. Yet there is a
fault in Mary. She has been taught to
dread Miss Flint. She is too much under
the impressions given to her mind
when with her uncle, to perceive that
there is in Lucretia’s temper a jealousy in
regard to the affections of those about
her. With less timidity, and more apparent
contentment, she would remove
from her aunt’s mind the suspicion which
interposes between her niece and every
act of kindness her natural generosity
would prompt. She believes Mary detests
her.”—“Good Heaven!” cried I,
“she must so believe, for her conscience
accuses her of deserving to be hated!—But,
you say, Mary has been taught to
dread this aunt. Are Miss Flint’s tender
mercies calculated to rectify her opinions?
And would you wish to see a girl at her
age practise an address which would
contaminate the rectitude of a mind at
201any age, in order to gain favour, and to
sleep and eat in peace? I should see this
girl trampled upon without pity, were I
to see her for one moment smile and lick
the hand which oppresses her!”—“Ah,
my dear Miss Cowley,” replied the agitated
Lady Maclairn, “in this sentiment
are contained the genuine feelings of
nature, and the language of an untried
spirit. May you never know the pressure
of those circumstances in life which
leave the principle vigorous, and fetter
down the power of exerting it!”
Miss Howard entered the room. Her
eyes were red with weeping. She brought
Miss Flint’s request that we would take
our tea in her apartment. In the humour
I was in, I would as soon have paid
a visit to a felon in Newgate! I sent my
negative, and left the room abruptly.
You will perceive that your Rachel
Cowley had lost sight of wisdom. Tell
me not, Lucy, that I am an enthusiast:
202I will maintain, to my dying day, that
there is language which hypocrisy can
never speak. Lady Maclairn is a Flamall!
not one line in her face corresponded
with a feeling of mine. I told
my tale to Mrs. Allen.—What a contrast!
The glow of indignation, the look of
pity, with which she listened to my
story, made me thankful that a slight
cold had kept her in her room at the
dining hour.
I had scarcely recovered my sang froid
before Lady Maclairn, with a countenance
as placid and gentle as the pleased
infant’s, entered to chat, and enquire
about the rebel tooth which had teazed
Mrs. Allen; and, with a calm and easy
good humour, she asked my permission
for Sir Murdock’s visit. “I am going,”
added she, smiling, “to bring Miss
Flint into good humour; and if I should
be so fortunate as to succeed, Mary shall
have a holiday and walk with you.” I
203could only bow: but in spite of nature
this woman subdued me; for she checked
a sigh that I could not resist, and left
me, to send in my guest. Sir Murdock
finding I was “at home,” joined me; and,
to smooth my own ruffled features, and
gratify him, I went to the harp. I have
however, prescribed for myself as well
as my patient; the penseroso in music
having more than once betrayed him into
tears and myself into sadness, by sounds
which came
——“o’er his ear like the sweet south
That breathes upon a bank of violets.”
Two or three songs of Horace’s are
now locked up; and the baronet is contented
with being roused to cheerfulness
by Scotch ballads.
Let me know in your next letter how
many months Rachel Cowley has been
at Tarefield. Mrs. Allen’s calendar says
204not more than one—can this be true?
Poor Horace! how tedious must be to
him the account of time if he computes
it as I do! How many precious hours
which Providence has given us, have been,
and will be still lost to the account of
happiness!—A happiness, Lucy, which
would not have interfered with a single
duty, nor invaded on the rights of a
single human being!—Good night!
Well, I will be good, and endeavour to
be patient. I will eat, and drink, and
sleep, and forget not only my own cares,
but cease to feel and be angry at the
sight of oppressed innocence. I will
grow fat, and say with Miss Flint and
her tribe, “What! are not the poor and
friendless made for our use?” I will do
any thing rather than grieve my Lucy;
but you have, my dear girl, your whims
and crotchets to correct, as well as I my
petulancies and opinions to govern.
205What has given you the notion that I am
starved at Tarefield? Please to understand
that Miss Flint prides herself on
the goodness and abundance of her table;
and although she has not yet acquired a
relish for a dinner of herbs seasoned by
love and peace, she has an excellent
appetite for the stalled ox. Consequently,
as the song says,
“Each day has the spit and the pot,
With plenty of pudding and pie.”
Therefore be assured, that if to “pine
all the day is my lot,” it is not because I
am hungry or ill fed. No, no: it is the
sovereign will of Miss Lucretia Flint,
that there should be no want of any
thing at Tarefield but contentment; and
as she can live without it, why should
not others?
Yesterday morning Mrs. Allen and
myself, escorted by the baronet, encountered
Malcolm in our ramble before
206breakfast. He was in rustic attire, and
had a scythe slung on his shoulder. He
joined us with a face glowing with health
and exercise; and with the utmost cheerfulness
accosting us, he said he had been
working two hours in the meadow. “It
is not remote,” added he, “and if you
love nature’s perfumes, Miss Cowley, I
advise you to lengthen your walk. You
will find the poets need not the aid of
fiction to heighten their description of a
hay-field, whatever they may do in describing
hay-makers. Were I poetically
decorated, I would offer you my arm,
but in this trim.”——I interrupted him
by bidding him lead the way, and be
content without rivaling a birth-night
beau.
We soon reached the field, in which
were, with a number of people at work,
the proprietor, farmer Wilson, a neat
comely looking man, and Captain Percival
Flint. They advanced to meet us;
207but I perceived an instantaneous change
in the baronet’s countenance, and I
thought the salutation between the captain
and him more ceremonies than cordial.
Sir Murdock, however, introduced
him to us; and then, with a forced smile,
he asked him why he had so long deserted
the Hall. The captain said he was
sorry he had understood the family to
be too much engaged to admit intruders,
as it had prevented his visit of congratulation
on his return home; and that he
had himself been on an excursion for
some time since that period. Sir Murdock’s
brow cleared, he gave his hand,—“You
must be more neighbourly,” said
he, “and help us to reconcile the retirement
of this village to these ladies.” He bowed,
and I began to talk of Miss Howard.
I finished my panegyric with an assumed
complaint of her idleness, and begged he
would come to the hall, were it for no
other purpose than to exert his authority
208and oblige her to walk out. “She used
to be fond of walking,” replied he pensively;
“but the want of a companion
of her own age, has, I fear, depressed her
spirits and activity.”—“Probably,” answered
I; “but only second me and I
will engage she shall forget crossstitch
and meditation in a month.” He
smiled, whilst a deep sigh escaped him.
I know your reverence for a black coat,
Lucy, and this predilection will not, with
you, be disgraced by a prudish prejudice
against a red coat. With me a bare suit
of regimentals, unspotted by the wearer’s
conduct, and unsullied by time and inattention,
are credentials I must respect.
The neatness of this veteran son of Mars,
marked with me the gentleman; and I
lost no time in my observations. He is
even now too fair for a hero; but the
fortune of war has indented a scar over
his left eye-brow, which gives manliness,
if not dignity, to his countenance; for it
209certainly lessens the effects of a mild expression,
and apparent want of health,
by no means corresponding with a military
man: a wooden leg, however, it
must be allowed, does, and the captain’s
fame as a soldier has reached the village,
where he is regarded with admiration and
respect: but his manners are so placid
and gentle, that I could not help fancying
a cross and a rosary would have converted
his portrait into the interesting
and war-subdued hermit. So leaving you
to finish this sketch, either as an anchorite,
or a half-pay captain of marines, I shall
continue to inform you of the impression
which his past interview with me has
left. We were such good friends before
we parted that I ventured to tell him,
that the sight of a military beau was a
phenomenon which had not entered into
my calculation of the pleasures to be
found at Tarefield, and that his appearance
had put my prudence and discretion
210quite off their guard, insomuch, that I
dared to make an assignation with him
for the evening. “You cannot, as a
soldier,” added I, “refuse my challenge;
but I warn you I shall bring into the
field a second, in the person of Mary
Howard.” He laughed, and replied with
gaiety and gallantry, that he accepted
my terms, although the time had been,
when he should have conditioned for
others; but that I might depend on his
punctuality.
On our return home I mentioned this
arrangement to my companions. Sir Murdock,
delighted with his morning walk,
said he would be of the evening party;
but instantly recollecting the difficulty
of my engagement, he asked me, by
what stratagem I intended to free the
poor captive Mary from her cage. I
was not quite prepared with an answer to
this question; and could only reply,
211that I trusted to fortune and my own
ingenuity for success.
The gaiety of the baronet amply indemnified
Lady Maclairn for having
waited for her breakfast. She was treated
with the detail of our walk and with
quotations from Thompson’s seasons;
and with the contentedness of the hour,
and a good appetite, he rallied me on my
advances to the captain, telling his wife
of the appointed rendezvous, and of my
plot to reach Captain Flint’s heart by
means of his niece. Would you could
see Lady Maclairn in moments like these!
Why have I not Ithariel’s spear? For
nothing less potent can reach the genuine
features of this woman’s mind! This
morning, for example, she was ingenuous
and unconstrained, her sweet eyes contemplating
with delight the cheerfulness
of Sir Murdock, when in a moment I saw
her countenance change, and her eyes
cast downwards, from the effects of these
212words: “My Harriot, you must be of
our party; you must intercede for poor
Mary.”—“You know it is not in my
power,” answered she, with evident distress.
Sir Murdock’s gaiety sunk in an
instant; but I interposed my influence,
and with assumed spirits said, I would
trust to no one for the deliverance of
Mary but myself; and that I had already
formed my plan of action. Do you not
think Lady Maclairn is somewhat obliged
to her guest for these timely helps? I
suspect she feels her obligations of this
sort sometimes too sensibly.
But to return from this digression. I
need not tell you that from the first hour
I entered into this house, I took care to
mark with a decided precision, my absolute
independence, in respect to Miss
Flint’s will and pleasure. In every compliance,
in every act, I have shewn her,
that I look to Sir Murdock and Lady
Maclairn as the regulators of my conduct,
213and as the heads of the house.
But I found it was necessary either to
declare open war with Miss Lucretia on
the occasion before me, or to try her ladyship’s
mode of bending to the despot.
The lesson was a new one, and I felt an
inclination to make an attempt in the
art of flattery. So prepared, I met Miss
Lucretia at dinner: fortunately she was
in a pleasant humour; and giving a gulp
to my pride, I praised her skill in carving,
and told her the story of poor Mrs. Primrose’s
white satin gown, and the unlucky
goose-carver’s disgrace, in the best manner.
I succeeded; and my next manœuvre
was to overlook the poor girl who
silently sat beside me, patiently expecting
to have her empty plate supplied.
My unusual politeness was not lost, for
I also talked of Jamaica. Upon this
ground, I presume, she called for a glass
of rum and water, “half and half,” and
drank to all friends there. Even this went
214down my proud stomach in a glass of
wine, and I became so agreeable that she
invited me and the circle to drink tea in
her apartment. Our cheerful acceptance
of her invitation was followed by a
recollection of her dress, which was not
en règle, and she left us to prepare the
silver tea-board, and to make her toilet.
I was delighted to find Sir Murdock had
enjoyed this scene: he told his wife I
was a plotter, and bade her beware of
my Circean-arts. She smiled, and said I
needed no auxiliaries, otherwise she would
readily join my standard, seeing it was
my design to lead tyranny captive.
On entering Miss Flint’s drawing-room,
I perceived that Mary had been
permitted to put on her Sunday muslin
gown; and to her native charms and
holiday suit, her youthful fancy had given
the finish by placing some moss-roses in
her bosom. She was seated in the remotest
of the bow windows, with a huge
215mass of canvass before her, and was plying
her needle with all dispatch to get
up the lost time. The endless roll of
carpeting was now displayed. Miss
Cowley could not but praise the design;
and she heard that three years would
finish the furniture of the room in crossstitch,
without one comment that could
offend. Can you wonder that Mary was
allowed to fetch her bonnet, and to join
the walking party after tea? Will you
not rather wonder at my success in this
new trial of my talents? But between
ourselves, I begin to suspect that the art
of wheedling, is one of our natural prerogatives.
You cannot imagine with
what dexterity I employed my untried
weapons! It was well they served me;
for during the demurs and difficulties
Miss Flint opposed to my intreaties, I felt
my forbearance was like Acre’s courage,
not indeed oozing out at my fingers’
ends, but with every breath I drew; and
216had she not consented when she did, I
should have lost my hard-earned laurels.
You will not, however, fail in congratulating
me on my triumph over myself.
But mark me, Lucy, I mean not to twist
and turn at the orders of that prudence
which is so often practised for wisdom.
It is necessary for my purpose that Miss
Howard’s friends should know more of
me before I can effectually oppose Miss
Flint’s will; but when they do understand
that Rachel Cowley can no more live
under the same roof with an oppressed
orphan, than Miss Lucretia shelter one,
without feeding her spleen, and qualifying
her malice for the bread she bestows,
farewell wheedling and coaxing! My
road will be plain, and if perchance I
encounter any of Miss Lucretia’s
frowns in my way, I shall laugh at
them.
This poor girl hangs on my spirits.
I will reserve for my next letter the account
217of our evening walk. You will
lose nothing by my going to bed; for
I am weary, and somewhat of your petulant
Rachel Cowley.
We found the party in the hay-field
augmented by all farmer Wilson’s family,
namely, his wife, with a Mrs. and Miss
Heartley, their boarders and lodgers, to
whom Malcolm introduced us with an
eagerness of good-will and pleasure which
was flattering to me. The tender greetings
between those ladies and Mary, evidently
proved that I had communicated
more of joy and gladness than I had
foreseen, by my interference; and as this
was the case, I took my share of the
general satisfaction, which appeared like
the sky, cloudless. Mrs. Wilson soon restored
218us to order, by leading us to seats
under a hay-cock, and began to distribute
amongst us a syllabub milked from
the cow, with some fruit and cakes. Sir
Murdock, who had appeared placid, though
silent, suddenly turning to his son, desired
him to change seats with him. This
request was indulged with alacrity, and
he placed his father next Mrs. Heartley.
“How often of late,” said the poor baronet,
surveying her with a melancholy
air, “have I wished to have the opportunity
of telling you, that Sir Murdock
Maclairn esteems and reverences you for
your unremitting kindnesses and consideration
for his Malcolm. Yet now
I am near you, language fails me; I am
oppressed by my feelings. Recollections
too painful for me meet this hour of
peace and restored happiness.” He took
her hand and burst into tears. Mrs.
Heartley, with much emotion and confusion,
said something of her hopes of
219being still favoured with his good opinion,
and of her satisfaction at seeing
her worthy neighbour. He caught the
last word of her incoherent speech.
“Yes,” replied he, “I hope we shall be
neighbours as well as friends! My sufferings
are terminated. Witness this
hour of peace! Witness the mercy which
has sent me an angel of consolation!”—He
gazed wildly on my face; and sinking his
head between his knees and hands,
he murmured out “Matilda! sainted,
blessed Matilda!” I was alarmed.—“It
will be momentary,” said the agitated
Malcolm, in a low voice, “be not
disturbed!” He was not mistaken, for in
a few minutes Sir Murdock’s serenity
was restored; and he asked Miss Heartley,
in a manner which marked that he
had no consciousness of his late disorder,
some questions relative to her brother
who was in the East-Indies. She replied;
and the baronet, with renewed
220cheerfulness and an expressive smile,
said, “And what excuse will you make
to ‘this dear brother,’ when he knows
you have monopolized a heart which he
ought to share?” A deep blush was the
only answer to this question, which
awakened my curiosity. I was however
called from further observation by being
asked for a song; but willing to make
the conversation more general, I alledged
that I was too angry to sing; and, with
assumed resentment, I reproached the
captain’s want of discretion as well as
courage in bringing into the field so
many witnesses of my weakness, and so
many guards against his own. “You
wrong your gallant, by your suspicions,
Miss Cowley,” answered Mrs. Heartley,
with ease and spirit. “But what will he
answer to my reproaches? He has been
my slave these twenty years and more,
and yet had the audacity to conceal this
assignation from me. I am indebted to
221my friend Mr. Malcolm for the intelligence
of my danger; and I now see it,”
added she, laughing; “yet, woman to
the last, I will maintain my rights to
him against youth and beauty.”—A certain
mode of expression, with the correct
gaiety and ease of her manners, soon attached
me to this lady’s side; and in
our walk home she apparently slackened
her pace, the more unnoticedly to converse
with me.—“You will think me
very deficient in the rules of good breeding,”
said she, when entering the road
to the hall, “on finding that I neglect
to pay you my respects at Sir Murdock’s
house; but I do not visit the
family. My avowed affection and long
intimacy with Mrs. Howard, and my
still longer acquaintance with Captain
Flint, have laid me under indelible disgrace
with Miss Flint. Lady Maclairn’s
situation, and the circumstances of distress
under which she has lived, have
222precluded all approaches to her of a personal
kind. You will therefore, I trust,
accept of this apology for my not waiting
on you and your friend. Yet,”
continued she, smiling, “you must not
imagine me a woman too obscure for
Miss Flint’s notice. In her zeal for her
neighbours’ good behaviour, she has
thought proper to single me out as an
object to be feared and shunned by all
modest women. There is, however, a conduct,
Miss Cowley, that will refute malice
and silence slander, without calling
out either resentment or reproach. Mine
is such as has done more than was needful
for my justification, for it has disappointed
an angry woman in her purpose;
and my neighbours have always judged
me according to that rule of Christian
charity, ‘which thinketh no evil.’ They
have also gone farther than this precept
will justify, for I believe they think I
must be good, because Miss Flint hates
223me. Malcolm’s attachment to me and
my children has also its share in keeping
alive Miss Flint’s animosity. From a
child this young man has been regarded,
by myself and the family at large with
whom I reside, as a cherished and favoured
guest. This circumstance has, I much
fear, been unfavourable to Miss Howard;
it has certainly abridged her in her freedom.
She is not permitted to visit her
uncle, because he lives under the same
roof with me; and she dares not speak
to either Alice or myself, when accident
throws her in our path, if she has a servant
with her. My poor girl murmurs
at this refinement in cruelty, and strenuously
pleads that I ought to inform
Captain Flint of this harsh prohibition;
but I forbear, in the hopes that time will
relax Miss Lucretia’s heart; and in the
interim Mr. Maclairn favours the girls
in writing. Miss Howard’s account of
Miss Cowley produced the wish to see
224her,” added she smiling. “This we have
effected; and I have only now to add,
that if in your seclusion from the world
you should feel disposed to relieve the
dull monotony of your hours by a walk
to us, we shall be gratified.—I was formerly
acquainted with your friend Counsellor
Steadman. When you write
to him, ask him whether he has forgotten
Henry Heartley, and whether he thinks
his widow a proper associate for you.”
I expressed my confidence in her worth.
She smiled, and thanked me. “But,” added
she, “it is necessary you should
know the woman who, at my age and with
my appearance, cautions you to keep,
as a secret, from Miss Flint, even the
harmless recreation of this evening.
Our meeting Mary would not be allowed
to be accidental on her part, and
I doubt she is severely treated by her
aunt. She conceals from her friend
Alice every instance of this kind, but
225Malcolm is not so reserved with us, and
we are miserable on her account. The
captain hopes to soften his sister’s heart
to a sense of justice at least, and has
given up the comfort and prop of his
life to the fallacious expectation that
Miss Flint will love and provide for the
future support of this poor orphan. I
did not in the first instance oppose his
plan of conciliation. His sister offered to
take her; and he yielded her up to her
promises of being her friend and protector;
but if he knew Miss Howard’s
situation she would not remain an hour at
Tarefield-hall. Poor Mary understands
this perfectly; and with an heroism which
does her credit, suffers without complaint,
rather than return to be a burden
on her uncle. I need not recommend to
your favour,” continued she, “this innocent
and helpless girl. We are told
that you pity her, but be cautious in
what you say to her uncle. His mind
226has been broken down by sorrow and
the injuries of fortune, his feelings
are become irritable, and his spirit will
not brook further insult. Perhaps this
gentle creature may find her aunt has a
heart. Time must be allowed her to
work a change in so obdurate a mind;
it is her wish to make the trial complete;
but a year and more has been lost already
in the attempt, and I have my doubts of
her ever being easy or happy where she
is.”—“Mrs. Allen and myself,” observed
I, “were much struck by the mode in
which this young and amiable creature
was treated, even before we had been a
day at Tarefield; but Miss Flint soon
explained to me her system, and left me
nothing for wonder, though sufficient for
abhorrence. But, my dear Mrs. Heartley,
do me the favour, if it be possible, to
explain to me Lady Maclairn’s conduct.
I wish to esteem her. Wherefore is it,
that with a temper so mild and gentle,
227I see her passively yielding up her dignity
in her own house, and witnessing in silence
her sister’s treatment of an unoffending
girl, who has a just claim even
upon her ladyship for protection.”—“Poor
Lady Maclairn,” replied she, “is
inured to suffering. She knows she can
effect nothing, but by an abject submission
to Miss Flint. Many causes have
contributed to break down her spirits;
but none have lessened her principles
of virtue: she is an estimable woman,
and much to be pitied.”—We were interrupted
by Mary’s running towards us to
take leave of Mrs. Heartley. She threw
her arms around her neck, and, fondly
kissing her, said, “Now you will believe
that I am comfortable! One day in a
month like this would be happiness! You
see I have now a dear, kind friend!”—Our
general adieux followed; but again
Malcolm deserted us for the plea of business
at Wilson’s.
228Whether it was owing to my dose of
flattery, or to the rum bottle, I will not
decide; but certain it is, that Miss Lucretia
received us with good humour.
She was more than commonly loquacious;
and I, with the patience of a Lady
Maclairn, listened to the history of her
sprained knee, which had spoiled her for
a walker. This disastrous subject gave
place to her inviting me to take an airing
with her the following morning, when
she engaged to shew me a very “pretty
country.” But this was nothing, for I was
even proof against a long story in which
her dear brother Philip was the hero, and
I was led to approve of his conduct by a
direct interrogation. “Was not his behaviour
noble?”—I forgot the tale, but
I recollect he saved a young woman’s
being thrown from her horse. I had,
however, my measures to keep, and we
retired for the night in perfect good humour.
What a simpleton I have been
229in not at first beginning to manage this
woman by my address! She would fetch
and carry like a spaniel were she but flattered.
But more of this hereafter. You
must know more of Mrs. Heartley and
her fair daughter Alice. Mrs. Heartley
is more indebted to an air of fashion
and dignity, for the attractions of her
person, than either to her features or
shape. Her face would be called homely
were it not lighted up by her dark and
expressive eyes; and although I believe
she is defective in her shape, she moves
with grace, and is what you would distinguish
by the title of an “elegant
woman.” Her daughter would at once
be thought by the admirers of half-starved,
pale-faced beauties, as too nearly
approaching to the dairy maid; for contentment
and health have given Alice an
embonpoint beyond the prescribed rules
of fashion. She is a clear brunette, and
her damask cheek has a rouge which
230thousands vainly strive to imitate. A
pair of large hazel eyes give life and spirit
to her round and dimpled face, and when
she smiles (and Alice has yet to learn
that smiles and laughter are vulgar) she
is a perfect Hebe; and Mrs. Allen wished
Bunbury had seen her, as he would not
have omitted to give this laughter-loving
nymph in his charming group of rural
beauties. She tells me that I have not
been just to Alice: perhaps I have not;
and that I should have been more lavish
of my praise of this handsome girl, had
she not been by the side of Miss Howard.
But again I pronounce this young
creature to be nature’s master-piece! I
had not before seen her animated by
pleasure or exercise, nor could I have
believed her delicate features capable of
expressing the vivacity she discovered.
She seemed to tread in air, and, whilst
with winning smiles and captivating
grace, she drew around her the people
231who were at work, the greater part of
whom she called by their names, I could
not but apply to this innocent enchantress
the lines given to the charms of the
mischief-making Armida.
“In wavy ringlets falls her beautious hair,
That catch new graces from the sportive air:
Declin’d on earth, her modest look denies
To shew the starry lustre of her eyes:
O’er her fair face a rosy bloom is spread,
And stains her ivory neck with lovely red:
Soft breathing sweets her opening lips disclose,
The native odours of the budding rose.”
I could not forbear uttering this rhapsody
to the captain as he stood near me,
whilst Mary was receiving the honest
admiration of her humble friends. He
smiled, but a sigh succeeded. “She is
fair and lovely,” said he with emotion,
“and as good as she is fair, and as innocent
as she is lovely;—but so was her
mother, Miss Cowley; yet she found this
232world a hard pilgrimage!” He turned
away from me, and joined his niece. I
will now bid you farewell.—Mrs. Allen
joins in my blessings for your repose.—Yours,
Rachel Cowley.
Your letter of Thursday, my dear
Lucy, is in my hands twenty-four hours
sooner than I expected it; but good
news cannot travel too fast, and I sit
down as blithe as a bird to thank you for
the contents of an epistle which has renewed
my spirits, and which will render
me the “best creature in the world with
Miss Lucretia;” for whose summons I
am prepared in order to take an airing,
and which allows me only time at present
to tell you, that I am happy to find you
do not any longer think your compliance
233with your brother’s request, is indispensible
on the ground of duty. Why should
he not be indulged with the sight of my
gossiping letters from hence? Erase,
expunge what you please; but gratify
him with the details which you find
amuse yourself. Let him see that his
sister contrives to make in this dull portion
of her life, those exertions which
prevent her mind from stagnating. Do
not think you err by deviating from the
letter of your father’s harsh law, whilst
you so carefully adhere to the spirit of it.
I would no more tempt my Lucy to sin,
than I would sin myself. Horace knows
that I am not a spiritless, whining, love-sick
girl; but he well knows what I have
to sustain in my separation from you,
and in my removal from Heathcot. Have
no fears, I beseech you, as to the final
event of such an attachment as the one
which binds me to Horace Hardcastle.
When he ceases to be worthy of my
234esteem and affection, I shall despise him;
and when I forget myself, he will despise
me. Neither your father’s scruples, nor
the maxims of the world will lesson the
ties which unite our hearts; of this be
assured.——I am summoned, the coach
drives up.
It was not to the fault of the weather,
my dear Lucy, that Miss Flint could attribute
her return home with a head-ach;
nor do I attribute my fatigue to the
morning airing; but I begin to find out
that I am not yet quite proof against
provocations: read, and judge. The
mistress of the vehicle with much cheerfulness
received me into it, and observed
most graciously, that it was time for Miss
235Cowley “to see a little about her.” In
consequence of this intention she gave
the servant his directions, and we proceeded
not more than a mile, before
“Miss Cowley” discovered that Tarefield-hall
had not been more unfortunate in
the lack of taste in its first projector,
than it has been since in its lack of
cheerfulness and contentment; for gradually
descending from the heath, we
came in view of the village, and a country,
by no means unpicturesque. My attention
to the valley in sight, through
which meanders a branch of the river
War, was interrupted by our approach
towards a large house, which still wore
the relics of Gothic architecture, and
past magnificence. Upon enquiry, I
learned that it was still called the “Abbey,”
and was the residence of “one
Wilson, a farmer.”—“What a striking
monument it offers,” observed I, surveying
the venerable mansion, “of the lapse of
236time, and the vanity of human greatness!”—“Yes,”
replied Miss Flint, “it is
enough to make one sick of this world,
to see such a house in the possession of
an upstart, who would have had his post
in the stables had one of the “Ingrams”
still been its master. But this family is
happily extinct. Happily, I say, for I
am certain they could not rest in their
graves, if they knew who lorded in the
Abbey at this day! But it is to be hoped
these people will have their turn! I have
heard they got this estate in a shameful
manner! Wilson’s uncle I believe was
an arrant rogue, and the beggar on
horseback is exemplified in his heir.”
This subject having considerably discomposed
the placid features of my companion,
I prudently dropped it; and she,
pulling the check-string, bade the driver
stop at Mrs. Snughead’s gate.
It was not difficult to discover the
ease and opulence of the rector of Tarefield
237parish, from a view of his neat and
genteel abode, which fronts the road,
and has a flower-garden, with gravel
walks before it. We stopped at the gate;
the servant was ordered to go the kitchen
way, for enquiries respecting the lady’s
health. “I shall not go in,” said Miss
Flint, “for we should spoil the gravel, and
give Mrs. Snughead a fever-fit for the day
at least; besides, she would not amuse us
with her tiresome details of nervous fits,
and sleepless nights.” A maid-servant
from the front door appeared, her feet
shod with two flat pieces of board, who,
shuffling to the carriage, brought her
lady’s compliments, and hoped that we
would enter the house. “Not now, Martha,”
answered Miss Flint. “When do
you expect your master home?”—“Madam
has had a letter this morning,” replied
the girl, “and the clerk is to tell the
young gentleman, that Mr. Snughead
will do duty on Sunday himself.”—“Well
238that is good news, Martha,” observed
Miss Flint, “and I hope your mistress
is in spirits.” “Poor lady!” answered the
girl in a tone of pity, “she has never
held up her head since her poor son Mr.
Banks left us; she is quite broken down,
Madam! I wish you would have the
goodness to see her. The kitchen is
quite in order,” added she, glancing her
eyes on the untrod path to the house.
“Poor soul!” said Miss Flint, “I could
not comfort her, Martha, and I am pressed
for time. Give my love to her. Drive
on, William.” Thus concluded the friendly
call. “You have had a good escape,”
observed she, settling her large person
more at ease. “We should have been
detained an hour with Mrs. Snughead’s
lamentations about her son. I pity her
husband most sincerely, for he has for
twelve years and more had the plague of
a wife, who is hourly dying, if you credit
her, and whose death he dreads; for her
239jointure of five hundred pounds per annum,
pays for her board, though in my
opinion, not for his life of mortification
and continual fear. When I see such
marriages as these,” continued she with
an air of self-complacency, “I bless my
good fortune in having escaped matrimony;
not that I think there are none happy
but those who are unshackled, for I am
persuaded there are many happy matches;
and that a young woman cannot do
more prudently, than to secure to herself
an honourable protection, and a worthy
man. When I was young, I was too
useful to my poor father to think of
changing my condition. I was my father’s
only comfort during a period of
his life rendered miserable by the conduct
and ingratitude of his children; particularly
his favourite daughter, Mrs.
Howard, whom he brought up with too
much fondness and indulgence. His
second marriage was an absurdity; and
240he soon found that it added little to his
domestic enjoyments. It did not require
the spirit of witchcraft, for me to
foresee what did result from so unequal
an union as my father’s with this
young bride; but I could not desert my
post even then with satisfaction to myself.
The mother-in-law was a mere child in
the knowledge proper for the mistress of
a family; and I soon discovered, that my
father had only added to my cares by
placing at his table an indolent woman,
who only married him in order to live
at her ease. However, I will be just to
Lady Maclairn; as my father’s wife, she
conducted herself with discretion and
modesty, and I have in return been her
constant friend.”
Her marriage with Sir Murdock was a
foolish business! Mr. Flamall strongly
opposed it; but Harriot was always romantic!
He predicted then, that the
baronet would be crazy; and well he
241might, for he had symptoms of insanity
which no one could overlook. But a
title, though without a groat, flattered
Mrs. Flint’s vanity, and I had only to
reconcile matters, and to think of preventing
the evils of this connection as it
related to my dear Philip’s security. “You
may judge, Miss Cowley,” continued
she with augmenting seriousness, “of my
affection for a brother, whom, from the
hour of his birth, I considered as consigned
in a peculiar manner to my guardianship
and care. His mother’s second
marriage enforced these duties on my
heart; to shelter him, I was determined
to offer my house to Lady Maclairn as
a residence at once honourable and prudent
for her. Thus has it happened, that
I have had for years a lunatic under my
roof. Besides this, I boarded the whole
family at so moderate a sum, that with a
better regulated economy, Lady Maclairn
might have saved something for
242Malcolm’s exigencies, for Philip was
entirely my charge; but I cannot imagine
how she manages her purse, it is
never beforehand, and I doubt, Malcolm
will take care to prevent all accumulations.
Idleness at his age is a melancholy
prospect! I wish Harriot may not
live to repent of her confidence in this
young man. But now I am on the subject
of my family, I will add a few words
in explanation of my conduct, as it relates
to another object of my care. Were
you, Miss Cowley, acquainted with all
the insults and injuries I have sustained
from Mary Howard’s parents, you would
only wonder to find her under my roof.
But when I received her, to relieve my
brother Percival from a burden he could
ill sustain, I meant not to train her up
to any expectations but such as resulted
from her mother’s imprudence. She it
was who entailed poverty on her child;
and I shall fulfil my duty, in teaching
243her to be useful and industrious; lessons
she never would have learned but for
me. I know she has complained to you
of my severity, as she and her friends
call my vigilance”——“Never, Madam,”
said I, interrupting her, “your plan of
conduct needed no explanation with me;
and Miss Howard neither directly nor
indirectly has accused you of doing
wrong in my presence.”—“Well,” answered
she, with great warmth, “on this
point I am perfectly at my ease, provided
she tells you at the same time, that
her parents brought my dear father with
sorrow to his grave, and that my peace
and happiness were destroyed by their
perfidy.” She spoke, and looked so like
a fury, my dear Lucy, that I was absolutely
silenced by dismay. “But let us
change this topic,” continued she, softening
her voice, “for one more agreeable
to you, and less painful to myself. I
think I need not say to Miss Cowley,
244that I acceded with joy to my dear brother’s
prospects of an alliance with you.
I must however observe that your worthy
father, not only evinced his affection
for you in his choice of Philip, but the
prudence of a man solicitous for the
prosperity of a rising family. On the
score of merit and conduct, Philip needs
not fear any competitor for your favour.
His fortune will be ample and solid, for
I consider myself as only his steward.
Mr. Flamall’s proposal of your residing
at the hall, was a matter I heartily concurred
in; and in order to give Lady
Maclairn more consequence in a family
you have honoured by your presence, and
to which you will belong, I resigned
my authority in it, and became, like
yourself, a boarder; paying at the rate
of six hundred pounds per annum for the
accommodations of myself and servants.”—I
was going to speak, in order to spare
her any further display of her consummate
245prudence, but she proceeded.—“I
have said nothing of the person of
your ‘intended,’” said she, with a most
gracious smile. “This is his picture
drawn when he was about eighteen.”
She presented me a miniature of the
young man, which to say the truth was
strikingly handsome. “Nature has been
liberal to your favourite,” observed I, examining
the portrait. “He is much improved
in his person,” said she with
eagerness, “since that age. There is
not in England a finer made man!
I am certain you will allow this when
you see him.”—“I hope to be disposed
to render justice to Mr. Flint’s merit in
every point,” answered I, “for this consideration
he has a right which he may
claim; but, my dear Madam, I conceived,
that you, as well as the rest of Mr.
Flint’s family, understood that I had
declined the conditions of my father’s
will: I was explicit with Sir Murdock.
246Mr. Flamall, and consequently your nephew,
know by this time, that Rachel
Cowley is not to be transferred like her
father’s negroes from one master to another.
I have no resentment against Mr.
Flint. His pretensions to me are too
ridiculous for a serious examination; and
if he have a just title to the character he
bears, he will scorn, as I do, an interference
so offensive to his honour, and
so humiliating to his self-love. I could
say more on this subject,” added I with
spirit, “but it is unnecessary; and I
request I may be spared from renewing
it. Lady Maclairn has avoided it; and
you, Madam, when you know more of
me, will give me credit for a frankness
in my manner of treating it, which is as
decisive as it is firm. Mr. Flamall is my
scorn, and I wish by hearing nothing
more of his nephew, to respect Mr. Philip
Flint as your brother, and Lady Maclairn’s
son. When I marry, it will not
247be a husband of Mr. Flamall’s appointing.”
The rising and deepening tints of
Miss Lucretia’s fiery cheek, prepared
me for her speech. “I would advise
you, Miss Cowley, as a friend,” said
she, “to be cautious of provoking a man
of Mr. Flamall’s character, by using a
language of this kind to him, whatever
may be your intention in regard to the
duty you owe to your deceased father’s
will.”—“My father’s will,” exclaimed I,
“will not be violated by my rejection of
Mr. Flamall’s authority, which, in every
instance, I despise!”—“It is because
you do not know him, I am very certain,”
answered she with suppressed rage.
“You are mistaken, Madam,” replied I
with firmness, “I do know Mr. Flamall.
It is himself, who from the false estimate
he has made of his talents, forgets it was
necessary for him to know his benefactor’s
daughter, before he hazarded a
scheme which will end in his defeated
248ambition. My residence at Tarefield is
the prelude only of my designs, to shew
this man, that he can do no more than
be subservient to a Cowley: this I will
make him, and it may be he will acknowledge
this. I only understood the
secret of teaching him to know his place
and duty; my father assuredly did not.”—“You
astonish me,” said she, “by
your violence and prejudice against Mr.
Flamall; you even insinuate suspicions
against his honour.”—“Honour!” repeated
I with a look which seemed to
silence his defender; “the honour of Mr.
Flamall cannot suffer.” The remainder
of our road was passed without a single
word being exchanged. She retired to
her own room, on arriving at the hall.
At dinner, Mary said her aunt had gotten
a head-ach and could eat nothing.
I suspect she drank the more, for before
supper the dear girl joined us, saying her
249aunt was in bed and asleep, having been
much fatigued, and out of spirits.
The evening was too inviting not to
tempt us out. Not a breeze ruffled its
serenity; the moon shed her silver radiance
o’er the tranquil scene. Mary, light
of heart, bounded before us like a sylph.
Sir Murdock spouted Ossian with enthusiastic
delight. Your Rachel’s spirits
had been disturbed, and to compose
themselves they made an excursion—no
matter where,—since they found repose.
Lady Maclairn and Mrs. Allen,
wisely judging that star-gazing and quoting,
might not suit them so well as walking,
proceeded to meet the truant Malcolm,
in which purpose they succeeded;
and we walked till a late hour. Amongst
the various conjectures which my ingenuity
has suggested in my endeavours to
fathom the real character of Lady Maclairn,
I began to suspect that she had
some intention to circumvent her brother
250in his plans of securing my father’s
property for his favourite. She has hitherto
most diligently adhered to the
conditions I exacted, rarely mentioning
even the name of her son Philip, whereas
she frequently descants with fondness
and eloquence on the merit and conduct
of her “dear Malcolm,” “her prop,” “her
boast.” I had even infused into Mrs.
Allen’s mind something of my own suspicions,
when on our return to the house
after meeting with the young man,
chance gave to me a secret which has
quite overset this opinion of Lady Maclairn’s
policy. Something which escaped
Mary, whose arm I had taken, in the
gaiety of her heart, produced from me
the question, “Is then Mr. Maclairn a
lover?”—“Yes,” replied she, “he has
courted Miss Heartley a long time.”
“Do Sir Murdock and his mother approve
of his attachment?” “Oh dear, yes!”
answered she, with innocent vivacity,
251“How should they do otherwise? She is
one of the most amiable girls in the
world, as well as the most virtuous and
prudent of her sex. Besides, Malcolm
and Alice have loved each other from
their childhood, and they will never cease
to love.” I was answered and satisfied. So
you see, Lucy, these freaks of fancy happen
elsewhere as well as at Heathcot. I
think in another century parents may
discover the force of sympathy, and will
think of some remedy for the mischief
it may do whilst their children are in the
cradle. It is a wretched business, when
poor unfortunate beings, whose wealth is
unequal, take it into their heads to yield
to the attraction of sympathy. It is still
worse, when the scale of fortune is empty
on both sides. Might not the now useless
sash worn by children round their
waists, be usefully worn over their eyes
till they are properly married? I speak
only of those neglected children, who,
252left to nature’s lessons, are so apt to receive
impressions from beings as devoid
of instruction as themselves; for I am
aware, that young people properly educated
for the world they are to live in,
want no mufflers. They may be trusted
with the use of their eyes; or should it
happen that a beam of light dazzles them
for a moment, a coach-and-six, a diamond
necklace, or a sounding name,
will restore them to the true point of
vision. But I must be serious. What
pains and penalties, my Lucy, does the
folly of man give to the pilgrimage of
this life! Not satisfied with the allotted
portion of trial deemed by Providence
for our benefit, or to travel in a road
prepared by infinite goodness for our
feeble powers, we seem to be diligent in
obstructing it when smooth and level,
with thorns and briars of our own seeking.
Your good father, my Lucy, with
all his wisdom, dares not make his children
253happy,—and, why not? Because Miss
Cowley ought to marry a man as rich as
herself. Where does Mr. Hardcastle find
this law? In a world he despises.—“Is it
not late, my dear child,” asks the sympathizing,
Mrs. Allen, looking compassionately
on my tell-tale eyes. It is time to
forget the world at least.
Yours, ever,
Rachel Cowley.
Unbending dignity, Lucy, has been a
match for sullenness. I have conquered;
and Miss Flint has broken silence, and
held out the olive branch. But hold, it
was not that unbending dignity you may
suspect which produced peace, it was in
sober truth my folly which did the business;
for as she could not always look
254grave when others laughed, she forgot
her anger and laughed with the rest. As
I have measures to keep, I was in nowise
ungracious in my turn, and all discord
was buried by my reading to the collected
circle, the comedy you sent me. Before
we parted, Miss Flint mentioned her intention
of going to church the next
morning, and I readily engaged to accompany
her. You must have been surprised,
that I have not mentioned to you
our having been in a church since I have
been here, but the absence of the rector
had slackened Miss Flint’s zeal, and the
baronet and his lady preferred their own
prayers to Mr. Snughead’s. Mrs. Allen
likes their form of devotion, and having a
head-ach, has remained quiet to profit from
Sir Murdock’s sermon. A little of the
still fermenting leaven, as I suspect, induced
Miss Flint to disappoint my expectations
of a ride with her niece; on my
enquiring for her, she said with a haughty
255air, that Mary preferred walking with
Warner, her woman. We soon reached
the church, and I followed my stately
conductress to a pew in the church, in
which was another equally distinguished
by its size and decorations of lining and
cushions. We had scarcely seated ourselves,
for Miss Flint performs this business
with peculiar caution and regard to
her dress, before the Abbey family entered,
escorted by Malcolm: and they
took the adjoining pew. I instantly rose,
and paying my compliments, asked Miss
Heartley for the captain. She told me he
was with Miss Howard, and following
them. I again took my seat. “Why!
where, in the name of wonder!” whispered
Miss Flint, “did those women become
known to you?” My answer was prevented
by a harsh and strong voice, which rapidly
began the service. The captain’s entrance
with his niece again discomposed
Miss Flint’s features, and the confessional
256prayer was lost to her whilst she was
chiding Mary for her delay. She meekly
said, Mrs. Warner could not walk fast,
and retiring to a remote corner of the
pew, composed herself with seriousness to
the duty before her. A sermon on the
deceitfulness of riches, begun and finished
in less than ten minutes, concluded Mr.
Snughead’s task. I again acknowledged
the women in the next pew for my acquaintance,
with a frankness and cordiality,
which still more surprised Miss
Flint. “I find my brother the captain,”
observed she fixing her eyes on him; “needs
not any introduction to you, Miss Cowley;
otherwise”—“Oh dear, no!” answered
I, “Sir Murdock has anticipated you in
your obliging intention. I have had the
pleasure of meeting Mr. Flint in my
walk.” Thus saying, I joined Mr. Heartley,
and left Miss Flint to the care and compliments
of the rector at the church-yard
gate. She with much dignity mounted
257into her coach; I followed. The captain
was coldly asked whether he and Mary
walked; an affirmation was given: then
turning to the obsequious divine, she invited
him to take an airing, and to dine
also, at the hall. Some excuse was pleaded,
which I did not hear. “Phoo!” replied she,
“there is no end of such whims. You will
make an arrant slave of yourself.”—“Well,
I submit,” answered he, leering at me,
“I cannot be in better hands than yours.”
“We will take a circuit home,” observed
Miss Lucretia; with much complacency,
“Miss Cowley is yet a stranger to the
country, and you will contribute to recommend
it.” He bowed. Now, Lucy,
knowing, as I do, your predilection for
the cloth, I mean to be on my guard
how I lessen your partiality for the black
coat you so peculiarly favour: yet, truth is
truth, and though I mean not to reproach
you for your want of taste, I must
tell you there is no comparison to be
258drawn between Mr. Sedley and the
reverend Mr. Snughead; to be sure, our
curate has some qualifications, with which
in the opinion of the simple souls at
Heathcot, he might rise to an archbishopric
without disgrace to the pastoral crook;
but in some particulars, he is a mere cypher
compared to the rector of Tarefield
parish. “Proofs, proofs,” methinks I hear
you call for. Well, be not angry, you
shall have them, I advance nothing without
proofs, nor any thing in malice. I
honestly allow that Sedley is handsome;
but his beauty is of that kind which will
never make his fortune; for people in
general do not much care to admire
graces of any kind which they can neither
rival, nor like to copy. Now, I have a
notion that Mr. Snughead was, in the
days of his youth, which by the way is
on its wane, universally allowed to be
irresistible, and that he answered exactly
to what some ladies denominate “a sweet
259pretty man, a neat dapper fellow, a teazing
mortal.” His features are still small and
regular, and his complexion, naturally
fair, is thought less delicate than in the
days of his youth, still good; his teeth are
white and even, and have suffered nothing
from neglect. But either from a scurvy
trick of nature, or from his neglect of
fasting (I say nothing of praying), he is
become so corpulent, that were one to
encounter him on all fours, instead of the
two limbs destined to support him, one
would take him for a tortoise; you well
know that I am no enemy to en bon point;
whenever I see it with a cheerful countenance,
I regard it as indicative of a
contented mind: but unhappily, Mr.
Snughead’s opinions are diametrically the
reverse of mine. He lives in open and
perpetual war with this incroacher on the
sympathy and elegance of his person; and
by the cruelties he hourly inflicts on himself,
suffers a martyrdom, from which
260even the mortified Pascal would have
shrunk; for I think it may be presumed,
that by not eating his soup Pascal’s penetential
girdle was bearable; but poor Mr.
Snughead cannot be at his ease either full
or fasting. He imitates in barbarity the
fell Procrastes, for his cloaths are made
by a measure that has never been enlarged
since the day of his gentility, and his
unfortunate person, like the victim to the
iron couch, is doomed to suffer under
ligatures as painful as the rack. He
seems momentarily in danger of suffocation,
and I could not, without pity, hear
him so often complain of the “melting
weather,” nor view unmoved his hand instinctively
raised to his cravat in order to
relieve his respiration. But Mr. Snughead’s
stoical firmness consoled me, and I
next examined his dress. But what pen,
my Lucy, can do justice to the elaborate
neatness of this canonical beau! Who
can describe the glossy black robes, the
261polished shoes, the dazzling whiteness and
texture of his linen! In what language
shall I convey to your imagination the
honours of his head, his tight, perfumed,
well-powdered curls! I despair, you must
even fancy perfection. The frequent application
of a well-scented, delicate cambric
handkerchief to his face, gave me
an opportunity of discovering that it was
not his tight lacing which had impelled
his hand to his throat, but the desire of
exhibiting this precious relic of former
beauty; for although somewhat in shape
dropsical, it yet retains its whiteness, and
is properly distinguished by a sumptuous
amethyst ring encircled with brilliants.
I was diverted from further observation,
by his abruptly addressing me with,
“Well, my pretty young lady, what say
you to our north roads? Is not this a very
pleasant one? What do you think of that
prospect in view?” I coldly replied, that
the village looked pleasant; and turning
262to Miss Flint asked the name of it. She
mentioned it, and observed to Mr. Snughead,
that Greenwood’s plantations were
flourishing. This person was, I discovered,
the clergyman of the parish in view, and
not in the number of Miss Lucretia’s
elect; but as Mr. Snughead had not succeeded
in showing me his wit; he returned
to the charge. “You will soon be pleased
with your situation, I hope,” said he,
taking my hand, “and we shall hear you
acknowledge the happiness you will meet
here, without travelling further; a road
which so many young ladies take, to find
the temple of Hymen.” I withdrew my
hand, and answered him with one of my
petrifying looks, as you have named my
honest contempt of puppyism. “When
do you expect your brother?” continued
he unmindful of my frowns. It was not
determined, was the concise reply, and a
silence ensued. Again the civil Mr.
Snughead began. “I hear wonders of Sir
263Murdock’s health and amendment,” said
he, addressing Miss Flint; “they tell me
his journey to London has quite renovated
him.” “It has produced exactly the consequences
I predicted,” replied she, with a
toss of her head. “He is now as much
too high in his spirits as he has been depressed;
now he is always in motion and
busy, and as a proof of his amendment,
he has in his walks with Miss Cowley met the
Heartleys, and as I suppose, introduced
them to her, as neighbours of mine and
Lady Maclairn’s”—“Always in the wrong,
poor man!” said he: “perhaps he told you,
Miss Cowley, that they were duchesses
incognito, for he knows them not himself.
However, my dear Madam,” continued
he with a more respectful manner,
“I think you should be on your guard,
and never walk with Sir Murdock without
another companion. There is no dependence
to be placed on a man whose mind
is so unsettled as the poor baronet’s.”
264“When I perceive Sir Murdock acts
either like a madman or a fool,” answered
I, “it will be time enough to avoid him;
hitherto, I have seen no indications of an
unsettled mind.” “Perhaps not, young
lady,” answered he with tartness, “neither
your age nor experience, I presume, have
given you the opportunity of understanding,
that there is very frequently a
wonderful shrewdness and cunning in
madness.”—“I have observed no inconsistency
in Sir Murdock’s mind,” answered
I, with seriousness, “nor has he
discovered to me any of that cunning
you speak of, which I conclude may, and
must be detected, if the person’s mind be
disordered. However,” continued I,
assuming a careless air, “if in any instance
there can be found so much of
method in madness, as to evade all examination,
it entirely confirms the received
opinion, that madness and wit are
closely allied. Folly under this supposition
265appears to me to be worse than lunacy,
for that is incurable.”
I am rather disposed to think that
something in my too honest face proclaimed
what I thought; I felt it glow,
and I was out of humour: Mr. Snughead
of course had the advantage of me, for
with much officiousness he endeavoured
to be agreeable. I was the rebel Rachel
Cowley,—I could not help it, Lucy. On
reaching the hall, I followed Mr. Snughead’s
steps, on whose arm Miss Flint
leaned; and I overheard the puppy say,
“Proud enough in conscience!” “Inconceivably
so,” was the reply. Yes, Lucy, I
am proud, I disdain the civility that can
simper at the conceits of a Mr. Snughead,
and despise the impudence of any clerical
man, who forgetting himself, and the respect
that is due to his profession, fancies
his dress is to enforce respect from others.
What right has a reptile of this class to
the tribute which all pay to a Sedley?
266No, no! I am too provident “to cast
pearls before swine.” You know my infirmity,
Lucy; I have now taken a rooted
antipathy to this Mr. Snughead, not only
as he is a contemptible creature, but
because he irritated me to anger. I was
vexed and out of humour with myself.
The kindly greetings of the collected
family were lost upon me, and I was on
the point of quitting the room, when
luckily, I observed Sir Murdock’s cold
and ceremonious bow to the intruder.
A placid and contracted air yielded to a
suffusion of his Scotch “blude,” which
for a moment mantled in his cheek: this
moment was of use to me, I recollected
myself. My gaiety succeeded to this
little triumph, and even Mr. Snughead
was treated with civility. An excellent
dinner was a temptation I should have
supposed this gentleman had been proof
against; I will not say that he eat like an
epicure, but most assuredly he eat more
267than his waistcoat allowed, for he suddenly
complained of a most violent pain in his
stomach, and Miss Flint prescribed a glass
of rum. My tender heart melted, and I
was just going to recommend slackening
his waistcoat, when I saw him have recourse
to the remedy. He breathed more
freely, and attributing his indisposition
to the extreme heat of the day, perfected
the cure by untying his cravat. But I
am doomed to be incorrigible on certain
points! I have not been able to get rid of
my antipathy for this animal. Now attend
to the conversation. “I hope you found
Mrs. Snughead’s health improved on
your return home.” This was a question
from the lady of the mansion, who, till the
cloth was removed, had not found time
to talk. “I cannot flatter myself! She is,
my lady, still very ill, very ill indeed: I
am in constant anxiety, and have too
much reason to fear that she will shorten
her days by yielding to her complaint,
268which is merely nervous. She is never out
of the apothecary’s hands, and it is my
opinion, medicine does her more harm
than good.” The unfeigned sorrow with
which Mr. Snughead delivered this opinion,
induced Miss Flint to take the part
of the comforter. “She will soon be
better,” observed she, “I have no doubt
of it, now she is rid of her constant
plague. You will see her spirits will mend
in a short time. But what have you done
with young graceless?” “I saw him
embarked for the West Indies,” replied
Mr. Snughead; “he was highly delighted
with his uniform, and having gained his
point, nothing would do but the army
for Banks, and that predilection was, I
fear, strengthened by his mother’s opposition
to it.”—“He has been unfortunate
in his destination,” observed the
captain, “and will have a bad climate to
encounter; it has of late been fatal to
thousands.”—“He must take his chance
269and trust to Providence,” replied Mr.
Snughead, with great gravity; “prudence
and sobriety at his age, may
preserve him, and I hope he will consider
this, and be wise.”—“Wise!” echoed
Miss Lucretia, “he must act otherwise, in
that case, than he has hitherto done, and
associate with those wiser than himself.
However, I commend him for his spirit;
for nothing is so ridiculous as to see a
young man tied to his mother’s apron-string!
And after all,” continued the
tender-hearted spinster, “none of us can
die more than once; therefore it is a folly to
think of what may happen or not happen
to Mr. Banks.”—Malcolm, who had during
this conversation been biting a cork,
with eyes flashing resentment, now burst
into a sarcastic laugh. Lady Maclairn
instantly rose, and observed, that the
heat of the room incommoded her. A
look of supplication directed to her son
did not escape me. Every one agreed
270that the garden was preferable, and we
left the table. I retired to my room.
From the window I soon after saw the
party sauntering in the avenue, but as
Miss Flint was not with them, I supposed
she had also chosen her apartment
for a tête-à-tête with Mr. Snughead. I
therefore hastened down stairs to join my
friends, when to my surprise and vexation,
I found the tête-à-tête party quietly
enjoying themselves on the garden-seat
close to the door I had to pass. I could
not escape them without rudeness. “You
have done wisely,” observed I languidly,
“in being stationary.”—“I think we
have,” answered Miss Flint, inviting me
to occupy the vacant place by her side,
“and I advise you to follow our example.”—I
urged that I was going to the
avenue.—“You look fatigued,” observed
she with kindness, still pressing me to
sit down, “and your friends will return
soon, for I am certain we shall have
271thunder.”—Not disposed for any exertions,
I took the seat, and with truth acknowledged
that I had the head-ach.
My silence, or stupidity, if it must be
so, probably led Miss Flint to pursue
the thread of the conversation which I
had interrupted; for, turning to Mr.
Snughead, she said—“But, as I was
saying, Mr. Snughead, is it not your duty
to prevent Wilson and his people from
instantly occupying the only pew in the
church open to strangers? It is really
ridiculous to see such people so misplaced!”—“I
have no authority to prevent
them,” answered he. “The whole
chancel is attached to the claims of
Wilson, as the proprietor of the abbey
lands. It was merely owing to accident
he was not my patron for the living instead
of yourself, for his uncle would
have purchased it of your father; and
Wilson might, if he pleased, place his
servants in your pew; for, in fact, you
272enjoy it by favour. But why do you
not speak to your brother the captain?
He certainly ought to sit with you on
every account. He should not brave
public opinion at church. It is, to say
no more, indecorous to see him pass you
with those ladies, and make the whole
congregation stare, as they do, at his
gallantry.”—“He would be disappointed
of his aim if they did not,” answered
Miss Flint, with anger; “it is to brave
me, that he so far forgets decency——.”
“You judge too severely of your brother,”
observed the rector, in an assumed
conciliatory tone; “it may be, and
probably is, that the lady exacts this
homage to her power. The poor captain is
not the only one of his class who finds
passive obedience and non-resistance an
important duty, without the pale of the
church as well as within it.”—“Who is
now severe?” cried the facetious Miss Lucretia,
tapping Mr. Snughead’s shoulder;
273“but you married men do right to fancy
your shackles no worse than those of
your more fortunate brethren. In the
mean time tell me what is your opinion
of Mrs. Heartley’s discretion, in availing
herself of such an introducer as Sir Murdock
for getting acquainted with Miss
Cowley? Pray may I ask,” continued
she, addressing me, “how often you have
met this fashionable and easy lady?”
“Once or twice in my walks,” replied I,
desirous of continuing the conversation,
“and I must confess that she pleased
me by her manners; she is a well bred
woman, has a cultivated understanding,
and is entertaining.”—“Your opinion
does justice to your candour, young
lady,” observed the coxcomb near me.
“She has, I am told, a good address, and
can be very pleasant. I am not surprised
that you were pleased with her; youth
ought not to be suspicious.”—“It appears
fortunately for my sagacity,” replied
274I, laughing, “that Mrs. Heartley
imposes on all ages. This will keep me in
countenance, should the conclusions I
have drawn from her appearance be erroneous.
I took notice that all the females
on the benches rose and curtseyed
to her as she passed through the aisle
at church.” “So they would to Wilson’s
dung cart,” answered he, laughing and
shewing his large white teeth, “for the
same return. They have Madam Wilson’s
skimmed milk in their mouths, and her
Christmas plumb-pudding in perspective;
and for these they would bend their
knees and their necks ten times a day,
although they are so insolent to their
betters.”—“You forget,” observed Miss
Flint, “that they owe some civility to
the village doctress.”—“True,” answered
he, “I forgot their obligations to Mrs.
Heartley’s James’s powder and her worm-cakes,
but I owe her no gratitude on
that score; for if she go on, my surplice
275fees will be diminished, and the sexton
will starve.”—“You are the drollest of
mortals!” cried the exulting Miss Flint,
“but a truce with your wit. You well
know my motives for removing Mary
from Wilson’s. I had solid reasons for
thinking the society she had in that house
improper for her. I wish to caution
Miss Cowley, without offending her.
Are you not convinced that, if Sir Murdock
had been a rational man, he would
have judged, as Lady Maclairn and
myself have done, that Mrs. Heartley
and her daughter had no claims to Miss
Cowley’s notice?”
“Upon my word you perplex me,” replied
the sapient divine, passing his clay-coloured
hand over his violet face, “I
know so little of these ladies! nothing
indeed, but from report. My wife from
the first had your scruples. I know not
any genteel family that visits them. They
say the mother is a very lively woman,
276and no one can dispute the charms of
Miss Alice! Our young man, Banks, was
one of her admirers; but his mother did
not approve of the intimacy between him
and Harry Heartley. This gave offence,
and the ladies overlook their pastor. I
should imagine Miss Cowley would act
with prudence, to be on the reserve with
ladies who do not visit at the hall.”—The
straggling party approached us, and
our conversation finished.—To my great
relief, I found that Miss Flint only waited
their return, to bid adieu to the captain;
pleading her engagement, and the moon,
for passing the evening with “poor Mrs.
Snughead.”—The carriage which was in
waiting immediately appeared, and, with
much formality, the Reverend Mr. Snughead
took his leave.
All nature seemed to respire more
freely as well as myself, after Mr. Snughead’s
departure. The evening was indeed
an Italian one, and Lady Maclairn
277contrived to impart to it the charms
which so often embellished those at
Heathcot. We had a regale of fruit in
the avenue, and every one was freed from
constraint, and disposed for enjoyment.
No, your poor Rachel was not in harmony
with the scene. My spirits had
been exhausted, and I felt unusually
languid. I found a luxury in tears, and
I sauntered from the circle. I could not
check my imagination: it fondly traced
our happy days. The regales of strawberries
in the root-house; our Bacchanalian
revelries under the mulberry trees,
where we retaliated the mischief done to
our frocks, by smearing Horace’s face
with the impurpled juice; our dear father’s
plots and contrivances, at hide and
seek, and our mother’s tales of wisdom
and wonder! Oh, days of innocence and
of peace! how soon departed! whilst
the remembrances of your pure joys
serve but to heighten the contrast of
278those hours of my existence which are
now lost to me! What has Rachel Cowley
in common with such beings as those
who have tormented her to-day, thought
I! There are those who maintain, that
in order to love virtue, we must know vice:
but far be from me such experiments!
I want no hideous contrasts to shew me
her genuine work! I have witnessed that
all her “paths are pleasantness,” and all
her purposes gracious! What, under her
benign influence, has been done with that
turbulent self-will which, when a child,
menaced me with destruction! of that
ignorance and presumption which would
have rendered me pernicious to my fellow-creatures!
“What had I been, Lucy, had
I not been sheltered in the very bosom of
virtue? and am I a companion for a
Miss Flint, or a Mr. Snughead?”
I was roused from a train of thoughts
like these by the sweet Mary. She approached
me. “Are you indisposed, my
279dear Miss Cowley? You look fatigued,—take
my arm: we will retire to the house.”
I raised my tearful eyes; the very image
of pity binding up the wounded foot of
the pilgrim, met them. I recollected
myself. I remembered it was Mary’s
holiday; and that my dejection clouded
her hour of satisfaction. I pressed her
hand, and joined my friends with assumed
alacrity. She understood me, and I was
recompensed for my exertions. Gaiety
gave place to a rational conversation.
Captain Flint talked of America, and my
spirits settled into composure; but I have
been too busy to-day for sleep, and you
have to read my nightly labours. It is
now the hour when the disturbed spirits
are recalled home. I will obey the voice
of chanticleer, and go to bed. Sleeping
or waking, I shall ever be your affectionate,
Rachel Cowley.
280
Finding nothing important to my
history during the course of several
weeks’ correspondence, so punctually
maintained by Miss Cowley, I have suppressed
a few letters, to avoid the censure
of prolixity.
Amongst the causes assigned in her
letters at this time for her dejection of
mind, she mentions the absence of her
friends from the Abbey, who, it appears,
were on an excursion to Hartley-Pool,
a bathing-place not very remote from
them. She dwells, however, with much
more inquietude on the condition of Miss
Howard. She observes, that her uncle’s
absence has still more lessened these
observances of civility which Miss Flint
had practised. Her indignation daily
augments, by perceiving Lady Maclairn’s
increasing reserve on the subject of Miss
281Howard’s unworthy treatment.—“To
what purpose serve her downcast eyes
and varying colour,” writes Miss Cowley,
“when at table she hears Miss Flint tell
the servant, that Mary’s plate needs no
change? The very footman blushes.
Why does she not insist on every one’s
equality at her table? Surely, Lucy, the
Gospel does not recommend with the
spirit of peace, an insensibility to oppression!
It is, however, too much for
me to witness; and I am determined to
have some conversation with Captain
Flint when he returns. Something shall
be done to mitigate this poor girl’s sufferings.
I suspect she dares not complain
to her uncle. I will do it for her,
and trust to the event. I disdain that
humanity which shrinks from active service,
and can quiet its feelings by exhalting
its sighs in useless pity and fretful
censures.”—“But,” adds she, renewing
her wonted spirit, “I am called to order.
282My dear Mrs. Allen is sounding
in my ears her direful predictions in regard
to girls who love scribbling better
than sleep, and sentiment better than
roast beef. As pale faces bring up the rear
of the evils she has mustered to frighten
me, I will be docile, though to tell you
the truth, her brow of tender solicitude
has subdued me. How often have I
drawn on her treasures of health! how
often has she relinquished repose in order
to watch over my infant wailings, and
sickly frowardness! Never shall a care
reach that bosom on which my head has
rested, if I can prevent it! So I will go to
bed. What an age it is since you have
had letters from Horace! Ah! Lucy, you
must pity Rachel Cowley, for she is
discontented with herself, though always
your
Rachel Cowley.”
CHAP VII. — LETTER XI. From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle. — Saturday Evening, Nine O’clock. — LETTER XII. Rachel Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.
283
A Letter dated in October, and addressed
to Miss Hardcastle, is fortunately
recovered, and the thread of the narrative,
which I found was broken, is by
that means preserved. Trusting that my
readers are by this time satisfied that
Miss Cowley can tell her own story; and
are convinced that no labours of mine
could better tell it, I cheerfully resume
my humble office of copyist.
I send you, my dear Lucy, with my
thanks to Counsellor Steadman for his
284letter, one which I have received from
Mr. Flamall. You will find that I have
an enormous account to settle with him
on the score of gratitude; for the kindhearted
gentleman, not having yet smoothed
the way for my sweetheart’s appearance,
has sent a double portion of sweetmeats,
and withal, many compliments
on my sweet and gentle temper, which, it
appears, fame has celebrated in the island
of Jamaica. I would divide with you
this tribute of praise, were it not the first
my unparallelled gentleness and patience
ever received; but I will be generous
notwithstanding: and as we have here
as many preserved limes, &c. as would
satisfy the cravings of half the boardingschool
misses in London, I have desired
all mine may be sent to Heathcot: you
will dispose of them in due measure to
your neighbours. My friends and neighbours
returned to the Abbey last night.
To-morrow I shall pass the day at Mrs.
285Heartley’s, when I shall give her the
counsellor’s letter. I do most seriously
assure you, that my late indisposition
has disappeared. Your accounts from
Italy were the specifics for the worst
part of it; and without detracting from
the good effects of the new curricle, I
must attribute my cure to your prescription.
Lady Maclairn’s anxiety has not
been less than yours, my dear Lucy, on
the subject of medical advice; but I
knew the medicine I wanted—it was not
in the apothecary’s shop. The curricle
is, however, still in favour, for it amuses
Sir Murdock, and he is proud of being
charioteer. You cannot imagine with
what tenderness and attention I am treated
by Lady Maclairn. I cannot help
loving her; but I wish also to reverence
her. It hurts me to see her sink herself
and her talents, in order to soothe and
keep quiet a woman who might be
taught to respect her. She never offends
286or disappoints me but when I see her
forget Lady Maclairn, and act the part
of a mere cringing dependent. I find
she has by dint of coaxing and tears,
obtained permission for Mary to go with
us to the Abbey to-morrow, in order to
see her uncle. Mrs. Warner, Miss Flint’s
favourite servant, communicated these
glad tidings to Mrs. Allen, and concluded
by saying, “Aye, they will never
understand my lady’s temper. Miss
Howard should have gone without asking
leave, and Lady Maclairn should have
commended her for taking it for granted
she had a right to go to see the captain.
Miss Flint is not the better for being
indulged in her temper. I do my duty;
she knows I am faithful, but she knows
also that I will not be her slave. It often
vexes me to see Miss Howard so much
afraid of her! Why not say from the
very first, ‘I will go and see my uncle,
Madam.’ Instead of this, there are pleadings
287and tears, which have gained after
all, only leave to stay a few minutes with
the captain. As to Lady Maclairn, there
is something to say. The golden-calf
will have its worshippers still; so she
must bend the knee: but poor Mary has
no such hopes, and she is a simpleton
not to shew more spirit.”—This woman
is well-intentioned to Miss Howard, and,
I believe, contributes to her comforts;
for she asked Mrs. Allen to lend her Evelina
to read to Mary whilst she worked.
She usually sits with her in a little parlour
appropriated to Warner: Miss Flint preferring
being alone in her lair. I shall
not finish this letter till I have seen my
friends at the farm, having to write to
Mr. Steadman.
Not chusing to part with the serenity
I have brought home with me, I have
288left my friends in the parlour in order to
finish the day happily with you. Perhaps
there was also a little discretion at
the bottom of this intention when first
suggested. I wished to avoid Mary’s
first greeting from her aunt, whose orders
she had disobeyed; but on inquiry,
the lady had retired for the night before
we reached the hall. Miss Flint’s sleeping
draught is sometimes potent, I suspect;
and Mrs. Patty, our maid, never
fails to say on these sudden drowsy fits,
“Ah, poor lady, she is much to be pitied!
for there is nothing like the sleep
God sends.” Leaving, however, Miss
Lucretia to enjoy any repose she can
purchase, I will prepare for mine by an
hour’s chit-chat with my Lucy. We
sallied forth this morning for our visit to
the Abbey. Never did summer bequeath
to her boisterous brother October a more
delicious one! Mary was of the party;
289but she was not in spirits. Jonathan,
Miss Flint’s footman, followed our steps.
I had my project in my head; for I had
determined that this exertion of Miss
Flint’s power should not pass unnoticed.
We had not proceeded more than half
our road to the Abbey, before we were
met by the captain and the Heartleys.
Mary’s philosophy forsook her on perceiving
them. “How unpardonable I
am,” said she, “now I have no pretence
for going farther with you! I must return
with the servant.” You may conclude
that this observation was conveyed to
the captain’s ear. He coloured, and with
some quickness in his manner turned to
the servant, saying, “You need go no
farther. I shall take care of Miss Howard.”
The man bowed, and retreating,
seemed yet to hesitate. “Inform your
lady, Sir,” added the captain with dignity,
“that my niece passes the day with
me and her friends, and that I shall call
290on her soon.” Jonathan, with a lower
bow, quickened his pace.
“Indeed! indeed!” cried Mary, “I
must not disobey orders, my aunt will
be disobliged!”—“I will be answerable
for that,” replied the captain with gravity;
“but in your attention to your
aunt, Mary, do not forget your uncle,
nor what is due to yourself.” It was
some time before this little cloud passed;
but it was dissipated by the time we
reached the farm, and Mary’s welcome
from Mrs. Wilson apparently banished
Miss Flint and her orders from her
thoughts.
I do not remember mentioning to you
the noble apartments which Mrs. Heartley
occupies in the Abbey. But her taste
has given to them an appearance of comfort,
light, and cheerfulness, which in
my opinion more than supplies the absence
of the magnificence, which gave
the finish to dark and richly carved wainscoting
291and bow windows, half glazed
with painted glass. A good selection of
books, in handsome glass-cases, gay
chintz furniture, and an excellent musical
instrument, assuredly suited better
the assembled party, and are much more
congenial with the love of neatness and
order of the present inmates of the house.
But should it happen that any of the
departed spirits of the “Ingram” race
still hover near the spot of their glory,
they must, if they be placable, acknowledge,
that although cumbrous greatness
is fallen, hospitality still retains her empire
in the house; and that those vices
which ruined themselves and half the
county, are buried in the fallen fabric of
Gothic ignorance and superstition. After
dinner we had music, which at least vied
with the lute and virginal of former
times. The Heartleys, I find, are all
gifted with a taste for harmony. The
mother is an excellent performer on the
292harpsichord; and her daughter shews
that skill in the science so necessary in
the teacher, to produce a pupil like Alice.
Mary was pressed for a song. “I have
forgotten all I know for want of practice,”
said she with a suppressed sigh.
“I will sing with you, my love,” replied
Mrs. Heartley, “and we shall manage
very well.” She was encouraged, and
timidly sung the little ballad of Prior’s,
“In vain you tell your panting lover,”
with taste and expression. “Bravo, my
sweet Mary,” observed Mrs. Heartley
with a smile, “you have not forgotten
that song at least. You would recover
in a month all you have lost.” Elated
by this commendation, she turned towards
me, and with eagerness observed,
that Henry Heartley had taught her not
only to sing that song, but to admire the
poetry and composition; “for,” added
she, “Henry was an Orpheus, even in
his cradle! I have heard Mrs. Heartley
293say, that she used to quiet him when a
baby, by playing upon the piano-forte.
How happy we used to be when he was
here!” Mrs. Wilson’s calling her away
prevented Mary from proceeding on a
subject which seemed to have placed her
heart on her lips.
I forgot not to deliver the counsellor’s
letter to his old favourite; Mrs. Heartley
ran it over with apparent satisfaction,
and give it me to peruse. “I will
thank him myself,” said she, “for this
proof of his remembrance; I needed
none of his candour and justice. He
knew me before I was a wife, he knew
me as one, and he knows that Heartley’s
widow lives to honour his memory, and
to perpetuate his virtues in his children.”
She pressed my hand with emotion, and
smiling through the tears which escaped
her, observed that she was yet selfish and
weak.
I will not say that we became noisy
294after tea, but it is certain that we were
childishly gay. The delighted Mrs.
Wilson, followed by the young people,
made the circuit of her domains. The dairy,
the cheese-chamber, the poultry-yard
were explored, and poor Malcolm was
left a while in captivity in the pig-stye,
for his daring crime of attempting to
give Alice a green gown. By means of
that secret intelligence at which you so
wickedly laugh, Mrs. Wilson and myself
were old friends in half an hour. She
found out that Miss Cowley was not a
fine lady; and Miss Cowley discovered
that the farmer’s wife was worth all the
fine ladies that have ever swarmed as butterflies
of the hour. She brought to my
mind the very image of the good woman
before Rhadamanthus, and I doubt not
but she could as satisfactorily demand
his passport; for though she has not a
daughter to produce as a notable housewife,
yet she has made as many cheeses
295as her counterpart, and will trace as
numerous a progeny to bless her memory.
She seconded my motion for the family
to walk home with us, and it was
agreed to, with certain limitations as to
the time and extent of our demands;
which were forgotten by each in their
turn.
At length we set out on our return
home; a cloudless sky, and a full-orbed
moon not only favoured us, but there
was a serenity in the air which is seldom
found in so advanced a season, and which
seemed to favour the still lingering leaf
as it trembled on its parent stem. There
is something in a calm autumnal evening
which so resembles the closing in of a
well-spent life, that it naturally leads the
mind to contemplation, nay, to a pensiveness,
though not melancholy, which
“loves not noisy folly.” Our gay spirits
yielded to the influence of the objects
296around us. We sauntered, rather than
walked, and insensibly the party separated,
and our chat was broken into several
divisions. Mrs. Heartley and myself,
with the captain, had even lost sight
of our company, which had advanced
before us. Mr. Flint with enthusiasm
supported the opinion of a plurality of
worlds; and I sung a verse of Addison’s
sublime hymn.—“The spacious firmament
on high.” My companions partook
with me in the pious fervour of the poet;
and we moved so slowly, that had not
the sound of an horse’s feet accelerated
our steps, the traveller might have
thought us statues, or ghosts. An angle
in the road was in our path, and on
turning it, Mr. Snughead appeared. He
paid his compliments to me with a familiarity
which even startled me. “This
is fortunate!” cried he, stopping his horse
and endeavouring to dismount, “now
my incredulity is corrected! for will you
297credit me, when I tell you that in listening
to the seraphic strains you sung,
I said,
“Can any mortal mixture of earth’s mould
Breathe such divine inchanting ravishment?”
But I am convinced, and you must sing
again.” I instantly concluded that Mr.
Snughead had not dined en famille: retreating
therefore from his impatient
horse, I observed with good humour,
that it did not appear that his horse had
heard of the convention—“no song,
no supper,” and was not disposed to
loiter on his road. “I am already too
late,” added I, “but at your next visit
at the hall, I will sing.” This prudence
on my part was rewarded; he recollected
himself, bowed to the captain, and
wishing me good night, spurred his
horse.
Poor Miss Howard on losing sight of
298her uncle, felt all her terrors return.
“What would her aunt say to her? and
what was she to say to her aunt? She
would not believe her.” Mrs. Allen engaged
to stand as witness; and Malcolm
encouraged her by saying, “My mother
will plead your cause, never fear.” But I
verily believe the poor girl felt it, as a
respite from violence when Warner told
her that Miss Flint was asleep.
Mrs. Allen sends her blessing, and
your Rachel Cowley remains your affectionate
Sister and Friend.
You will, my dear Lucy, when you
have read this letter, commend me for
my caution. “I am well, and all here
are well, thank God for it!” Do not however
299fancy that I have not had an escape,
although the curricle has not been overset,
nor have I had a cold and sore throat
in consequence of my night walk.
In my last I mentioned that poor Mary
had suffered from being out so late; but
that her aunt wisely recollecting that
Sunday was the captain’s visiting day,
graciously admitted Mrs. Allen’s evidence
in favour of the poor culprit; and
that our Sabbath was a day of peace as
well as rest. I heard nothing of colds
or rheums that day.—On Monday, Mary
was kept hard at work upon the odious
carpet. I rode out with Sir Murdock
in the morning of the following day, and
on our return found your dear letter.
All was peace, in consequence, in your
Rachel’s bosom. But at dinner no
counterfeiting could conceal from me
the disorder which Lady Maclairn took
such pains to hide. It is incredible to
conceive, what a command of features
300this woman has acquired! But I detest her
when she dares not speak with frankness.
There is a tremulous play of the muscles
round her mouth, and a slowness in her
utterance that mark the struggle within.
On enquiring for Miss Flint and Mary,
who did not appear, we were told that
Miss Flint had a most oppressive nervous
head-ach, and that Miss Howard
had gotten a sore throat.—On Wednesday,
both the invalids were worse; for the
aunt was uneasy on Mary’s account who
was feverish. “Sir Murdock was, however,
to be amused.” He might fancy it would
turn to a putrid sore throat and be alarmed.
It is a pity, thought I, whilst
Lady Maclairn made all these excuses
for imposition, that nature had not given
you a different complexion! I was certain,
Lucy, that there was some mystery
in this business. Warner kept close, and
Mrs. Patty said that Miss Howard kept
her bed. I do not love mischief; therefore,
301to amuse my good baronet, who appeared
somewhat discomfited by the
sudden change in the weather, and his
lady’s frequent desertion of him in order
to attend the sick, I engaged him to
settle us in our winter quarters, and to
make shelves for the books lately sent
me from town. Two days incessant rain
were thus passed; and we learned that
the valetudinarians were recovering.—On
Sunday, Mrs. Allen and myself went to
church in the morning; and I was requested
to say to Captain Flint, that
Mary had been indisposed with a cold.
“He will find her altered,” added her
ladyship with one of her unlucky
blushes; “she has been very ill.” I
asked her whether there had been any
appearance of danger in the case. “No,”
replied she, “but her aunt has been
much distressed on her account. They
mean to dine below to-day, lest the captain
should be uneasy.”
302I delivered my commission with the
same precaution it was given me, and
whilst I was satisfying Mary’s friends on
the subject, Mr. Snughead passed me
with a supercilious bow, without taking
off his hat. On entering the parlour we
found it heated by a large fire; it was
really suffocating. Miss Flint, huddled
up in wrappers, had taken possession of
the great chair on one side of it. Mary,
with a face as pale as death, in a close
morning cap, a muslin cravat, and a
shawl closely pinned up, had her appointed
station on the other side. Her
cheek glowed however on seeing us;
but she appeared fluttered and weak.
Our congratulations followed, whilst the
captain looking with much seriousness at
her, said, “My dear child, why was I not
informed of your being ill?”—“It was
only a cold, Sir,” answered Mary with a
faint blush. “And a cold she has to
thank you for,” said the sister. “Night
303walks in October do not suit Mary. It
is well it was no worse, I expected only
a putrid fever.” The servants, for we
are old fashioned people on a Sunday,
had by this time covered the table; and
a smoaking sirloin graced the bottom of
it. Mary rose from her seat in visible
disorder, oppressed, as I thought, by the
heat of the room, and the savoury steams
of the dinner; but as she tottered to the
door, she burst into hysterical sobbings,
and Malcolm and myself prevented her
falling, for she fainted in our arms.
Malcolm placed her in a chair in the
vestibule. All was hurry and alarm.
Whilst others were searching for remedies,
and her uncle was supporting her
head, I hazarded to open the door into
the garden, observing that the air was
mild, and would restore her. It evidently
was useful, for she gave signs of
returning consciousness, but again relapsed.
“Take off that cravat,” said I,
304“and let her have more air.” I opened the
sash, which was nearer to her than the
door. Whilst giving this direction, the
captain obeyed. Judge of our sensations!
Her throat was black and bruised by a
violent grasp, and her bosom lacerated
by what appeared to be the strokes of a
cane or horse-whip. “God of Heaven
and of earth!” groaned out the captain,
“what means all this? To what am I
doomed!”—“My dear captain,” said
the almost breathless Lady Maclairn,
who now approached with some remedy,
“have patience, all shall be explained.
Your sister has been to blame; she is
sensible of it: she bitterly repents of her
violence: she has suffered, severely suffered
for it; all will still be well, only
have patience.” He heeded her not, but
with a look of horror and apparent calmness,
he surveyed for some moments
the marks of the outrage which had
been committed; then wrapping the
305shawl round the still insensible girl, he
attempted to raise her in his arms; but
they refused the office. Miss Flint now
ventured to open the door, to order the
servants to be summoned, and to carry
Mary upstairs, loudly reprehending us
for exposing her to the air. “Shame to
thy sex, begone!” cried the captain
with fury. “Urge me not, thou barbarian!
But art thou not here to exult
over thy victim?” He again drew off the
shawl. “This is Howard’s child, Lucretia!”
continued he, “this is thy sister’s
orphan!” A heavy sigh from Mary drew
his attention again; he attempted to
raise her; but his limbs trembled to that
degree, that he was forced to desist.
The prompt, the ever-succouring Allen
gave Malcolm a sign. He took Mary in his
arms, and carried her to my room, followed
by Mrs. Allen. The captain was on the
point of doing so likewise, when Miss
Lucretia darting towards him, and
306catching his coat, exclaimed, “You
shall hear me! She provoked me.”—No
language can convey to you, Lucy, the
expression with which he replied. “Yes!
I doubt it not! So did her hapless virtuous
mother! so did her noble-minded
father!” He paused, and raising his eyes
to Heaven, moved his lips as though in
silent ejaculation. “No,” said he in a
solemn tone of voice, “I will not curse
her! But,” added he, “God, Lucretia,
will call you to answer for this deed!”
“Hear me! only hear me!” screamed she.
“I only punished her insolence. I will
justify myself!”—“Never canst thou do
that,” replied he, “where humanity resides.”
He broke from her and turned
into the garden. A violent fit succeeded
to Miss Flint’s efforts; the servants with
difficulty conveyed her, in her struggles,
to her apartment, from whence even I
heard her screams. On entering my
room, I found Miss Howard laid on the
307bed, and much recovered though weeping.
“What confusion! what mischief
have I occasioned!” said she addressing
me. “Who was it, my dear Miss Cowley,
who took off my things? Was it not my
uncle? How unfortunate that I could
not get up stairs!”—“Say not so,” observed
the soothing Mrs. Allen, “but
rather, my clear child, be thankful to Providence
who has thus seasonably checked
your aunt’s violence; such a temper required
it.” Mr. Flint entered the room,
no longer was his face gloomy, and his
eyes sparkling with rage. He was pale
and languid, and sitting down by his
niece, he shed tears like an infant. “The
coach is preparing,” said he at length,
“can you make the effort my child?
I leave not this accursed house without
you.”—“I am much better, I am able to
go any where with you,” replied the poor
girl; “but my dear, dear uncle! leave
not my aunt in displeasure; indeed she
308is very sorry for what has passed, indeed
I had entirely forgiven her.”—“Name
her not,” answered the captain with emotion;
“go to your parents’ grave; see her
work there! Remember the protection
she promised you! But I will be just,”
continued he, suppressing his rising passions,
“to my credulity, to my easy
faith, you must attribute these scourges.
But who,” continued he, turning to us,
“could have conceived that any hand
could have inflicted such cruelty on a
creature like this, and that hand a sister’s!
But we will depart, my child, to that home
where your bruises will be healed, and I
shall be justly reproved for the pride and
ambition which caused them. Your
asylum is secure, and you will have bread
and peace.”
My hitherto restrained tears now flowed
abundantly: it was well for me they did,
for the throbbing in my temples was excruciating.
I attempted to speak; but I
309could only say with extreme emotion,
“Dismiss your fears for her, her happiness
shall be my care.” A look was the
thanks I received. The coach drew up,
and Malcolm entered the room. Whilst
Mrs. Allen prepared Mary, he said in a
whisper, “I leave my father to you.
Miss Flint is in strong convulsions, the
doctor is sent for, and my mother is
dreadfully alarmed.” He carried Mary
to the carriage, and accompanied her and
the captain to the Abbey.
Mrs. Allen went to assist Lady Maclairn,
and I to perform a duty which was
become pressing, for I had not seen Sir
Murdock from the first signal of alarm.
I recollected this circumstance with a
sensation of terror undefinable at this
moment; and quickening my steps, met
a servant whom I believe I frightened by
my eagerness, for in reply to my question,
he said, with some hesitation of manner,
that he had seen Sir Murdock go into
310the garden, and, if I pleased, he would go
with me to look for him. I saw the
conclusion he had drawn, and therefore,
with collected ease, replied that I should
soon meet him.
For sometime, however, the object of
my search eluded me; at last I perceived
him sitting in a nook so concealed, that
it serves the gardener for his rollers, &c.
He resembled a statue rather than a living
creature; and was so lost in thought, that
he neither heard my steps nor saw me
when I stood before him. He was speaking,
however, and I heard him say,
“Are there no remedies? Is she dead?
Will not Heaven spare her? Destruction
must have monsters for its work!”—I
took his hand and he started. “I come
to seek you,” said I, in a cheerful tone;
“Miss Howard is recovered, and gone
home with her uncle. I want you to
give me some coffee.” He looked at me.—“Angel
of peace!” said he, in a low
311voice, “art thou still near me?”—I again
spoke. “Your daughter, your adopted
daughter, my dear Sir Murdock, is near
you,” observed I, “but you do not heed
her. It is cold here, and she begs you to
enter the house.” I gently took him by
the arm; he again started as from a
dream.—“My dear Miss Cowley,” said
he, rising, “is it you that I see here!”—I
repeated my entreaties, and he instantly
took the way to the house and inquired
whether Miss Howard had seen his wife
before she left the hall. “Lady Maclairn
has been with Miss Flint,” replied
I, “who is ill; but we shall all rejoice at
the events of this day when more composed.
Mary Howard shall never want
the protection of her aunt.”—“Your
purpose is worthy of you, Miss Cowley,”
replied the baronet, with collected dignity
and energy, “and in your intentions
of goodness, as these relate to this
injured girl, your path is not only easy
312but pleasant. But what can you do or
say for Sir Murdock Maclairn and his
wife, under whose ostensible roof innocence
has been oppressed and ill-used?
My supposed infirmity of mind,—would
to God it were only supposition!—may
screen me from ignominy with the charitable.
But can generosity or candour
find an apology for my wife? Will it
not be said, and with truth, that she was
a daily witness of the improper treatment
which Miss Howard received from her
aunt? Will it not be said, that she knew
of the outrage committed recently; and
that, in order to spare the offender, she
concealed it from the poor suffering
girl’s friends? Will censure stop here?
Oh, no! it will be alledged that lady
Maclairn encouraged this woman in her
cruelty!”—“The most confirmed rancour
would refuse to credit such a tale of
Lady Maclairn, if told,” answered I,
with seriousness. “There is not a menial
313in her family would not refute it, and
bear witness to her gentleness and humanity.
Every one has seen her unremitting
attentions to Miss Howard’s comfort,
and her endeavours to render her
aunt kinder to her. She trusted that
Mary’s assiduities would, in time, soften
down the asperities of Miss Flint’s temper.
She knew that her interference
would be liable to misconstructions; and
though she has suffered but little less than
Miss Howard, since her residence here,
yet she has not dared to oppose her
remaining, lest it should be thought that
she feared her influence might be unfriendly
to her son’s interest. I have
seen Lady Maclairn’s difficulties from
the first hour of my being here,” continued
I, “I have seen her miserable on
this poor girl’s account; and I am certain
she was a stranger to the treatment
she has lately undergone.”—“You plead
to a partial hearer,” answered he, deeply
sighing; “I know that to my Harriot
314a scene of such violence would have been
death. But is it not incomprehensible
to you how such a mind as her’s
should have retained for this woman an
affection so determined and so constant?
Why does she persist in living with her?
Why subject herself to mortifications and
degradations to please her caprice?”—“Lady
Maclairn is human;” replied I,
with a smile, “she is a mother, and a
tender mother; and she may, with justice,
expect that her son Philip will be
benefited by these sacrifices of her care.
Besides these motives, there are others
more exalted, which prompt her zeal.
What would this woman have been?
What would she be without Lady Maclairn?
To whom is she indebted for the
little humanity which she does shew?”—The
baronet appeared silently to acquiesce
in my sentiments; but I found he
was again withdrawn into his own mind.
I, however, found it not difficult to
rouse him; for on my observing that
315poor Lady Maclairn would be anxious
for his safety in so chilling an air, he
quickened his steps. His wife was indeed
anxious! She burst into tears on
seeing him, and the interesting Sir Murdock
seemed to have no care but that of
soothing her distress. “You must listen
to Miss Cowley, my Harriot,” said he,
“she will teach you to rejoice at the
captive’s deliverance.”—“I could and
should rejoice,” answered she, “that
poor Mary is freed from the hardest of
all servitudes, did I not see Lucretia so
struck with a sense of her fault and disgrace
as to be in danger of her life. She
is an unhappy woman,” added she, with
emotion, “and I cannot help pitying
her.” No reply was made. Mrs. Allen
now entered with the coffee, and I found
by her report, that in getting Miss Flint
to her room, the servants, unable to
hold her in her struggles, had let her slip
from their arms, and she had hurt her knee
very much; she was, however, asleep;
316the doctor had seen her, and the servants
had got a respite. Mary was composed
and much better. I retired to my
room, and continued to solace my
mind by viewing this day of Mary’s
emancipation as a happy event. I really
considered the horse-whipping part of
the business with the stoical indifference
of a mail-coach driver, when I contrasted
it with the good effects it was likely to
produce. In a week Mary may forget
the discipline, and all will be well; but I
sincerely wish it may lead Miss Flint to
consider whether it might not turn to
good account to scourge herself. Moderate
flagellation would neither hurt her
temper of body or mind.—But lest you
should be induced to think unfavourably
of my tender mercies, I shall conclude this
letter; and you will, I trust, give the
kiss of peace to your
Rachel Cowley.
END OF VOL. I.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.