LADY MACLAIRN,
                                  THE
                          _VICTIM OF VILLANY_.
                                A NOVEL.

                            IN FOUR VOLUMES.


                             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.


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 no 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_.




                                CHAP. I.


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 qualified 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 attaining 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 roof, 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 gained 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. Mrs.
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 favourable 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 to 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 no 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 with 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. To 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 whole 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 nor 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. Happily 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 not
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 the 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_.’ This 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 word. 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 only 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 have 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 meet 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, Hardcastle, 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 which 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 comer 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
every 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 instance 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 “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 difficulty 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, strengthened
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 sexes, 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.

During 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 the 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; and 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. Mr. 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 appointed, 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 the 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
her 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 over 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.


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 and 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 of 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
mother, 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 medicine
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 time 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.
Perfectly 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, “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 with 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 by 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, Lucy 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, my
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 lived, 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 succeeded 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 transmitted 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 to 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 happiness 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 conceived 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 his 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; and
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 every 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 determined 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. I 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 counteracted 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
worthy _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 may, 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_.”

A 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.
Hardcastle 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 in 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 sweetmeats, 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. In 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 my
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, not _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 Miss 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,” adds 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 Miss 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 the 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 with 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 to 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 in 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 was 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
the 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 Miss 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 clearness 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 chicanery 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 more 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. But 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 a 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 of 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 by 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, and 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 which 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 sanctions.
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.

Soon 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.


                       “_To Counsellor Steadman._

                                              “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 hatred. 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; and 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 officer 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 became 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 other. 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 was 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 contained 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 in 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, has 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: I 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.


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 sufficient 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 father’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? He 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 you 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 influence 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 which 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 though 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.


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 occasion 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 guardian 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 in 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.


                               LETTER I.
                 _From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

                                                   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 not 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 Mr. 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 say, 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
severity, 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. Allen’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.


                               LETTER II.
                    _Miss Cowley, in continuation._

                                                              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 undertaking 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 substantiated 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 credit 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 appeared 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 should 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 sensibility, 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 will 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; for 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 do 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.


                              LETTER III.
                      _From the same to the same._

Your father’s wisdom in hurrying you away to Barton-lodge, instead of
permitting you to remain at Heathcot, like 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 gratification
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 being
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 slow, 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.

For 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, could 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 no 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 such 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
proceeded. 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
smiled 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 dear 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 as 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 devoted 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._

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 swell 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 had 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.

I 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, who, 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 again! 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 the 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
Heavens!” 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.

I 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. “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, wiping
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; your 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 had 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.

In 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
complexion? 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
shall recant, and the triumph of truth shall be that of your

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.


                               LETTER V.
                      _From the same to the same._

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 doing 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 the 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 after 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 had 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 when 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 petulant 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 her 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
and 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
in 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, “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 endowed 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. Ignorance 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 us 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
advantage 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 be, 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, “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, include 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 between
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 your 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
had; 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 in 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. The 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._

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 which 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 violent 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, that 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 with 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 become
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 followed 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 to 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,
“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 with 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; yet 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 my 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_; and 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 pleasure 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 close 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.


                              LETTER VII.
                      _From the same to the same._

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 veins; 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 once
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 aunt, 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 me,
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 this 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 _any 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: I 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 could 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 not 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. What 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 breakfast. 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; but 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 and 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 certainly 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 quite 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, that 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 words: “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, and 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 down 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 mass 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 had 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 of our evening walk. You will lose nothing by my going to
bed; for I am weary, and somewhat of your petulant

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.


                              LETTER VIII.
                   _Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

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 us 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 being 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 cheerfulness 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 my 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
precluded 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 me. 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 her,” 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
Malcolm 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 has 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, I
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.

Whether 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 in 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 thousands 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 who 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 world 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.


                               LETTER IX.
                      _From the same to the same._

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 with 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 esteem 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.


                               LETTER IX.
                           _In continuation._

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 Cowley “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 time, 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 parish, 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 that 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 jointure 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 he 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 might, 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 Malcolm’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 her 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, that 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 prudence, 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. Mr. 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 be 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 ambition. 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 aunt 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 in 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, “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, left 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 happy,—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.


                               LETTER X.
                      _From the same to the same._

_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 grave 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 air, 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 prayer 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 into 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 drawn 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 pretty 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 even 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
polished 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 to 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 Murdock’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.” “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 appears 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? No, 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 than 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, which 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 and 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 that 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 thunder.”—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 enjoy 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; “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 I, 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 fees 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, and 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 contrived 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 those 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 dear 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.


                          NOTE TO THE READER.

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
Howard’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. My 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.


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.


                               LETTER XI.
                 _From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

I send you, my dear Lucy, with my thanks to Counsellor Steadman for his
letter, 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.
Heartley’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 or 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 and 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.


                   _Saturday Evening, Nine O’clock._

Not chusing to part with the serenity I have brought home with me, I
have left 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; but 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 on 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 and 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 harpsichord; 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 say, 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 after 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 as 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 around 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 credit 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 her 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.


                              LETTER XII.
                  _Rachel Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

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 fancy 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 this 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, to 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.”

I 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 walks 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, “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 shawl
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 catching 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 bed, 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
is 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 could 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 the 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 voice,
“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 but 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 in 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 a 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 poor 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; the 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


 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.