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 GRUBTHORPE FAMILY; PALMERSTONE'S LETTERS, &c. &c.

 VOL. II.


 _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 and Sultzer, Water Lane, Fleet Street._]




 LADY MACLAIRN,
 THE
 _VICTIM OF VILLANY_.




CHAP. I.


LETTER XIII.

_Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

 Wednesday Evening.

I Know, my dear Lucy, that you will expect the sequel of the disastrous
tale contained in my last letter; and that you will very ingeniously
contrive to muster up many conclusive arguments to prove that Rachel
Cowley's health will be absolutely ruined at Tarefield. Facts are,
however, stubborn things. She has passed this trial of her strength
without a fever on her nerves, notwithstanding a cold which, on Monday
and yesterday, gave her a pretence for keeping her apartment and
nursing the poor baronet.

On the Monday morning Malcolm gave me to understand, with visible
uneasiness, that his father had betaken himself to the lately deserted
room, with the grated windows, and he implored me to endeavour to
allure him from it. I wrote a card instantly, informing him I waited
breakfast for him, and that I had a new book for his perusal. It
succeeded; but I was shocked to see the effects of _one_ night's
disturbance of that mind, which we had exultingly seen settling into
tranquillity. He was shivering and languid, and told his wife he
had taken cold; but she perceived, as well as myself, that he was
dispirited and extremely nervous. Nothing can equal this woman! To
see her at this moment, I could not but love her. She was calm and
cheerful; soothing and tender; whilst in a thousand various ways
she diverted his attention; and although I knew she had watched at
Miss Flint's bedside from three o'clock, she did not name her, nor
did she appear fatigued. I took my turn to be good, and, dismissing
her, said, that as I had also a cold, the valetudinarians would have
but one infirmary; that she might dispose of Mrs. Allen, for we meant
to be in the sullens and read. Sir Murdock raised his dejected head;
the eye was animated, and I was contented. I took my work and placed
before him the Vicar of Wakefield. "Shall I not read it aloud?" asked
he.--"No," replied I, "unless you find a passage that particularly
strikes you." He bowed, for Sir Murdock Maclairn is the truly polite
man. I soon perceived that his attention was engaged. Whose is not,
Lucy, by that work? This made me happy; yes, happy, I repeat, for I
reverence this interesting man; and I believe there is a fatal grief
which will, whilst he lives, oppress his mind. Mrs. Allen soon joined
us; she was also the invalid; but it slackened not her industry. She
took up your hearth-rug. Her dose of camphor-julap went round, and
Goldsmith had too many beauties for the baronet to be long silent. The
morning thus glided away, and we dined where we were. Malcolm, with
undissembled joy, found us comfortable, and the evening was given to
the chess-board. I slept, Lucy, for I had passed the day in blunting
the barbed arrow, which, if I am not much mistaken, still wounds Sir
Murdock.--Tuesday was fair; I wanted a ride; the curricle and my knight
were in readiness; and we returned home the better for our long airing.
This morning it was Mrs. Allen's turn to wish for a ride, and the good
Sir Murdock with alacrity indulged her wish.

Malcolm and myself, immediately after their departure, took the road
to the Abbey. To say the truth, I felt a little fine-ladyish, and
walked not with my usual alertness. My good natured escort, perceived
it. "I am astonished," observed he, slackening his pace, and offering
me his arm, "to see your spirits and perseverance! You are now so
fatigued, that any other but yourself would fancy this walk improper
for you."--"The sun cheers me," replied I, "and idleness will yield
to this bracing air."--"Your motives," answered he, "will always give
animation and vigour to your mind; for it seems to me, that it is the
business of your life to communicate joy or consolation to all around
you! Tell me," continued he, "that your recompence is adequate to
your labours. In the absence of your accustomed amusements, remote
from friends endeared to you by time and experience, and qualified
for that preference you must feel for them, I see you cheerful, and
apparently contented, in a situation marked for the residence of care;
but my admiration of your magnanimity, Miss Cowley, has not, nor
cannot lessen my regrets at seeing you sacrificed to these duties by
an usurped authority over your freedom. Tarefield cannot be otherwise
than a place of banishment to you."--"Spare your compassion, my good
friend," answered I, "till you have my warrant for indulging it. I
should be ungrateful, as well as childish, were I discontented in your
mother's society. I am sensible of the constant attention paid to my
comforts by every individual in your family; and I do most sincerely
assure you, that I am as happy at Tarefield, as I should be any where,
under the peculiar circumstances in which I am at present."--"We
might be more worthy of you," replied he with seriousness, "were we
not slaves ourselves; but, notwithstanding your generous assertion,
I have myself witnessed your surprise and vexation at my mother's
submissions to Miss Flint, and at the subordinate station she fills
in her own house, for such is at present Tarefield-hall. It cannot
but appear extraordinary to you, to see two women so diametrically
opposite in character and temper as my mother and this woman, so
connected, that neither the capricious exactions on the one part, nor
the decided love of praise and independence on the other, can weaken
the ties which have united them. It is by no means a solution of
this enigma with me, to be reminded, that my mother submits to this
galling yoke from the consideration of her son Philip's interest. I
know she is neither sordid nor designing; and that she would prefer
poverty, were she at liberty to chuse, rather than invade on the least
of my father's wishes, much less his happiness; yet she is well
aware, that _for years_ Tarefield has been irksome to him. Sometimes
I think," continued Malcolm, "that my mother conceives herself bound
to the fulfilment of a promise made to her first husband, to remain
for her life with his favourite daughter. Mr. Flint might, without
any miraculous powers, have foreseen that neither his wealth nor
Lucretia's qualities, could secure her, if destitute of a friend
like my mother, who has incessantly laboured to humanize her. But I
am persuaded, that if such a promise had paused her lips, she would
have thought it sacred; and yet she was once on the point of breaking
her chains."--Malcolm paused, as expecting my answer. "I have been
told," observed I, "that Miss Flint once loved your uncle; may not
this circumstance have had its weight with Lady Maclairn?" "It has
not been overlooked by me," answered Malcolm; "but if there ever did
exist a mutual passion between Flamall and Miss Flint, it was worn out
before I could discover it, or rather converted into mutual hatred;
except on one point of agreement, that of favouring their idol Philip,
and tormenting me. Their marked partiality was one means employed to
render my mother miserable; and as for myself, I can with truth affirm
that my infant enjoyments, my youthful pleasures, and I might add,
the best affections of my nature, were contracted and checked by the
influence of Mr. Flamall and the jealousy of Miss Flint. It is the
peculiar privilege of my _cunning_ uncle, Miss Cowley, to effect his
purposes by exciting _fear_; and, extraordinary as it may appear to
you, he had not only established its empire over my meek mother, but
also, over the termagant Miss Flint. She was taught by him, to consider
me, even when in my cradle, as an intruder on Philip's rights. She
regarded my mother's attachment to me as unjust, and defrauding that
child of its exclusive claims to love. My mother suckled me herself;
her health had not admitted of this duty when Philip was born; and
from this advantage, I conceive, resulted her apprehensions, that my
dear mother loved me better than she did my brother. How little was
this woman qualified to judge of lady Maclairn!" continued Malcolm
with emotion. "Her wisdom alone counteracted the pernicious effects
of these prejudices, longer than could have been expected. Philip was
my senior by nearly two years: he was a sweet-tempered child, and,
directed by his mother, constantly disposed to play with me; but I was
a sturdy, active boy, and soon equal to Philip in strength and stature.
His compliances with my wishes were checked by his uncle and aunt, as
being improper, and leading, him into mischief. My daring spirit was
called an _insolent_ one, and my careless indifference to favour, was
stiled _obduracy_ and _stubbornness_. Secure of my mother's protection,
and contented with my own pursuits, I continued to live with Philip on
good terms, till I saw preparations going forward for his being placed
at Harrow school. Conscious that I had abilities for learning, I felt
mortified, that no plan for my improvement had been thought of; and I
saw Philip depart with emotions not remote from envy.

"From that hour, I felt ill-will towards my unoffending brother, and
was stimulated by a proud sense of injustice, to shun his kindness,
and to refuse his good offices. At this junction, I found a welcome
at Mr. Wilson's house, and a companion and friend in Henry Heartley.
Mr. Flamall and Miss Flint were displeased with the frequency of my
visits. I was lectured by my uncle, and sternly admonished not to
go to the Abbey. 'My mother approves of my going there,' replied I,
'and as I am not sent to school like my brother, it is my business
to get learning where I can find it.' 'And who prevents your mother
sending you to school?' replied he with a sneer: 'some of your Scotch
relations would find and instruct you for ten pounds a year, and get
money by you.' 'They could not for any sum,' answered I, 'give me
the lessons I receive from you: for, if like my father, they must be
_gentlemen_ and _honourable men_.' His rage was exhausted by the usual
epithets, I was 'an insolent puppy, a stubborn dog,' and my pride was
that of beggary. I may have merited some of this censure; for certain
it is that not even my mother could prevail upon me to bend to my
supercilious uncle, or to pay my court to Miss Lucretia, even when she
relaxed into good humour. I carefully shunned her, and was silent in
her presence. My father's unhappy malady quickened my sensibility, and
gave poignancy to the reflections which were forced upon me. Flamall's
tone of authority cut me to the soul; and his want of tenderness to my
wretched mother, produced in my mind a rooted an aversion to this man,
which I can neither conquer, nor do I wish to conquer it." "Oh Miss
Cowley!" continued he, "it is impossible for me to say what my mother's
sufferings have been! Unsupported, she watched over her husband with
unremitting care, patience, and love! She has been his saving angel!
And when disease and despair triumphed over their victim, her soothings
and her faithfulness, were the healing balm that lulled him to repose."

"One day, shortly after Philip's removal to the university at
Edinburgh, whither he was sent to finish his studies, I found my
mother in the garden in an agony of tears; and on my urging her to tell
me what had so affected her, she informed me, that Mr. Flamall had been
talking to her of the _absolute necessity_ of placing my father in a
private mad-house near Durham; insisting upon it, that her indulgence
was pernicious and would render him incurable. 'I have told Lucretia,'
added she, 'that I wish to be any where, rather than be a burden to
her, or further exposed to my brother's unfeeling advice in a business
with which he has nothing to do. She has generously resented this
conduct of your uncle's, and they have had a very serious quarrel; but
it will be settled, as most are, at my expence!'--'But is there no
place of refuge for us,' asked I with resentment, 'but a mad-house?
Even _that_ or a gaol would be a paradise to me, could we call our cell
our own. Let us leave this house; my industry'----She prevented my
proceeding, by saying with solemnity, '_I cannot, Malcolm!_' Miss Flint
is not weary of me; and she only can break the chains that keep me
under this roof. Your father has comforts here. She wishes him to have
an asylum in her house. You know not this woman; I do: and I know also,
that my brother is jealous of her affection for me. To this meanness, I
attribute the barbarity of his advice this morning, and the inhumanity
with which he urged me to remove the '_maniac_' where he would be
'_properly treated_.' Miss Flint's appearance with Mr. Flamall, still
more disconcerted me. She asked me what was the matter, and whether my
mother was ill. 'I understand, Madam,' answered I, 'that Mr. Flamall's
project had been communicated to you, as well as it is now to me.
But,' added I, fixing my indignant eyes on the stately gentleman,
'my mother will soon be better: I have convinced her, that a more
equitable judgment and skill than any _here_, must pronounce my father
a lunatic, before even his _wife_ has the right of confining him to a
mad-house. Sir Murdock Maclairn needs neither a cell nor the strait
waistcoat.' My uncle aimed a blow at my head with a stout cudgel he had
in his hand, by way of reply to my observation; and the first and only
favour I have to acknowledge to Miss Flint, was probably, saving me
from a fractured skull, for the weapon was heavy and knobbed. She not
only warded off the stroke, but with amazing strength held his arms. I
smiled with contempt at his fury. 'Your mode of attack,' said I with
cool scorn, 'is consistent with yourself; but remember I _am Maclairn's
son_ for the future, and that I am not enfeebled by sickness, nor mad.
I fear you not; for I despise you.' My poor mother franticly implored
me to retire: I was deaf to her intreaties. Miss Flint's rhetoric
and amazonian power prevailed. She dragged Mr. Flamall from the spot,
foaming with rage, and bestowing his maledictions, instead of his
cudgel, on my head. From that hour we never exchanged a word, beyond
the few which were necessary at our meals.

"I have reason to believe that Miss Flint on this occasion was not
displeased with the 'stubborn dog.' It is certain, that she behaved to
me with more civility than ordinary for some time after this proof of
my obstinacy: the mad-house was never mentioned from that period.

"It may not be improper to account to you, Miss Cowley, for the
resentment I felt on the mere proposal of this measure. I did not
think my father's intellects in a state that required such treatment.
I knew that his malady had originated from a dreadful illness, brought
on by a sudden stroke of adversity when he was a young man; to this,
was to be attributed a peculiarity in his general habits of life, and
a tincture of sadness, which shaded his character, and repressed his
activity. But during his long confinement he constantly knew me, and
his wife; and was apparently easy, and even tranquil, when we were
by his side, though terror and alarm followed on every intrusion by
others; and an unusual noise, or step, produced silence and dejection
on him for hours; nay, sometimes days. At other times, we had the
cheering consolations of hope to support us. He would examine my little
drawings, sketch with a pencil a more correct outline, check me when
playing out of time on my flute, and beat the measure with his hand.
When reading to my mother, he would listen, and observe, 'I remember
something of that passage, read it again.' I did so, and although I
perceived the fleeting image had disappeared, yet it confirmed me in my
hopes that time would restore my father. Under this conviction you may
judge that I was not disposed to listen with patience to the opinion
and brotherly counsel of Flamall, who had by a thousand indications,
shewn me that my father's fate was perfectly indifferent to him.

"Engaged in my duty to my parents, and considering from day to day,
that young as I was, my mother had no protector but myself, I refused
to accept of her proposal of going to the free-school at Durham. She
was vexed by my resistance; and in the fulness of my heart, I mentioned
my difficulty to Captain Flint. He had been very useful to me, from the
first of my intimacy with Henry Heartley, whom he educated: but from
this time, he wrote to my mother, and undertook my defence, engaging to
be my preceptor. If I have not profited by his talents, it is my own
fault; but I have gained from him one lesson, and that will carry me
through life I trust, without disgracing my Maker, or my best friend on
earth.

"My brother's recall from Edinburgh was, in the course of events, the
next occurrence of importance to me. This summons was in consequence
of Mr. Oliver Flint's earnest wish to see his young brother. Death
had bereaved him of his two last surviving children, boys, nearly of
Philip's age; and to this invitation to my brother, were added promises
of receiving him as his heir. Mr. Flamall's opinion had weight with
my mother, for it included his resolution of going with his nephew to
Jamaica, the better to understand, and to secure to him the advantages
held out. Miss Flint calculated her brother Oliver's age and fortune,
and recalled to her memory the extensive and beautiful plantation on
which she had first seen the light. Avarice combated with fondness;
and she yielded, trusting to Mr. Flamall's care, and the declining
state of health of this poor afflicted father, for her idol's return
to England. Philip arrived at Tarefield from the university; I had not
seen him for a year and a half; and I was struck by the improvement of
his person. 'He was always handsome,' added Malcolm smiling; 'but the
Adonis had given place to more masculine comeliness; and his deportment
was become serious, and rather reserved. We had mutually attained to
those years which precluded rudeness, and I was treated as a gentleman,
and I hope I shewed him that I was one; yet I saw Philip's advances to
more familiarity like 'a stubborn dog,' for my heart receded from his
_civilities_.

"One morning I met my brother in the avenue, in my way from the Abbey.
He appeared to be lost in thought, and I fancied he was weeping. On
perceiving me, he assumed a gay air, and asked me where I had been
rambling. 'I have been no where,' answered I, 'but with my friends
at Wilson's.'--'Am I never, Malcolm,' said he with emotion, 'to have
the comfort of finding my name in that list? Shall I never hear the
voice of affection from a brother whom I love, and who is only unjust
to me? Let me at least,' added he, offering me his hand, 'have this
consolation before I leave England. I need it!' I did not refuse
it, Madam, but my heart smote me; for I received his offered love
ungraciously. 'I see,' said he, his fine face glowing, and his voice
trembling, 'that I have no brother! Malcolm Maclairn is lost to me!'
He turned away abruptly, whilst conscience-struck, I cursed those
whose folly and injustice had rendered me callous to the pleadings
of nature. I was ashamed of my conduct; and lest I should afflict my
mother, forbore to mention this incident. From that hour I shunned
Philip's eyes; for I felt his superiority of temper a reproach; and his
increasing sadness became an intolerable weight on my spirits. Miss
Flint's dejection at this time appeared to have changed her nature;
my mother's firmness seemed to have the direction of her will; and
her fondness for 'Harriot' rose in proportion as the hour approached,
when she was to lose sight of her Philip. On the morning of Philip's
departure, I and my mother breakfasted with him, at a very early
hour, in Miss Flint's apartment. Mr. Flamall vainly tried to render
the repast cheerful. The servant announced that all was in readiness.
Philip rose with extreme agitation. 'One embrace,' said he, 'extending
his arms and turning towards me, 'one embrace, Malcolm! It may be a
brother's last request! Let me depart with the hope that if we do meet
again, affection will welcome me!' I was subdued! penetrated to the
very soul! I burst into tears, and convulsed by my feelings, could
only say, 'My brother! and my friend!' He pressed me to his bosom with
energy. 'We are united!' cried I; 'no distance or time shall separate
us! on earth or in heaven we will be brothers!' Mr. Flamall remarked,
that I had ill chosen my time for pathetics, and gravely reminded
Philip to behave like a man; but his lessons were useless; for our
attention was now called to Miss Flint, who was in hysterics, and my
weeping but collected mother urged her son to depart. I have somehow
or other slid into a narrative, and I may as well finish my story,"
continued Malcolm. "I found that Philip had left me his fine hunter
for a '_keep-sake_,' according to his groom's report. George, for
obvious reasons, delivered his commission before Miss Flint, adding,
that his master had refused an hundred guineas from Squire Forster;
because he thought I should like to ride a horse of his. ''Tis like
my noble boy!' exclaimed Miss Flint. She paused, and after a struggle
with her feelings, said with some bitterness, 'time must shew, how this
brother's gift is received.' My heart prompted the reply; but my mother
was present. Freed from Mr. Flamall's influence, and determined not
to invade on the tranquillity which succeeded his absence, I settled
into reserve and civility with Miss Lucretia Flint; and perhaps her
dislike of me might have settled into mere indifference; but my sin was
ever before her; for I persisted in loving my friends at the Abbey:
and in due time she was informed, 'that I courted Miss Heartley.' My
mother, who well knew my attachment to Alice, behaved with firmness
on this occasion, as she had always done in my behalf. She instantly
gave her _sister_, as she calls her _tormentor_, to understand, that
a son who had devoted his whole life to his duty as a child, and who
was perfectly competent to judge of his own situation in the world,
should meet with no controul, beyond that which his own prudence and
regard to his parents enforced." "So," added Malcolm, smiling, "I still
go a courting, in spite of Miss Lucretia. But this late disturbance
had roused my angry passions; and I was serious with my mother. Last
night I told her with frankness, that I would carry a musket for my
bread, rather than live in an abode in which my father's peace was
interrupted, and in which she was a passive slave.--'And what was her
answer?' asked I. Tears, replied he, _tears_, which when I behold,
unman me, and which I reproach myself for having caused. She says, Miss
Flint upbraids herself more than I can do; that she is miserable; and
sums up all, by imploring me to have patience, and to spare her on the
only subject in which she must contradict and oppose me. 'You will, I
trust,' added she, 'soon have a home of your own: so do I fervently
hope _I_ shall; but when I quit this house, Malcolm, it will be for
the shelter of my grave.' I was so struck by her manner, that I am
determined to press her no farther on the subject, if I can help it.
In the mean time, I sometimes think, that my dear mother is secretly
governed in this abject submission, from her wish to promote my union
with Alice: it may be, Miss Flint has promised her to advance a sum of
money for my establishment. Yet, my dear Miss Cowley, never did there
exist a more noble and disinterested woman, than Lady Maclairn! and she
well knows that both Miss Heartley and myself would reject Miss Flint's
favours with scorn. We have comforts which she cannot invade, nor could
we relish any which she could purchase for us. We see each other
without restraint, and by a reciprocal confidence, and solid affection,
we mutually soften the delay, which prudence exacts, of a union in
which we shall be more completely happy."

Malcolm had touched a chord in my bosom. "You are to be envied," said
I with eagerness. "How many are there, with your honour and fidelity,
who have not your consolations! Alice is a happy creature to some I
could name." He pressed my arm to his breast. "Neither Miss Heartley,
nor her Malcolm deserves to be happy," said he, "if they could be so,
knowing you otherwise." I blushed: "I know your difficulties," added
he, "if I be condemned for hating with a perfect hatred, I must look
to you for my excuses. But I have omitted to tell you, that I wrote to
Philip before he embarked; and received from him a kind letter. To
one I wrote him after his arrival in Jamaica, I have had no answer.
Mr. Flamall is at the bottom of this mischief; and trusting to this
conjecture, I wrote again to my brother, and by this means gave Mr.
Flamall a full evidence of being still incorrigible in respect to
my duty as _his nephew_. But, my dear Miss Cowley, the reign of _a
Flamall_ is short; we shall see him in a very different point of view,
before he quits the stage, or I am much deceived."--"And I shall
be much disappointed," said I with emotion; "and what is more, Mr.
Maclairn, it shall not be my fault if he does not repent." The girls
now perceiving us, advanced to meet us; and Malcolm forgot his dear
uncle.

What will you say of a mother so beloved, and so extolled as Lady
Maclairn? She is still an enigma to me. I am convinced that Miss Flint
can have no influence, but what is supported by fear: and wherefore
should Lady Maclairn fear her? That is the question. It is _now_ that
Lucy Hardcastle is tenderly beloved without fear, by her.

 Rachel Cowley.




CHAP II.


LETTER XIV.

_From the same to the same._

You were very good in your last letter, my dear girl, and I thank you;
although with the _heart-burn_. Is it not hard that I must hear my
brother is well, &c. &c. by a breach of duty on your part? And would it
not be barbarous if you could keep to the letter of your father's harsh
law? He, above all men, ought to know that offences are multiplied by
the severities of penal statutes. I have heard him say this many times;
therefore Mr. Hardcastle is an inconsistent man. Tell him so for me,
and add, if you will, that Rachel Cowley is still Rachel Cowley, and
will, in spite of his scruples, be his child. But I see this will not
do. There! I have taken up another pen.

The captain, after our first greetings, the other morning, drew me
aside, and with some solemnity thanked me for the "generous" concern
I had shewn in favour of his niece. "I feel," added he, "that my
honour demands its acquittal from you: and till you know my motives
for resigning up an orphan committed to my care, to the authority and
direction of _Miss Flint_, I am certain you must blame me. I am however
unequal to the recital of events, which ought to have forewarned me,
that hatred and envy were incurable. My error arose from my ignorance
of their unbridled power over minds in which they have once taken
up their abode. Heaven be praised! my poor girl is once more in my
protecting, though feeble arms; and when I quit her, she will find her
Maker still her friend."--"You may safely rest in that hope," answered
I, with seriousness; "for already hath he appointed an agent for the
purposes of his fatherly goodness: and when I forsake this young and
innocent being, may his bounteous hand direct my abundance into a
different, and more worthy channel! I want a sister," said I smiling,
"and you must give me one!" He bowed, and without replying hastily
retired.

Mary, with her muslin wrappers, and still languid complexion, never
appeared more amiable: she assumed however more gaiety than she felt;
for I saw with satisfaction, that she was anxious about her uncle.
"I will shew you my little chamber," said she in a caressing tone;
"will you go?" I followed her, and seating myself on her little white
dimity bed, observed that half a breadth of her aunt's cross-stitch
carpet would cover her room. "It is this poor miserable aunt, I want
to speak about," returned she; "I cannot forgive myself for having
occasioned so much confusion and trouble. My dear uncle is so angry
and vexed!"--"That will go off," returned I; "and as for your aunt,
leave her to herself: you have done with her, and I am too angry to
talk about her. What a neat room you have here!"--"Yet I could not
sleep in it these last nights," said she sighing.--"Was there not a
little self-reproach under your pillow?" asked I. "Did you not reflect,
that, by concealing so long your aunt's conduct, you had been imposing
on your uncle; and were striking at the root of his comforts, by
endangering your health."--"What could I do, my dear Miss Cowley?"
replied she in a deprecating tone. "I was no stranger to my uncle's
narrow income. How could I be easy, whilst sharing with him comforts,
barely sufficient for himself! I was unfortunately not fitted for
labour, and too young to encounter the world without friends, in any
situation. I thought I had reasonable claims on my aunt; and how was
it possible for me to conceive that she would be unkind to me, because
she had been cruel to my parents?" Her tears flowed unrestrainedly.
"When she proposed taking me," continued the artless girl, "and said,
I should no longer be a burden on my uncle, I felt I loved her; and as
she had no longer Mr. Philip to comfort her in her solitude, I hoped
to render myself both useful and agreeable to her. I was disappointed;
but my lot was not harder than that of thousands: and although Miss
Flint's temper was harsh, and her behaviour discouraging, I met with
kindness from all besides, and was sheltered from evil. Was I not
right to submit, and keep my secret? I knew that if I had dropped a
word to Alice, I should have returned hither; and then my uncle would
have had me on his hands again, and his difficulties would have been
renewed: so I own, I always made the best of every thing, and parried
as well as I could Mr. Malcolm's accounts, which often grieved Mrs.
Heartley and Alice. My unlucky fainting fit has spoiled all! and what
is worse, again separated Miss Flint from my uncle's favour! He says,"
whispered she, "that he cannot forgive her: and this grieves me to
the heart; for my dear mother did forgive her; and I long to tell my
aunt that her brother will forget this offence."--"What could urge
her to such an outrage?" asked I. "You remember no doubt," replied
she, "Mr. Snughead's passing us, and stopping to speak to you, the
evening we returned from the Abbey. I was leaning on Mr. Wilson's
arm, some paces behind you; and Malcolm and Alice were loitering
still farther, I believe, behind us. Mr. Snughead slackened his pace
and accosted Mr. Wilson, by saying, 'If you be not as happy as the
turtles I have passed, you seem _more gay_, Mr. Wilson;' and he fixed
his eyes with curiosity on me. 'A man must needs have a bad conscience
indeed!' replied Mr. Wilson, with good-humour, 'if in so fine a night
as this, and with such a companion as I have, he were not gay.'--'You
say right!' answered Mr. Snughead, still looking at me; 'you say
_right_,' repeated he, 'quite _right_,' laughing loud, and winking his
eyes strangely at me; 'such a companion would make any night a _fine
night_, without the aid of the moon!'--'That is a text, Mr. Parson,'
answered Mr. Wilson, angrily, 'that suits _you_ better than your
hearers. I wish you safe home.'--'You are _witty_ as well as _gay_,
I perceive,' replied Mr. Snughead. 'I hope, Miss Howard, you will
improve and retain Mr. Wilson's _bons mots_.'--'I beg your pardon,
Sir,' said I, trembling, 'indeed I do not know what you mean.'--'Pretty
innocent!' replied he, with another loud laugh; 'but you are in good
hands, there is a time for all things!' So saying he spurred his
horse forwards. I was alarmed, and told Mr. Wilson I feared he had
displeased Mr. Snughead. He said he had got no more than he deserved;
that he was a dirty rascal; and he believed he was then tipsy. Well,
my dread of meeting my aunt put all this out of my head! You know, my
dear Miss Cowley, how fortunately that business finished. My patience
on Monday conquered my aunt's sullenness. On the Tuesday morning Mr.
Snughead came to visit her. He staid a long time; and I, well knowing
how he hates Mr. Wilson, became uneasy. At length my aunt entered my
chamber, which is, as you know, over her's; and with a fury that made
me tremble, she banged the door with such violence as to make that
tremble also. 'A fine tale have I heard, my dainty minx!' exclaimed
she; 'you can laugh and hoyden with the best of them, I find, with
your own _set_! You can smile when a gentleman and a _clergyman_ is
insulted by your bully!'--'Good Heavens! my dear aunt,' said I, 'what
do you mean? Surely'----'What! the pretty _innocent_ has forgotten
Mr. Wilson's '_bons mots_!' replied she, with provoking scorn.--'No,
Madam,' answered I, 'I have not forgotten what he said, nor the speech
which occasioned his resentment. He conceived, I presume, that it did
not become a clergyman; and, to speak the truth, I was of his opinion;
yet I was vexed at Mr. Wilson's answer, because I thought Mr. Snughead
looked as if he had been dining in company.'--'Insolence!' exclaimed
she, 'Mr. Snughead was neither tipsy nor blind. He heard your fine
speech.'--She advanced.--'I will teach you to defame your betters. I
will teach you to make me the subject of your conversation and mirth
with your _Wilsons_ and their _crew_!--'Good God!' cried I, still more
terrified, 'is it possible that Mr. Snughead should have thus accused
me! He dares not assert it to my face. I never named you, Madam, nor
heard you named, but with respect; and that was by my uncle when in
the avenue speaking to Jonathan.'--'You are a liar,' said she, with
encreasing rage, 'Mr. Snughead heard that impudent upstart name me to
you, and the laugh which his ribaldry excited from you, hussy, at the
name of '_the chaste Lucretia_!' 'Indeed, my dear aunt,' answered I,
'Mr. Snughead has cruelly and erroniously repeated the word; for it
was I, who was talking of the moon, and I remember to have said she
was called the chaste _Luna_ and Cynthia by the poets.'--'And you
did not laugh I suppose?' said she, with sternness.--'Certainly I was
laughing,' replied I, 'when Mr. Snughead came up to us: but surely,
that was not a crime? I neither laughed at, nor, indeed, clearly
understood what had displeased Mr. Wilson, who only gave me to imagine
that he thought Mr. Snughead had drank more wine than was useful to
him.'--'It is false,' said she, striking my face, 'and I will teach
you to understand your champion's insolent reply. Mr. Snughead saw you
smile.'--'He dares not say so before me,' cried I, struggling, for
she grasped my throat so hard that she hurt me.--'What! you justify
yourself?' said she.--'Yes,' answered I boldly; 'I never told a lie
in my life. I scorn it.'--'Do you so, my pretty Miss!' answered she,
applying a dog-whip to my face and bosom; this shall teach you to
_fear_ even contradicting me.' I defended myself by hiding my face
with my gown, and she struck me on the back part of my head with the
handle of the whip. I sprung from her; and, losing my respect in the
sense of my danger, I asked her whether she meant to murder me. 'Is it
thus,' cried I, losing my temper, 'that Howard's daughter ought to be
treated? Is it thus your sister's child ought to be used?' She followed
me about the room like a fury, whilst I screamed with terror. Warner,
who was in her lady's chamber, flew up stairs, and on seeing her I
fainted. When I came to my senses I found I was on my bed, and Lady
Maclairn, pale as a ghost, weeping by me. She was more hurt than I was:
she wished herself dead, and was so distressed that I tried to comfort
her. Warner nursed me as if I had been her child; and, because she
thought me feverish, she sat up with me. I was dreadfully frightened,
to say the truth, and could not close my eyes without seeing my aunt
with the whip in her hand. They gave me nothing but water-gruel for
three days, but their kindness and compassion sweetened it. I shall
never forget Lady Maclairn's goodness! She told me that my sufferings
were light, when compared to hers; for that my stripes would be soon
forgotten,--_but her sorrows were without remedy_. She then asked me
whether, _for her sake_, I could forgive my aunt. 'She is unhappy,'
said my lady. 'She is sensible of her fault.' I said that was enough,
and I could pity her. So my aunt came to see me, and she begged my
pardon. I was moved by this unexpected concession; but I answered that
I was determined, for her honour, as much as my own safety, to leave
her, and seek my bread elsewhere. She _implored me_, Miss Cowley, to
conceal her '_disgrace_,' (I use her own words) and promised that in
future I should have no cause to complain of her want of kindness. 'My
mother,' said I, 'gave with her dying breath an injunction to those
about her to teach me to _forget injuries_; I am her child, and you
may, at your pleasure, make me yours. Treat me with kindness and I must
be grateful, for I am a _Howard_; and rest assured that my uncle shall
never know how unworthily I have been treated.' She seemed surprised at
my spirit; I saw, Miss Cowley, that she was so; and I told her plainly
that I was not made for her spaniel. 'You may, Madam,' said I, 'wonder
at this language from one who, hitherto, has not dared to assert her
claims to your protection. These have never had a view beyond the
shelter my youth made necessary. Give me time and instructions, and
turn me out on the world; my principles will then secure me, and my
industry shall provide for me.' She wept, and all was made up. Nothing
could be more kind than she was. Now only think of the mischief my
unlucky fainting has produced, and pity me!"

No language, my Lucy, which I could have employed, would so powerfully
have roused you to indignation, as that I have used; and if you can
command your feelings, whilst reading the account of this poor girl's
sufferings, I must conclude, that the only means of awakening your
torpid powers, will be to send the artless narrator to you. When you
behold her feminine weakness, listen to her sweet voice, and view her
pleading innocence of aspect, you will acquit Rachel Cowley of being
vindictive. Till this time arrives, I shall hate Miss Flint with all
possible cordiality. I was not in the humour to say any thing in
the pathetic style; poor Mary's tears of "gratitude," as she called
them, having excited mine, it became necessary to change my tone.
"Methinks," observed I, "that my young sister looks somewhat shabby
this morning; have they not sent you your cloaths?"--"Oh yes" replied
she, "Mrs Warner took care of that business." "It was not a fatiguing
one, I presume," said I; "a sheet of brown paper I suppose contained
your wardrobe." She laughed. "Not altogether," said she; "though to say
the truth, it did not fill a waggon."--"It is no matter," answered I,
"we have done, Mary, with the _rags of unfeeling tyranny_; you are now
mine, and must appear like mine." She again clung to my bosom, and I
heard her say softly, "May this reach Heaven! and my mother!"

On joining Mrs. Heartley with our swollen eyes, I began at once on
business. She entered with alacrity into my measures; and has engaged
to provide us with the needful from Durham. "That bonnet of yours
has seen service," said she laughing, and turning to Mary. "So Lady
Maclairn thought," answered she, "and she wished to have given me a
new one before Miss Cowley came to Tarefield; but my aunt would not
permit her, she said it was not necessary."--"She judged right," said
I, with malice in my heart. "She well understood your better claims to
favour. But what trimmings will you have for your bonnet?" "Oh lilac!"
said she, eagerly. Alice smiled, "Now that is so like you, Alice!"
observed the sweet girl: "have you not repeatedly said, that it was my
colour as well as _Henry's_? Mrs. Heartley, and even my uncle, think
it becomes me." This _naïveté_ was not lost: I gave my vote for lilac
ribbands; and taking leave, told Mrs. Heartley I would send a list of
such articles of dress as were immediately to be sent.

We go on at the hall composedly, notwithstanding the _bruised knee_.
Mrs. Allen's charity led her to Miss Flint's room yesterday: she
tells me she suffers much pain. You will not expect from me more
than _admiration_ of Mrs. Allen's virtue: she bids me tell you, your
hearth rugs will be soon finished, and that Rachel Cowley is still her
comfort; so love her, Lucy, as tenderly as you can love. Leave hatred
to me, it demands a stronger constitution than yours. Heaven bless my
Lucy!

 Rachel Cowley.




CHAP. III.


LETTER XV.

_From the same to the same._

"Nothing new from Horace." Why, my dear Lucy, what could put it into
your head that I wanted novelties from him? I only ask for his thrice,
and thrice told tale of faith and love. I only want to know that he
is cheerful and well. Did his last epistle resemble the letter which
Mrs. Platman gave by mistake to her forty scholars to copy, and which
had been composed on the subject of death, for the special purpose of
supplying one of the girls with suitable language on the death of her
grandfather, a man of ninety? But I am petulant, forgive me, Lucy.
The incessant rain without, and the dearth of amusement within, had
led me to hope you would have sympathetically felt that I wanted a
cordial. I am disappointed, and I have yet to learn where to find your
grand and infallible nostrum, _patience_: nay, what is more, I am
disposed to think at this moment, that it resembles many other quack
medicines, and promises more than it can perform. All constitutions
are not alike, and I believe this specific, would do me more harm than
good, from the _quantity_ I should be forced to take in the experiment:
so you must be contented with me, and recollect, that a fire may burn
cheerfully and usefully, although from time to time a coal bounces out,
and startles you; you have only to move from the annoyance a moment,
the transient danger passes, and you may return again in safety to the
snug warm corner you had left. I was much disposed last Sunday to
say with Miss Trotter, "that fifty fair-weather Sundays were scarcely
an equivalent for two rainy ones." Ours was dreary: the poor baronet
was out of spirit, and remarked twice at dinner, that we did not need
so large a table for _four_ people. He might have added, nor half the
dishes for _three_, for he ate nothing. My harp and Handel's music, did
something, but I could not sing hymns and psalms forever. We therefore
each took up a book. Lady Maclairn soon after entered from her visit
to her sister. "How is Miss Flint?" asked Mrs. Allen, raising her meek
eyes from her bible. "Much better," answered her ladyship, in a low
key. "She would have dined below to-day, but she was afraid of catching
cold." "I should hope that _shame_ had its share in this discretion,"
said Sir Murdock with vivacity.--"I am certain it had," replied she,
with mildness, "and not only shame, but repentance."--There is no
resisting this woman, Lucy! In saying these few words, she disarmed
me, and I refrained from saying what would have hurt her, and done
the offender no good. But, for the hundreth time, I will not say
she is _undefinable!_ no, but she is _unfathomable!_ After tea, she
surprised me by her unwonted gaiety and spirit in conversation; she
drew me into arguments and debates with an address nearly equal to your
father's, and, between ourselves, seemed to have his art of angling to
perfection; for when she found the poor fish flouncing with fatigue,
she gently set it free, and restored it to the clear stream. Malcolm,
like a dutiful son, was with us at supper; and a dessert of politics,
and about manuring sterile land, sent us to bed cheerful, if not gay.

I passed yesterday at the Abbey. Our commissions were arrived from
Durham; and no one was permitted "to see the fashions" till Miss Cowley
arrived. She had taken the whim of decorating two puppets, instead
of one; and she was paid cent. per cent. for her money. The same
robes, the same bonnets, cloaks, sashes, shoes, &c. "And so elegant!"
exclaimed Mary. "How kind! how considerate is our sister!"--"Not
exactly so," replied I, "for I forgot to consult Miss Heartley's taste
in regard to the ribbands for her hat, and her milliner has sent blue;
but as she is herself _the emblem of_ constancy, she may prefer your
favourite colour, Mary: and in that case, what is to be done? You
must wear the _true blue_." "Just as she pleases," cried she from the
looking glass, before which she was fitting her lawful prize; "only I
doubt, whether Mr. Malcolm will not prefer the _true blue_, and I can
do without it." The gratified uncle smiled on her, and said, "I believe
you, my love." Alice preferred her own colour, and each disappeared
with their fashions and finery.

I have engaged to meet Mary's friends on Sunday; Mr. Greenwood, her
godfather, and a doctor Douglas, who annually celebrate her birth-day
at Mrs. Wilson's table. She will be seventeen on that day. On my
leaving her, she fondly kissed my cheek, and whispered, "Does my sister
wish me to be dressed on Sunday like her happy _protégée_?"--"Always
as _my sister_ ought to appear," answered I, with emotion: "and as
she will be enabled to appear; for the rest, she is to direct her
own toilet." "Then I think on my birth-day, it will be proper to
wear"----"the lilac," cried I gaily, retreating, having exceeded my
promised hour of returning home.

On reaching the hall, I instantly entered the dining-parlour, in
order to make my peace with my friends; but instead of them, I found
Miss Flint and the Reverend Mr. Snughead _tête-à-tête_. I slightly
curtseyed, and said I was glad to see her below stairs; and was
retiring with all possible speed, when Sir Murdock, with his wife and
Mrs. Allen, entered from my apartment. The "truant" was welcomed; and
supper served up immediately. Malcolm, with head erect, and glowing
face, joined us; and our repast was coldly and ceremoniously finished.
The servants were no sooner withdrawn, than Mr. Snughead pressed Miss
Lucretia to drink a glass of Mountain wine. "He was afraid she lived
too low."--"He was sorry to see her so out of spirits." The restrained
tears gushed from her eyes. Yes, Lucy, _genuine salt tears_ came from
the eyes of this _Flint_! The miracle I can attest; and you may believe
it with the same faith which you give to Moses's striking the rock,
and causing the water to flow. I am the veriest fool in nature; for I
found, like the obdurate Jews, that my heart softened: and indeed, what
must have been the conflict within, before these signs of grace could
appear?

"I am astonished," observed Mr. Snughead, looking round him with an
air which he thought dignified, and which I pronounced insolent, "I
am grieved, my dear Madam, to see you give so much importance to a
circumstance of so little consequence to your character and station!
I always foresaw what would be the result of your generosity in
interfering in Miss Howard's concerns: all your _real_ friends were of
my opinion."--He looked at Lady Maclairn.--"I know you are quick in
feeling, and warm in your temper, and that on perceiving your goodness
slighted, you must be unhappy."--Malcolm left the room. "Pursue your
good intentions," continued he, "allow this niece a trifle for her
support, and leave her to those friends whom she so unhappily prefers
to your protection and prudence. She has been taught to hate you from
her cradle."--"I know it, I know it well!" said she sobbing; "but I am
sorry I struck her; it was wrong; and although she provoked me, I ought
not to have done so. Indeed, Miss Cowley, if you knew all, you would
pity, as well as blame me. But I see how it is; my forgetfulness of
myself has confirmed in your mind all that my enemies have said to my
prejudice. Mary has her revenge, and the Heartleys their triumph!"--"I
am sorry, Madam," said I, "to be called upon in a question of this
kind; but qualified as I am to support the innocent, it behoves me to
endeavour at least to rectify your opinions. Miss Howard, whatever
were her discontents under this roof, kept them from her friends at
the Abbey. She never has directly, nor indirectly, discovered them to
me since I have been here. She is at this hour more concerned by the
discovery of your harsh treatment, than for the loss of your favour.
She speaks of you with respect, nay more, with tenderness and sorrow.
She dwells with eagerness on the concessions which you generously
made; and attributes your warmth of resentment, to your misconception
of the supposed offence. Mrs. Heartley supports her, Madam, in this
moderation, and labours to convince Mr. Flint that he has taken up this
matter too painfully. Mary Howard cannot balance many favours with one
offence. She is affectionate, placable, and unoffending; her heart
is too pure for malice or ill-will; and her principles are too solid
to permit her to slander you. To Mrs. Heartley's lessons and example
she is principally indebted for these excellencies;--to nature, for
a temper unrivalled in meekness."--"You appear," observed the puppy
at my left hand, and on whom I had turned my back, "to be as able an
advocate for Mrs. Heartley, as for Miss Howard. May I _presume_ to
ask you, how long you have known this all-accomplished Lady, to whom
Miss Mary is obliged for her sentiments of love and veneration for her
aunt?"--"Mrs. Heartley wants no advocate," replied I, darting upon
him my contemptuous eyes. "It is sufficient for me to know her; and
were other evidences of the excellencies of her character necessary, I
should find them in the solicitude of my guardian, Counsellor Steadman,
to recommend me to her favour and notice. He has known _Mrs. Heartley_
from a girl; and if you are still curious, Sir, in regard to a person
whom you appear to wish to know, I refer you to _Mr. Steadman_. He
will probably satisfy you, that Captain Flint has been _singularly
fortunate in his amours_; and that Mrs. Heartley is a kept mistress of
as _singular_ a kind. Are you satisfied, Sir? or shall I give you any
further indications of Mrs. Heartley's _singularities_?"--"Oh, by all
means!" cried he, affecting an aukward laugh; "you are an excellent
encomiast."--"I can be no otherwise with such a subject for praise,"
retorted I; "but what I most admire in Mrs. Heartley's character, is
her contempt of _malice_, and her compassion for _ignorance_: with me,
this is the test, not only of her understanding, but of the purity
of her life. With a steady hand, Lucy, I took my taper, and calmly
wishing the company a good night, retired; the confounded Mr. Snughead,
receiving my last look as he stood erect to let me pass. He observed,
when I was departed, that for so _very young_ a lady, I had a _very_
decided spirit; and to say the truth, added he, rising and turning to
the baronet, I am sorry I called out so much of Miss Cowley's warmth,
on a subject of so little concern to me. Sir Murdock coldly bowed. Miss
Cowley must remember, continued he, my having declared that I knew
nothing of Mrs. Heartley but from common report. I am surprised, that
a lady of her quickness, could not see the _motives_ for my conduct
there, and also to night.--So should I be, returned the baronet, if she
did not, for they were pretty obvious; and Miss Cowley is not often
dull in her observations, nor slow in her conclusions. The servant
announced the parson's horse, who recommending to Miss Flint to think
no more of _such nonsense_, retreated."

I will spare you the trouble of writing me an essay on anger. I know
all you would say on such a topic, but it would be out of season; for
I was not angry, Lucy: I am _never_ angry, but where I could like, and
love, were it necessary. You must demonstrate some specific remedy
for antipathies, before I can be benefited by the lecture you will
be prompted to send me. Now, collect all the antipathies in nature,
and they will not amount to that which this reptile Mr. Snughead has
produced in Rachel Cowley's mind. Perhaps I was too warm; but what is
to be done with antipathies? I have no talent at a fainting fit; I
cannot scream, and look terrified when I want only the strength of a
man, in order to grasp a despicable foe. Nature, nature, my Lucy, is
my divinity! to her do I owe my aversion of the Snugheads' race; and
when they do fall in my way, what is to be done? I cannot crush them,
as many do a poor harmless spider; but I would probe them to the quick,
without flinching. Some vices I can pity, but a spirit of defamation
is my abhorrence; and an unworthy minister of a religion to which I
am attached, as my supreme good, is my antipathy. So I beg you will
recollect yours to a toad, and pardon your

 Rachel Cowley.

P.S. I admire Seneca; but what was his age when he turned philosopher?
In the name of good sense I implore you to ask your father how long a
term he gives to infancy. I am now an infant of twenty years and twelve
days, and I am a better philosopher than Seneca. Is it not astonishing
that your father does not yet know Rachel Cowley! I pray every day
for him, and with patient hope, trust he will one day repent of his
_cruelty_, and see with his own clear-sighted understanding, instead of
the borrowed light of a squint-eyed worldly prudence.


LETTER XVI.

_From the same to the same_.

You cannot, I think, have forgotten, my dear Lucy, how often in the
pride of my heart I have blessed nature for having compounded my
character of better materials than those which our poet has inimitably
given to a species of beings, who, in my opinion, only encumber the
space allotted to mortals!

 "Yet Cloe sure was form'd without a spot;
 Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot;
 With every pleasing, every prudent part,
 Say, what does Cloe want? She wants a heart.
 She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought,
 But never, never reach'd one generous thought."

So much for those who _want_ hearts. Now for those who have too much of
this useful, but combustible commodity; and who, proudly relying on its
impulses, drive on without knowing the course they steer, till they are
surprised to find themselves ingulphed in the worst of all the deadly
sins, which old Hannah, your cook, used to tell us St. Anthony quitted
when he forsook the world for a cowl. I mean _spite_ and _rancour_ of
spirit: and into this whirl-pool have I, for some time, been speeding,
at the instigation of my good friend, _a warm heart_. How truly may I
apply Pope's lines to myself!

 "Oft in the passions' wild rotation tost,
 The spring of action to myself is lost."

But confession is the best road to repentence, according to Hannah's
creed; and you will not be a worse confessor for the knowledge you have
of your present penitent's abhorrence of hypocrisy.

On Saturday evening Miss Flint asked us whether we meant to attend
divine service the following morning. Colds and rheumatic pains were
pleaded by the ladies. Sir Murdock was out of the question, he still
obstinately preferring his own prayers to Mr. Snughead's. I, nothing
loth to enjoy the silly triumph of seeing her mortified, promised to
accompany her, and my _conscience_ slept as sound as _I_ did. She
looked surprised on my joining her to go to church, to see me so
smartly dressed; and I mentioned my engagement to dine at the Abbey,
adding that I meant to walk from church with my friends; to which
she civilly replied, that she could set me down, and that I should
not discompose my dress by walking. We entered the church, passing
the broad stare from the benches, and took our seats in the pew.
Soon after entered the girls, in all the flutter of haste, and in
their new attire. As they passed to their seat the woman all rose,
as if by common consent, and curteseyed to Miss Howard with marked
respect. The captain received this compliment with more surprise than
gratitude, whilst Mary's cheeks were dyed with blushes. Her beautiful
hair, in which, to be poetical, the autumnal breeze had sported more
roughly than the zephyrs of the spring, had escaped from the little
straw bonnet, and, in some disorder, shadowed off the lilac-coloured
ribands: the simplicity of her person, clad in her unsullied white
robes, had however acquired a more elegant _tournure_ by the fashion
in which she was dressed. A lilac sash and shoes completed the
general opinion of the curious spectators, and with one accord, they
told "nurse Dobs," that Miss Howard was for once dressed _like "Mrs.
Howard's daughter."_ In passing our pew, she respectfully curtseyed
to her aunt, and on entering Wilson's, kneeled down. Miss Flint would
gladly have done the same, but she could not kneel; she removed
herself to the pillow, where she was concealed, and wept bitterly.
In the confession, her sobs were even audible; and in mine, Lucy, I
recollected that "I had done that which I ought not to have done." I
had with a cruel levity and inconsiderateness promised to my angry
passions, a gratification, for which my conscience and feelings now
reproved me. During Mr. Snughead's discourse on the inefficacy of
good works without faith, I was composing the lecture which such an
instance of my obduracy of heart as the one that stared me in the
face, would have called from our _christian mother_. Unable to reach
the purity, and I had almost said the divine eloquence which flowed in
her lessons, I endeavoured to recall her often repeated words: "You
have, Rachel," would she say, "an erring, but a faithful admonitress
in your bosom; you will never act wrong without feeling that you are
deviating. Never, for an instant, resist the intimation your conscience
will give you; the warmth of your temper requires all the vigilance of
your moral guide; and Heaven, in its mercy, has so constituted you,
that you cannot be unjust nor unmerciful, without feeling the pains you
inflict, with an acuteness proportioned to those faculties with which
you are endowed for the purpose of rising to eminence in virtue. You
may subvert the intentions of your Maker by an abuse of his gifts,
but even in this life you will be miserable by so doing; for you will
never be able to stifle the reproaches of a heart formed to have no
gratifications, but in seeing the happiness of all around it. Who
would reject such privileges, and turn from the sweet and satisfying
pleasure of doing good to all within our reach, for the indulgencies of
a petulant temper, and a stubborn self-will?"

The whole convocated clergy could not more effectually, nor more
authoritatively, have preached to me, than did the recollection of
this lesson, and _the occasion_ which gave rise to it. My part was
now chosen, and I whispered to Mrs. Heartley, on the service being
concluded, that I could not be with her till the tea hour. On going
down the aisle, the poor and truly crest-fallen Miss Flint was obliged
to proceed slowly; she is very lame. Amidst the half-whispered praises
of the beautiful niece, who preceded her, she overheard one old woman
say, "Aye, aye, she is like her parents, her's is not the beauty of
a day; like them, she will be an angel in heaven!" Miss Flint looked
distressed. "Lean on me, my dear Madam," said I aloud, and in an
endearing tone, "do not hurry." She pressed my arm with emotion; and
on reaching the carriage, wept so bitterly that I dreaded lest she
should have an hysteric fit: her tears were, however, its preventive;
and when somewhat more composed, she requested me to give the servant
the order to stop at the Abbey. I answered, with the compassion she had
excited, that I should not go; adding, "Let us extend our ride, the
morning is favourable, and the air will be useful to you." I pulled
the check-string; and we proceeded. The poor humiliated woman felt,
I believe, this kindness, as also my attempts to divert her. These
succeeded so well, that she dined in the parlour; and on quitting us to
rest for an hour, asked us to drink our tea in her apartment. I pleaded
my engagement; she coloured, and said, "Then, to-morrow?"--"Willingly,"
replied I, taking that _hard_ and burning hand in mine, which had
been my _horror_, "on condition that I find you here at supper-time
this evening." She bowed, unable to speak, and with Warner's help
and her stick, left the room. Lady Maclairn, who had attended her,
returned in a few minutes, saying, that Lucretia was trying to get a
nap; and cheerfully turning to me, she observed with a smile, that if
in time she hated the Heartleys, as cordially as Mr. Snughead did,
I should be answerable for the injustice. "How so?" asked I.--"They
monopolise too much of our comfort," replied she, "and you may, if
you please, warn them of the danger to which your partiality exposes
them."--"You would act much more consistently," replied I gaily, "to
warn them yourself; and by your influence with them, weaken mine. Why
do you persist," added I, with earnestness, "in depriving yourself
of a society so formed for you? Why will you refuse to visit those
whom you esteem?"--"I cannot act otherwise, Miss Cowley," answered
she, with seriousness; "I would visit them, were it possible for me
so to do without infringing upon what I think a duty."--"You will
pardon me," replied I, "for renewing a subject, on which you have
before so decidedly given a negative, in consequence of the motive
which at this time prompted me to recall it: this suggestion of my
mind may also stand in need of an apology; but it will have one with
you, in the goodness of my intentions. I think that after what has
passed, Sir Murdock ought to visit Captain Flint. He cannot otherwise
renew his visits here; and every means should be employed to effect
a reconciliation between him and his sister, who appears to me truly
concerned for this recent breach between her and her brother: besides
these inducements, for a compliment of this sort, I think Sir Murdock
owes this advance to _himself_ and _you_, as much as to Captain Flint.
What can mark his and your disapprobation of the violence which
has driven his niece and himself from the hall more strongly, than
convincing him, that you mean not to drop his acquaintance, nor to
avoid him, because he has been injured, and your roof abused?"--"Miss
Cowley is in the right," said the baronet rising with spirit. "I
have deferred too long to convince Mr. Flint that we have been
fellow-sufferers with himself in the outrage committed in this family,
and not the _aiders_ and _abettors_ of a cruelty which would be the
disgrace of a workhouse. You can have no objection to my waiting on the
captain for a purpose so indispensible to my honour," added he, with
some warmth of manner and addressing his wife.--"Sir Murdock Maclairn
needs not the guidance of any one," replied she with tenderness, "on
this, or any other question; his own understanding and principles will
always direct him to a conduct of propriety and justice. Were it not
for this conviction, I would say, _go this very evening_ with Miss
Cowley, and convince Captain Flint, that your wife has not suffered
less than his innocent Mary. He will say that Sir Murdock Maclairn
is entitled to his respect and esteem." I verily believe, Lucy, that
had not her husband strained her to his bosom, I should to mine, she
looked at this moment so amiable in my eyes. Malcolm flew to order
the curricle; and conducted by the baronet, I set out. On the road
some previous ceremony was adjusted; and on our arrival Sir Murdock
entered the captain's apartment, I sending him from the drawing-room
to entertain his visitor. They remained below some little time; when
the disembarrassed and cheerful air with which they joined the party,
relieved us. Mrs. Heartley overlooked, in her satisfaction, that it
was the first time the baronet had been in her house; but with the
most cordial frankness, she received him as an accustomed guest. She
introduced to him Mr. Greenwood and Doctor Douglas, her visitors,
and with the most courtly ease, Sir Murdock replied to her little
compliments, that he perceived her protection would soon recommend him
to the favour of his _neighbours_.

The night approached with a heavy fog, and in order to complete my
humiliation, Miss Flint sent her coach "for Miss Cowley's return."
Malcolm, whose hardness of heart still resists the hour of contrition,
affirms that this compliment to my health and accommodation included
Mr. Snughead's safety, who, profiting by the ordering of the carriage,
had escaped an evil he dreads as much as his lady's death, namely,
autumnal damps and the gout. I was not to be prevented; and finding her
in the parlour, repaid her kindness with my fooleries, and made her
laugh by a description of Doctor Douglas, with whose person and manners
I was pleased, and with which I affected to be enamoured. The poor
creature was amused; and your Rachel Cowley, somewhat at peace with
herself, bids you farewell.




CHAP. IV.


LETTER XVII.

_From the same to the same._

My dear Lucy will need no apology for my sending by the usual method,
little more than the inclosed Memoirs of the _Flint Family_, with which
the captain favoured me last Friday. The perusal of the manuscript has
very much chilled my christian charity for Miss Lucretia; but I strive
against temptation, and try to say with Mrs. Allen, "Alas! my dear Miss
Cowley, this unhappy being is entitled to commiseration! Can you wish
her a more severe punishment than her own wretched mind?" You, my
Lucy, will not. But read and judge for yourself.


LETTER XVIII.

_From Captain Percival Flint, to Miss Cowley_.

Sensible, my dear Madam, that in communicating to you the painful
circumstances of my disastrous life, I should unavoidably renew those
feelings, which it is both my duty and my interest to suppress, I take
this method of placing before you the sorrows and disappointments which
have eventually made Mary Howard an object for benevolence and pity.
Your generous offers of protection to this amiable orphan, have been
so enforced on my consideration, by the genuine language of truth and
humanity, that I should despise myself were I capable of doubting
their sincerity; but Percival Flint cannot forget his own honour. Miss
Cowley's connections must be convinced, that no advantage has been
taken of her munificent spirit and feeling heart. It is requisite they
should know, that, in the present object of her favour, there is both
innocence and virtue as spotless as her own; and that in the poverty of
her condition she may at all times find consolation and strength, by
contemplating the worth of those who gave her life. You will therefore
have the goodness to send the inclosed manuscript to your friends, and
suffer them to regulate a generosity, unbounded as the source from
whence it flows! My niece is indeed the child of Providence, and under
every event I trust she will be worthy of its favour. To secure to her
a friend like yourself, is my fervent prayer; but her claims must be
established, before she can be the object of your care.

 I remain, Madam,

 Your obliged humble servant,

 Percival Flint.


Memoirs of the Flint Family.

My father, Mr. Oliver Flint, by a diligent and persevering attention,
and a constant residence on his estate in Jamaica, not only enlarged
his property and increased his wealth, but also acquired so confirmed
a predilection for the place in which his prosperity had been always
flourishing, that he imagined the island of Jamaica to be the most
healthy spot in the habitable globe; and it was a frequent topic
of conversation with my mother, to prove to her, that the air was
salutary, and that no one died at Jamaica, whom intemperance did not
conduct to the grave. My mother was sensible that her health had
suffered in this "terrestrial paradise," and that it was hourly sinking
into debility; but she left to her countenance the office of confuting
my father's arguments, and suffered in silence. A very dangerous fever
with which my father in his fiftieth year was attacked, in spite of
his sobriety and precautions, effected a change in his opinions, and
probably preserved to my mother some years of existence in this world.
Jamaica was no longer conceived to be without the inconveniences of its
tropical situation, and my father hastened his preparations to leave it.

Our family, at the period we embarked for England, consisted of my
brother Oliver, my sister Lucretia, and myself, who was the youngest.

My mother, in her wish to return to England, had been governed
by motives of advantage to her children, as powerfully as by a
consideration for her own health. The uncontrolled indulgence which my
father granted us, bounded his views; our improvement constituted no
part of his cares; and the consequence was, that Oliver and Lucretia,
to use his own words, had never been ill a day in their lives. I was
born less robust, and was reared with more difficulty. My mother, in
her tender cares, kept me in her sight, and my mind was formed to
docility, and my sports to more quietness, than suited the vigorous
Oliver, and the romp my sister. I thus became my mother's amusement;
and to her taste I am indebted for my love of literature and science.
Our voyage was pleasant, though tedious. Our accommodations were easy,
for the vessel was my father's; and in the delights of the deck, I
lost, by my activity, the name of "_Miss Molly_," which my father,
though with good humour, had taught my brother and sister to give me.
My mother appeared to have left her complaints in "the wholesomest spot
in the world;" she hourly became more cheerful; and my father confessed
that the sea breeze was equal to the air of the plantation. We settled
in London; and a time was given to repose and amusements; when, again
my mother's cheek faded, and I took the alarm. Her maid-servant told
me, as _a secret_, that we should soon have a nursery and a cradle to
provide, and that her master was looking out for a country-house, in
order that my mother might be quiet. This plan was effected; the family
removed to a handsome, spacious house near Chelsea; and such was my
father's solicitude for the quiet of his wife, that he placed Oliver,
then thirteen, in a commercial academy in the city; Lucretia in a
boarding-school; and in conformity with the wishes of his wife, who was
not to be contradicted, I was sent to the Charter-house.

My father, who loved children, and coveted them with as much avidity
as he did money, received the promised blessing with transports of
joy; and my sister Mary's birth was commemorated as the renewal of
his own life. With fond delight he shewed the infant to his friends,
and exultingly pointed out to them the promises of a face which was,
indeed, angelic! She did not disappoint these early presages. As
she advanced in age, she exhibited a form and face which perfectly
corresponded with a temper of unequalled sweetness; and with such
graces, it was no wonder she was beloved even to adulation by my
father, and the whole house.

An artist of some celebrity, and more skill, requested permission to
take her picture. She was then in her eighth year, and the painter
succeeded so happily, that he gained credit by exhibiting his work, and
induced my father to have a full-length portrait of my mother, with
Mary. This picture was my father's pride; an engraving was made from
it, and scores of prints were sent to Jamaica, in order to convince
our friends there, that the elaborate praises they had heard of this
paragon of nature, did not exceed her beauty.

This instance of my father's fond admiration of his child, and in which
he was countenanced by all who knew her, would not have found a place
here, but for the inferences I drew from it. I had long perceived that
Lucretia did not partake with us in the partiality we manifested for
the innocent and bewitching Mary. I had seen the envy with which she
regarded every proof of kindness and favour shewn to her; the spiteful
misrepresentations which she gave of her disposition to strangers; and
the contempt she discovered for the weakness of my father's adulation
of his darling. During the time she was sitting for her picture, the
artist was become a favoured guest at our table; and, with apparent
sincerity, he observed one day, that a Guido alone could do justice to
Mary's style of beauty. I saw Lucretia colour with vexation; and that
very afternoon I rescued the poor child from her correcting hands, to
whom with some resentment, I said, that I should inform my father and
mother of her severity and violence. "Do so!" answered she, bursting
into tears, "tell them, that the _neglected, ugly_ Lucretia gave the
_beauty_ a sound box on the ear, and a lesson that she needs. Tell
them, her baby face will be her ruin, but it shall never excuse her
faults with me." The sweet and mild creature, with tears, protested
that she did not know how she had offended her, imploring her
forgiveness and soliciting to be friends.

I believe my prudent mother had observed the discontents of her eldest
daughter as soon as myself; and in order to preserve the peace of the
family, she studied to give Lucretia a consequence in it which she
judged might satisfy, at least, her love of power. On her leaving
school, my mother treated her as a young woman on whom she depended for
assistance in the domestic concerns of the family. Oliver and myself
were ordered to treat her with deference, and the servants were taught
to respect Miss Flint's orders as her own. She continually praised
her good qualities, and treated her with the utmost kindness and
confidence. But Lucretia exercised her authority rather too much like
a despot; my brother and myself were not always passive subjects; and
the servants murmured under the controul of the young house-keeper. My
father's tranquillity was thus invaded, and he determined on a measure,
which, had it succeeded, would have restored order in his house. But
Miss Flint was a plain girl; and my good father found that neither the
frequent intimations which he gave of his liberal fortune, and designs
in her favour, nor the commendations he bestowed on her _good sense_
and _notability_, produced any overtures of a matrimonial kind for his
daughter. Lucretia, estimating her fortune and pretensions, was too
proud "to undervalue herself," and with manners never pleasing, she
was overlooked by men whose fortune needed not trafficking for a wife.
This period of her youth, of course, passed unpleasantly; and conscious
that she was neither a favourite with her own sex nor the other, she
disdained both, and acquired a severity of speech, and a pointed
incivility of behaviour to all around her.

I had in the course of these events quitted my situation at the
Charter-house. My partiality towards my sister Mary had not been
unnoticed. Lucretia classed me with those whom she despised; and I
met this indifference, it may be, with too much carelessness. In the
mean time, my dear mother's influence was again exerted in my favour;
but she gained her point with some difficulty. My father ungraciously
observing, that he saw she was determined to have me learned and
useless. He had no interest but such as his commercial concerns gave
him; and he only wished, that I might not in the end blame her for an
ambition so little profitable to my future fortune in life. My mother
prevailed, and I was sent to Oxford. Satisfied with this extorted
compliance, she saw me for two or three years happy in my pursuits,
and the friend of my tutor; and wherefore, my dear Madam, should I
suppress the glory of my life? She saw me her pride and hope! Her
discernment in choosing the moment propitious to her applications in my
behalf, and her gentle arguments in my favour had their effect; they
could not make my father generous; but they prevented him from being
mean; and my oeconomy rendered his bounty sufficient.

At this period of my history, I received the melancholy summons to
attend my mother, whose life was in danger. Too soon were these
apprehensions verified! I will pass over a sorrow which your feeling
heart has known, and which was the tribute that every child must pay
to the loss of a good parent. My mother appeared to have settled her
accounts with this world, but as they related to Mary, then nearly
fourteen. She spoke of her approaching dissolution with calmness and
the hopes of a christian. "I have," said she to me, "only one anxiety
to banish from my mind, before I give myself up to my merciful maker.
But the mother is yet too busy for my resignation. You Percival, are
my hope; you see the partial hand of nature has endowed your sister
Mary with a beauty, which all must acknowledge; I dread it, as her
misfortune. You know her artless, unsuspecting nature, the cheerful
gaiety of her temper, and her soft, compliant disposition. Guard her,
as you wish for a mother's blessing! Your father's pursuits in life,
his excessive fondness for his dear girl, and, I may say it to you,
his want of mental attainments, must disqualify him for the guide of
her youthful career. Your brother will soon be so remote from her,
that were he capable of protecting her, his situation will render him
useless to her. Lucretia loves her not, and from the violence of her
temper and the authority she will assume, every thing pernicious is to
be feared. Watch over her safety; establish her in those principles
to which alone she can trust for her security. Strengthen her in her
weakness, encourage her in her duty, and preserve her spotless for
that abode, in which, I hope, we shall be reunited. Your education,"
continued she calmly, "and what is of infinitely more importance, your
moral attainments, not only qualify you to supply my loss to this
precious girl, but they will, I trust, secure to you that mediocrity
of fortune and independence I wish you. You are no stranger to your
father's temper, and in his foibles you will find motives of gratitude
to that providence which has afforded you the opportunity of correcting
and enlarging your own views. I have of late," added she, deeply
sighing, "found him more averse than usual to your expenditure at
college. That wife who could convince him that his son was moderate
and prudent, will be in her grave. Take this pocket-book, it contains
my little savings, and it has been destined for your exigencies for
some years. The time may come, when, with a mother's blessing, and
the Almighty's favour, it will comfort you; preserve it for an hour
of difficulty;" continued she, pressing my hand with great emotion,
"endeavour to please your father; he has, my dear Percival, many good
qualities. Live, if it be possible, in peace with Lucretia; be prepared
for her ascendency. She will grieve your father in many points. I have
laboured in vain to correct her temper, but God, in his own time, will,
I trust, create in her a new heart; and she may live to _befriend_, not
to _annoy_ her family. Till that happy change takes place, be on your
guard, never provoke her to anger, nor defy her power; such a conduct
will never reclaim her, and _will ruin you_. Remember _this_ my dear
son, and continue to press forward in that course, which must, and
will end well for those who faint not. The distance is short, and the
recompence of virtue the prize; fear not the ruggedness of the path,
nor be discouraged, because the wicked prosper."--But I am forgetting
my purpose, Madam, in recalling the last words of my guardian angel!

My brother Oliver's voyage to Jamaica took place soon after my mother's
death, and his marriage and final settlement in the island succeeded
to these events. In the following year, my father purchased the estate
of Tarefield, and giving up his business to my brother, and his old
and faithful clerk, retired to the hall. His first sorrow for my
mother's loss, was so violent as to give us fears for his life. His
constitution was shaken by a fever of some danger and duration. On
recovering from this peril, I could not help perceiving that the gloom
which hung on his spirits, was tending to that state of discontent
which invariably precludes all the "uses of adversity." Accustomed to
seek, in the cheerful and conciliating temper of my mother, a relief in
all the little petulancy of his own unequal disposition, he lamented
her loss without ceasing, as a _convenience_, rather than a blessing,
which he had seen torn from him. Lucretia, with unremitting attention,
endeavoured to regulate his domestic comforts. Mary alone possessed
the power to calm and compose his fretful hours; she was indulged as a
child, in return for her tender solicitude to amuse and please him. I
was useful to him in no way, and sunk into a cypher.

My father, in his sorrow, had forgotten to lament the loss of that
benign influence, which had so skilfully counteracted the encroachments
of avarice. Left to his natural bias, these soon appeared, and Lucretia
failed not to make an advantage of a weakness which her mother had
checked and restrained. Every reform in the expences of the family
met with approbation, and my father insensibly gave his confidence
"to his excellent manager." I silently submitted to the new order of
things. The time approached for my emancipation from the restraints
of my father's house; I had taken my degrees, and wished to pass one
term more at the university, before I solicited my ordination. I spoke
to my father on the subject, explaining to him my motives for the
request I urged. "I have withdrawn your name from the college books,"
said he, "more than a week since. I see no good that can result from
your losing your time, and spending my money there." I ventured to
remonstrate, urged my disappointment, and added, that I had not been
idle, but had worked both for honour and independence. "Pray, Sir,"
asked he with a sneer, "how much did you expect to make yearly, of
your _learned_ labours?" "Even in deacon's orders," replied I, cut
to the very soul, "I might have eaten my own bread, and gratified my
love of _learning_."--"That you may do here," replied he roughly, "by
being Mary's schoolmaster; and at my table, with forty pounds per
annum, I presume you will be as well off as with a curacy." My mother's
blessed spirit saved me from uttering the reproaches which were on my
lips. I remembered her dying advice, I bowed, and was retiring. "Hark
ye, Sir!" cried he, "I see I have offended your classical pride, but
you ought to remember, that I never wished to see you brought up in
idleness. It was your mother's pleasure to see you the _gentleman_ of
the family. I always told her, I would not buy you a _living_: earn
one, as I have done before you. Go to your brother Oliver, and he will
teach you a better trade than that of a country curate. I will send
you in the next ship, and then do something for you that will not be
lost should you die: so you have time to consider of my offer, and to
study your multiplication table into the bargain." I bowed, and said,
"that my part required no time for a resolution: I was not educated
for commerce; nor should I go to Jamaica; but I should consider that
time well employed, which was devoted to Mary's improvement: for the
rest, I relied on his goodness and favour." "As you please," answered
he, somewhat softened: "at least, you will be useful, and you will
have no wants under my roof." I bowed, and was permitted to retire.
Lucretia exulted in this my defeat; but I kept my temper. Mary with
delight, now listened to my plans of instruction. Young as she was,
she entered into my vexations. "Be but contented here," said she,
"and I shall be happy. My father's love is not yet diverted from
his plaything; leave me to manage, you shall be comfortable." Every
device which innocence and affection could suggest, was now practised
in her playful hours with her doating father. She could not study
in the common parlour, she should never think herself at school. My
father ordered Mr. Percival to choose his own apartment; and a room
was dignified with the name of my study. It were endless to enumerate
the means this "spoiled child," to use Miss Flint's epithet, employed
to lesson the mortifying circumstances of my situation. Her winning
smiles, her sweet persuasions, her playful vivacity, had in appearance
but one stimulus;--_my ease and comfort_. She rode on horseback,
because this produced a horse for Percival's use, who was to attend
her. She loved only what he preferred at table, and even in her
application to my lessons, she was excited by the desire of serving
me. My father soon discovered by Mary's proficiency in arithmetic and
writing, that her schoolmaster was not ignorant in the multiplication
table; and I, satisfied with my dear pupil's improvement, and gratified
by her affection, became more reconciled to my situation. Mary's age,
when in her seventeenth year, produced her a new title. "The spoiled
child" was dismissed for "the idle girl," and lectures on the loss
of time were not spared. With serious remembrance of my mother's too
prophetic words, I laboured incessantly to implant in my lovely sister
those principles of conduct, which in female life, particularly, are
of more worth than all the learning of the schools. The regulation of
her heart, and the strengthening her judgment, neither deprived her of
her native simplicity, nor diverted her attention from the occupations
of her sex. She continued to be my father's source of joy and
comfort; and with a temper and an address, which it must be confessed,
peculiarly marks the fair sex, and which, when employed as Heaven
intended, renders a woman irresistible, she converted at her pleasure,
the ungracious refusal into kindness, gloom into social content,
and fretful complainings into laughter and delight. One triumph of
this angel in form and mind, I cannot omit. She had by her innocent
exertions to please her father, persuaded him, that at seventeen years
of age, it was time for her to begin to economize her own little purse.
"It is now three months since I was as old as my sister, when she had
her regular allowance," added she, "and it would be the means of making
me more careful and industrious, like Lucretia, had I the management
of my clothes and expences. My dear mother used to say," continued
she, changing her seat for my father's knee, as though sensible that
she could thus more successfully transpose into his bosom a portion of
that benevolence which warmed her own, "that nothing was more useful
to a girl, than committing to her care the annual sum requisite to
her expences. The pleasure of saving a trifle for some favourite poor
child, or an indigent widow, excited their personal frugality: the
attention it called out to _little things_, and the habits of order it
promoted, were of the most important use to a young woman, who, living
with good and tender parents, without wants, and void of cares, was in
danger of becoming ignorant of the value of money, and heedless. I know
I should manage my own affairs admirably," added she, fondly kissing
him, "for you see that I have not forgotten my dear mother's lessons,
nor her example." My father, subdued by this appeal, and softened by
caresses so artfully, but seasonably bestowed, immediately gave her
twenty guineas. She gratefully received them, and with bewitching
grace and gaiety, wrote him in much form, an acquittance. He laughed,
but was not displeased with her accuracy. "If," said he, "you can
keep your accounts as well as you have done this, you will be fit for
a merchant's wife in time."--"Never fear," cried she, "you shall see
how expert I am: I will first pay my _debts_, and then keep day-book
and ledger of what remains." My father, surprised, asked what _debts_
she could probably have incurred. "They are those," replied she, "not
only of gratitude, but of justice: my brother Percival has purchased
books for my use, which he needed not for his own, and I know he wishes
to enlarge his little store, but has not the means. Have I my dear
and tender father's permission to share with him _this_ his bounty?
I shall have sufficient remaining." Conscience, or nature, seconded
the sweet pleader. He gave her a note for five and twenty pounds for
me, and finished by saying, "you may as well say nothing of this to
your sister." Never shall I forget her transports when she related
this incident to me. "Take it," said she, pushing the whole sum toward
me, "take it as the first fruits of that affection, which my father
will soon shew you. Oh! if he were but left to his own goodness of
heart! how happy should we be, and how happy would he be himself!
But have courage, my dear Percival, we shall succeed, for we will
merit his love; and he will be just." I received my present with more
contentment of heart than I can express; and Mary begged I would be her
purse-bearer for the greater part of her treasure, adding, that she had
no other means of securing it from her sister's enquiry, who took upon
her to examine her drawers at her pleasure.




CHAP. V.


_Memoirs of the Flint Family continued._

It was soon after this little event that my enjoyments were augmented
by the arrival of Mr. Howard, who served the parish of Tarefield as
curate to Mr. Snughead's predecessor, and who took up his residence
as a boarder and lodger at Mr. Wilson's. Few circumstances could have
more elated my spirits. The most intimate friendship had united us at
Oxford. We were of the same College, and had enjoyed the instructions,
and the good opinion of the same respectable tutor. Howard was my
senior, and unquestionably my superior in learning: I had experienced
the advantages resulting from this circumstance; for his attainments
were a fund on which I drew for my own benefit. The external graces
of this young man corresponded with the endowments of his mind; and
the elegant scholar and unaffected gentleman was distinguished at the
university, as the handsomest man there.

Comliness in form and feature, was the hereditary donation which Howard
had received from his family, with its high pretensions to ancient
splendour and honours. Fortune had so sunk its prosperity, that his
father had earned his bread by his sword; and on his death, in the
field of battle, left to his young widow, with a small life annuity,
and a pension from government, this only child, then an infant at
the breast. The spirit of Howard animated the partner of his adverse
fortune; she devoted herself to the care of her son; but with anxious
solicitude implanted in him her own sentiments in regard to a military
life; and by a rigid oeconomy, and the sacrifice of her own comforts,
she was enabled to place him in a profession, which united the ideas
of honour and safety for him, with peace of mind to herself. To
invite a guest to my father's table, was not amongst the privileges
which I enjoyed at Tarefield. Satisfied by finding myself received at
Mr. Wilson's with hospitality, and the frankness so inherent in the
mind of this worthy man, I neither regretted the apparently uncivil
omission which rendered my friend a stranger to my home, nor wished
to see him received there. Mary, approaching to her eighteenth year,
was a dangerous object for Howard's sensibility; and he was formed to
please her. These precautions of prudence and consideration settled my
mode of conduct during the first week or two of Howard's residence;
but nothing was talked of at the hall but "the _handsome curate_,"
"the _fine preacher_," who was come to Tarefield. My father, never
a punctual church-goer, and who had been long disgusted by the old
curate's Yorkshire dialect, and his ignorance, to which was unluckily
added, his not playing either at cribbage or back-gammon, had, when
disposed to say his prayers in a church, preferred that in the next
parish, now in the hands, as it was then, of Mr. Greenwood; who
was also a friend of Mr. Howard's, and who had been the principal
inducement for his acceptance of the curacy of Tarefield. I was called
upon for my report of my friend's merits, and truth dictated my answer.
"It is very strange you never mentioned his arrival," observed Miss
Flint; "your friend must entertain a poor opinion of the hospitality
of Tarefield-hall from the neglect he has received from us. It is
rather odd, that he should not have called on your father; such an
attention would have been proper; but I suppose he was prevented."
This remark was not intended to fall to the ground; and contrary to
my usual custom, I took care it should not. "It has never been a
question," replied I, "between Howard and myself, under which of our
roofs we should enjoy each others society. I neither invited, nor
repulsed his appearance here; for he never mentioned the subject: if he
had, I should have told him, that his introduction did not depend upon
_me_. My father sees no company; and I should not have presumed to ask
to his table, a _guest_, who had no better title to his notice than
being my _friend_."--"I am not unwilling, Percival," said my father,
"to receive him with that _title_, whatever you may think, provided
I can understand him better than the last dunderhead that was here.
Does Howard play back-gammon?" I could only answer for the purity of
his English, and his cheerful temper. The conference concluded by my
being desired to engage Mr. Howard and Mr. Greenwood to dine at the
hall on the following Sunday. Nearly a week's penance was softened to
Miss Flint by the preparations needful for the expected guests. To the
important concerns of the table were superadded those which regarded
her personal decorations; for, as she observed, she had lived such a
recluse, that she was hardly fit to be seen by a gentleman.

From the day of this visit, Tarefield experienced unknown delights.
My father found the curate an excellent hand at back-gammon, "when he
minded what he was doing." The honey of Hybla was on Miss Lucretia's
lips; and her smiles were the signal for every one's merriment. My
father became good humoured, and of course less the invalid. He
now thought himself equal to a journey to London, which he had long
meditated, and which he considered as indispensibly necessary to his
affairs. My sister earnestly seconded his intention, _demonstrating_
that he would be the better for a change of scene, and the exercise
it would give him. "Take your _pet_ with you," added she with a
gracious nod, "shew her London for a month, and you will return home
a young man, and leave behind you those habits of retirement, which
have contributed more to make you an old one than either your years
or your infirmities." My father observed that he should have too much
business on his hands to permit him to shew Mary "the lions," but that
the ensuing winter, it was probable, he should pass some weeks in
London, and carry with him his whole family. Miss Lucretia's logic had
been too conclusive to be recanted; and she saw my father depart for
London without his _pet_. Hope however, remained at Tarefield, and so
whispered success, that this defeat was apparently forgotten in new
expedients. These were of that sort which it was impossible for poor
Howard to overlook or mistake. He confessed his embarrassment to me;
and with that integrity of mind which marked his course through life,
he declared his love for my angelic Mary. I did not forget my duty,
Miss Cowley, although I well knew there was not a man on earth better
qualified to be her protector and to render her happy. I failed not to
place before my friend the insuperable obstacles which would oppose
his wishes, from his want of fortune, and from the influence of the
disappointed, and already too envious sister. I pointed out to him the
necessity of his being less frequently at the hall, and pleaded Mary's
peace as endangered by his persisting in a passion so calculated to
reach her innocent bosom. Mr. Greenwood engaged to do his parochial
duty for him for a month; in which time my father would be at home,
and a more guarded intercourse could be established. Mary affected
no concealments with me on the subject of her dejection when Howard
left us. Love had made her quick-sighted; and attributing my friend's
absence to its true cause, she lamented Miss Lucretia's folly as the
only impediment to her happiness, "being certain that no father could
reject such a man as Mr. Howard."

I will not prolong my narrative with the arguments which you will
naturally suppose I urged against this fond and fallacious belief. Her
tears subdued much more than her promises satisfied me, although she
repeatedly engaged "to act with a prudence which I should approve;
to wait patiently for _years_; never to cause the least vexation
to her dear father, and even to avoid offending her sister by an
acknowledgment of Howard's preference." All was easy! time would
do every thing for Mary, except to render her indifferent to Mr.
Howard! I promised to be neuter, and I kept my word. The lovers,
as it will appear, found an expedient to keep up a correspondence,
without implicating my honour, or alarming my vigilance. My father's
unaccountable detention in London was forgotten by the curate's return,
and unable to resist the attraction which drew him to the hall, poor
Howard accelerated those measures which it had cost him so many hours
of privation to retard. He was present when my father's letter to Miss
Flint announced his marriage, with orders to prepare the house for the
reception of its new mistress. Our astonishment at this intelligence
was succeeded by our cares for Lucretia, who from fury, sunk into
violent fits. When restored to more composure, she hung faintly on
Howard's arm, and said, "Be not discouraged, my dear Howard! I will
convince my father that I have as good a right as himself to be happy.
Let the minx whom he has married, be his slave. My duty shall be
devoted to a husband, who will not disgrace his family.--He shall,
Howard, consent to the justice of my demand. I will force him to be
generous; you shall have no reason to complain of fortune!" Poor
Howard, sinking with confusion and unable to speak, was relieved by my
calling him to assist me. Mary, who in stupid silence had witnessed
this scene, fainted; and he was permitted to retire, after having
assisted me in conveying her to her room.

You need not be informed, Madam, that in Lady Maclairn's now faded form
we beheld the beauteous bride whom my father, in a few days, presented
to his children. The more attractive charms of her youth may still be
traced in the modest and pensive expression of her countenance. She was
extremely agitated on her first appearance, and seemed intimidated to a
painful degree. Her brother, Mr. Flamall, accompanied her to the Hall;
and by an affected gaiety, endeavoured to encourage his sister, and to
recommend himself. Her manners succeeded much better to reconcile us to
the _stepmother_. A quiet melancholy, a mild and endearing attention
to every one around her, indicated the sweetness of her temper, and
the authority by which she had been compelled to marry a man of
seventy. For some days Miss Flint refused to quit her room. My father's
resentment was appeased by his gentle help-mate; and she entreated him
to assure his daughter, that she neither meant to interfere in her
management of his family, nor to lessen her influence. "Tell Miss
Flint," added she, "that my office in this house will be confined to
my duty, as it regards your ease and comfort; and that in order to be
happy myself, it is incumbent upon me to render your children so. I
come not as a rival, but as a friend, to this abode." She looked at
us with emotion, and a tear escaped. Some concessions produced the
submission which my father wished for; a general amnesty took place,
and Mr. Flamall so entirely diverted Miss Flint's resentments, that,
to my astonishment, she was obsequiously polite to Mrs. Flint. Howard
paid his visit of ceremony; my father received him with his usual
cordiality; but his general absence was unnoticed. Flamall played at
back-gammon with my father, and his young wife engaged his attention.
A hasty call from time to time prevented curiosity or enquiry; and
I secretly rejoiced that Howard was less in Mary's sight. She was
every day more pleased with my father's choice; and considering her
as the victim of a brother's interested views, she loved her as
being unfortunate, and approached her by a sympathy apparently well
understood.

Amiable and uniformly correct as Mrs. Flint's conduct was, you will
not be surprised, that I endeavoured, not only as a son, but _as a
gentleman_, to shew her that respect and those attentions to which she
was entitled. She loved reading, and my library was hers. Sometimes she
would steal an hour from her tiresome duties, and with her needle-work
join Mary; and I read to them. She loved flowers and plants; and I
became diligent in the culture of them. My father was pleased with this
acquiescence on my part, and one morning he asked whether I was not
satisfied that he had augmented his comforts. I replied with sincerity,
saying that I had no doubt of it; and that I was also convinced,
that in his wife Mary would find a guide and a friend. "So I think,"
returned he smiling, "I saw from the first hour that they would suit
each other." A few weeks passed in peace and comfort, when suddenly my
father relapsed into ill-humour, and was still more harsh and abrupt
with me than ever. Stung by some rudeness of this sort, I asked him
what had offended him. "Your conduct," said he roughly. "I do not want
you to make love to my wife."--"I am sorry," answered I, "that you so
little understand me, Sir; you make me wretched by your suspicions, and
injure a woman whom I believe to be truly virtuous."--"I believe her
so," returned he, "but I want no rival under my roof." He left me. I
was confounded and astonished beyond conception, and in my road to my
friend Howard's, which I instantly took, I endeavoured by recalling
my most indifferent actions, to find a clew by which to unravel this
unaccountable jealousy which my father had shewn. Conscious that I
had never in the most remote manner, either experienced or discovered
a sentiment beyond that good-will and respect which my actions had
evinced, I mentioned, in the course of my conversation with Howard, an
incident of a recent date, which at the moment struck me, and which
then appeared to explain, in some sort, my father's ill-humour, though
not his suspicions.

Mrs. Flint, at the breakfast-table, a few days before, had, with
cheerfulness, reminded my father of a promise he had made her in town.
"He told me," said she, smiling on my sisters, "that you would like
current coin better than fashionable tinsel; and thus prevented me from
adding to the incumbrances of band-boxes; but he must keep his word,
and enable me to acquit myself handsomely; otherwise, if you will help
me, we will pick his pocket now, for I know we shall meet with a good
booty." The poor fond old man kissed her, and said she could do what
she pleased with him without assistance. She blushed with genuine
modesty, took the offered purse, and gratefully gave us each a twenty
pound note. I thought at the moment that my father's brow clouded;
and I believe she thought so likewise, for, with a sweet smile, she
thanked him for his goodness to her. I received, however, my gift
with a bow of acknowledgment, not unmixed with the painful idea of my
dependance. Howard listened to this little account; but he informed
me that Mary had mentioned to him a conversation she had accidentally
heard before the wedding gift was mentioned; and that from what had
passed between Miss Flint and her maid, she was certain her father
suspected the motives of my civilities to the young mother-in-law. Let
it suffice, Madam, I determined to leave Tarefield; nor did my friend
Howard endeavour to oppose my resolution. He saw that it was impossible
I could live at the hall, and that my health and talents were sinking
under the continual checks imposed on my activity and spirits.

He solemnly engaged to watch over the only object of my tender regrets,
and to maintain his pretentions to her at the point of his life; to
guard her as a sacred deposit left in his hands, and never to urge her
to commit an act that I could not approve. I knew Howard, Miss Cowley,
and I was satisfied. The remainder of the day was given to my secret
preparations, and the following morning I was on the road to London;
my good father's wedding gift in my purse, and my blessed mother's
pocket-book in my bosom. Providence indeed was my guide! for I found a
brother in Mr. Heartley, who had recently married the amiable lady you
have heard villified at Tarefield-hall. Their union had been delayed
from motives of prudence. A patron of merit appeared, and Heartley gave
up the possession of the law for a post in the War-office. My friend
succeeded in getting me a lieutenancy of marines; and with Heartley's
management, my dear mother's dying gift was like the widow's cruise of
oil. During my detention in town I received letters from Howard and my
sister Mary. I copy a part of my friend's; these are its contents;--

"Love, my dear Percival, had supplied to our ingenuity a friend not
more secret than yourself, but much more tractable and convenient.
The hollow oak at the avenue gate received our letters from the time
your prudence refused the office. I wrote to my beloved girl the
whole detail of our conversation the day preceding your departure,
and depositing it in the wonted place, hastened to pay my morning
visit at the hall." I was prepared for the question, 'Did I know what
was become of you?' I answered to the point. You had been with me
the day before, and had mentioned your intention of setting out for
London as that morning.--'I told you, Sir,' cried Miss Flint, giving
me a significant look, 'that Mr. Howard is not one whom he would
trust with his idle schemes!'--'You are mistaken, Madam,' answered I,
'Mr. Flint was explicit with me in regard to his motives for leaving
Tarefield. He told me he was weary of idleness, and was determined
to seek employment.'--'He has pleased himself, Mr. Howard,' observed
your father, with much coolness. 'I can have no objection to his plan,
for I have long recommended employment to him; but he has learned
to despise my advice, and to think every man a _monster_ who plants
sugar-canes. A few hardships will convince him, that the bread earned
by the sweat of the brow is as laboriously earned in Europe as in the
West-Indies.'--'Percival's talents will, I should hope,' answered I,
'secure him from so bitter an experiment; and his education has not
been subservient to commercial views.'--'So much the worse,' replied
he, with passion, 'so much the worse for him! He would have been
getting forward by this time; with Oliver as his assistant, he would
have had three or four hundred pounds per annum.'--'Well,' replied I,
'let us hope he will meet fortune in his own way; and that will never
be a dishonourable one.'--'Pray do you know where he means to seek the
fickle goddess?' asked Mr. Flamall.--'Were she not blind as well as
fickle,' replied I, 'she would seek him; but real merit and persevering
courage will, in the long run, get before her.'--'In that case he
must be more persevering than he has been,' observed your father, 'and
better informed as to what will suit him. His Latin and Greek will do
him no good, for he has discovered that priestcraft is as bad as the
negro trade; but this comes of a man's having more ballast than his
head can carry.'--'Whoever has insinuated into your mind, Sir, this
opinion of your son,' replied I, 'did not know him; and I assert that
he desired nothing more ardently, than to be ordained to exercise the
functions of a parish priest.' He looked vexed, and said he had heard a
very different story. I had given my sweet girl a look of intelligence,
and she comprehended it. Mrs. Flint had tenderly taken her seat by her,
and appeared anxious to console her. Finding your father said no more
on the subject of your various _sins_, I rose to depart; and, resisting
all Miss Flint's persuasions, was fairly making my escape, when your
father graciously pressed me to stay and dine with him, adding, 'I am
not angry with you, Mr. Howard, because you are Percival's friend: he
may think as he pleases of me, and follow his own conceit. When he
is pennyless he will find out his mistakes, and it may be, not find
his father the _slave-driver_, as he calls me.'--You must, my dear
Percival, write to him, &c. &c.

I did write to my father, Miss Cowley. I wish to forget his answer.
He reproached me with having gained an interest in his wife's heart.
She had sorrowed for me, and had even solicited for my return. He
neither wished for my success, nor sent me a guinea. I embarked with
my regiment for Canada; from thence I again wrote to my father, and
also to my brother Oliver. The reply of the latter was not calculated
to have removed my prejudices, if I had entertained any which were
unfavourable to his traffic. "He was sorry that I had disobliged my
good father, by a conduct which few men could overlook, and which he
thought highly criminal, when my affinity was taken into the account.
But idleness was the root of all evil; and he hoped I should, in my
employment, retrieve my lost time, and regain my father's favour.
He had four children; his wife, a teeming woman, expecting a fifth
blessing. He wished me well, and was my affectionate brother Oliver."
Here our correspondence closed.

During my three or four years banishment I heard of my father's
increasing infirmities, and the discontents at the hall; of Howard's
having lost his mother, and his being the husband of Mary, my beloved
sister; and, in a word, of my father's death, and our inheritance of a
shilling. The lieutenant returned to his hospitable asylum a captain.
The Heartleys "killed for him the fatted calf," as the _returned_
blessing, not the prodigal. Nothing, however, could detain me in town;
and with all my worldly wealth, namely, thirty guineas in my purse,
I took my place in a northern stage-coach; and quitting it within a
few miles of this spot, endeavoured to hire a horse. Some difficulty
arising, to which my impatience could not submit, I determined to leave
my portmanteau at the inn, and to walk. I set forward, but was soon
overtaken by a heavy rain. A stage-waggon was in sight, and knowing
that I had no clothes with me, I accepted the shelter. A neatly-dressed
country woman was the only passenger. The rain poured down in torrents,
and she began her chat by observing that I had been lucky. I sighed.
"Mayhap, Sir," continued she curiously examining my uniform, "you are
not used to ride in waggon; but is it not better than being wet to
the skin?" I said I found it so; and that it was comfortable. "Oh!"
returned she, "many of your honour's poor soldiers would think it so!"
Curiosity next came forward. "Had I far to go?"--"Only to the Abbey
farm," answered I.--"We pass the door," returned she; "but you will
find Mrs. Wilson in great trouble; she is sad indeed."--"Then you know
the family?" said I.--"Know them!" repeated she; "who does not, that
lives in the parish, and I may say for miles round?"--"I am sorry to
hear she is ill," observed I, anxious for more intelligence.--"Why
as for the matter of health," returned she, "thank God, she has no
reason to complain; but she is sadly troubled to see the curate so
poorly. I suppose, Sir, you know Mr. and Madam Howard, who live at
the Abbey."--I bowed my head.--"It will make your heart ach, I can
tell you," continued she, "to see the poor gentleman; he is a going,
_that's for certain_! He has never held up his head since that old
rascal of a father died, and left Madam only a shilling out of all his
money. Dame Dobs, who nurses Miss, told me a week _agone_ she did not
know which of the dear souls would go first, for Madam Howard was a
mere _notomy_ with fretting. Ah! Sir, you may well turn up your eyes
to heaven," continued she, with eagerness, "they will find a a God to
comfort them there at least; and that is more than their enemies will.
They have the staff in their hands here, but the devil gave it them!
I would not be the mistress of the hall for this waggon loaded with
gold! They say there is no sleeping in one's bed at the hall since the
old man died. I do not wonder at it. How should his soul rest after
such wickedness? There is Madam Howard and her dear babe left with a
shilling! There is a poor son, he is drove from the hall a downright
vagabond, if he be alive; but some say he died of hunger and cold in
some great forest beyond sea, and was eaten by the blacks; and that
his spirit also has been seen in the room where he kept his books, for
he was a great scholar. I did not know him, but Dame Dobs did, and she
says he was only too good for them."--"What is become of the widow
Flint?" asked I.--"Why she, Sir, as a body may say, 'jumped out of
the frying-pan into the fire.' She married a second time, with as bad
luck as the first. She is a lady, but her husband is in a sad sort of
a way, and looks like a ghost. Poor soul! she has had hard trials! But
she is not of my mind. I would sooner beg my bread, with my children
at my back, than live as she does, like 'a toad under a harrow;' But
the money!--Aye, there's the rub!--Master Philip is to have all Miss
Flint's wealth, and so all is submitted to; but she may find herself a
loser in the end; for Mr. Flamall is as cunning as the devil himself,
and only pretends to love Master Flint for his own advantage. They are
a precious set! I would sooner wear lindsey-woolsey than Miss Flint's
silks and satins! But, dear me, she knows she is hated in the parish;
and that we all pray to God to spare to us Mr. Howard, who is a lamb,
Sir, and too good for this wicked world; and when Miss Flint comes to
her dying bed, what good will all her money do her, who has overlooked
all her relations, _if nothing worse_? It is but lately I settled in
these parts; but people have not forgot to talk. They say Madam Howard
has been cruelly treated."--Unable to suppress my agitation, I said the
vehicle incommoded me, and that I would walk the remaining part of the
road. The rain had abated of its violence, and I quitted my loquacious,
but honest companion.

Prepared as I had thus been, I could not without the pangs of despair
behold my emaciated friend; and the faded form of my once lovely and
blooming sister. I dare not recall the anguish of our first embrace!
Let it suffice; it appeared that Heaven in its mercy conducted me to
them for their consolation. Howard's spirits were renewed, the cherub
Mary smiled in her cradle, and we forgot the past in our present
comforts. Tarefield-hall was shunned; for I feared my impetuosity,
and dreaded to disturb the tranquillity of my dear invalids. Heartley
gained me three months leave of absence beyond the term allotted me,
and I was happy;--yes, Miss Cowley, happy! for I perceived that I was
the cordial of health to those whom I loved more than myself. Howard's
cough disappeared; and he began to talk of freeing Mr. Greenwood
from his fatigue of going through the parochial duties. This led him
to expatiate on that gentleman's generous and unequalled kindness.
"I will," added he smiling, "relate to you circumstances, in which
you will find that in Greenwood's friendship heaven gave me a full
equivalent _even for your absence_. So prepare yourself for a long
story, and for acknowledging that Mr. Greenwood with all his gravity
and sanctity favoured two lovers more than you did." He pressed my hand
with affection and proceeded.

You have seen detailed in my Mary's letters to me, the growth of Mr.
Flamall's influence at the hall. For a time we exulted at his success,
as it promised, that by directing Miss Flint's unfortunate fancy from
me to himself, we should be released from a serious obstacle to our
wishes. On the death of my dear mother, and after a month's absence,
I pleaded business and want of spirits for neglecting to visit my
kind friends at the hall. Miss Flint took a particular liking to
Mrs. Wilson, and visited her daily. Terrified by this attack on my
strong-hold, I consulted Greenwood; and made a full confession of
my attachment to my sweet Mary, not omitting your fatherly counsels
and her trust in my devoted heart. He could only repeat your sage
exhortations, and pity me. Mrs. Wilson was a more useful confidant,
for I had notice of the enemy's approach; and my escapes were so well
managed, that, foiled in the purpose of her frequent visits, Miss
Lucretia forgot her dear Mrs. Wilson, and at once made known her
intentions to her father. Mr. Flint's letter contained a very civil
approbation of my conduct, in as much as I had practised a prudence
which did honour to my principles, it certainly being an improbable
event, that he should favour an union so unequal in regard to fortune;
but finding his daughter's happiness depended on her marrying _me_,
and that I had only been withheld from applying to him from an
honest scruple, he informed me that I was secure of his consent, that
he should allow Lucretia four hundred pounds per annum, and on the
death of the rector induct me to the living of Tarefield. For his
further consideration he made no doubt, I would patiently wait till
his decease. Good God! continued poor Howard, what were my emotions
on reading this letter! The exchange of one word in it would have
raised me to envied bliss, and with patience could I have waited for
all other considerations had your father been determined to rival in
longevity Methusalem himself. But it was not _Mary Flint_. I answered
his letter, and with all the expressions of respect which the subject
demanded, finished by asserting, that I had long been an engaged man,
and too warmly attached to a beloved object to conceive any measured
conduct necessary; that I had on many different occasions, spoken
unequivocally of the state of my affections, in Miss Flint's presence;
and that my behaviour had never for an instant contradicted my words;
nor could any motives of interest dispose me to relinquish a woman
whom I loved. You will conclude that my favour at the hall ceased;
and in my disgrace, even my pulpit eloquence was forgotten; for the
family, when they were disposed to enter a place of public worship,
went to Greenwood's parish. Secure as we mutually were on the side of
faith and love, my dear Mary and myself contrived with the help of the
faithful old oak and those hopes to which we fondly cleaved, to support
those little trials of our patience. I had warned her never to keep my
letters, and to be prepared for the inspection of a jealous woman. She
was so docile to my wishes, that she not only obeyed me in this point,
but from a secret misgiving, to the motive of which I was a stranger,
she buried in the avenue her little store of gold. This secret I was
told when she became my wife. She had been disgusted by Mr. Flamall's
behaviour, and dreaded his cunning. Her mother-in-law's kindness
favoured her reserve to him, and with growing attachment these young
women would soon have been friends.

"Fortune now became weary of a love intrigue like ours. My beauteous
sylph was seen by Miss Flint's woman, taking a letter of mine from
the oak, and dropping one of her own into it. The alarm was given. My
letter, seized by the furious sister, and hers, brought by the vile
informer to her lady, were proofs of our intelligence which admitted
of no palliation. I had, in my letter, very freely mentioned Miss
Flint; praying to fortune that she might succeed in _her attacks_ on
Flamall's heart, who, Mary had informed me, was become her favourite.
She had gone farther into this subject in her letter, and in a word,
we had not been sparing in our animadversions on them, nor in our
compassion for the nominal mistress of the mansion, who had not the
courage to pull a bell-string in her own house. I will hasten from
the scene that followed this discovery," continued Howard, wiping the
sickly dew from his brow, "to what purpose should I repeat cruelties
at which an inquisitor, if not lost to feeling, would blush?----Mary
has told me since, that she is convinced they meant to make her mad.
Imprisoned in her room, suffered to see no one but Miss Flint, and
the woman who had betrayed her; without books, without needle-work,
or a candle when dark! reproaches! even blows, Percival! She said she
thought sometimes, that her senses were affected, for she frequently
found to her surprise, that she had forgotten to go to bed. On one
of these occasions she was alarmed by hearing some one at the window
calling her gently by name; despair rendered her fearless, and, on
approaching it, she found it was a young man who lived in the house
as groom. 'I come to serve you Miss,' said he, 'because it is my
duty. Your dear mother saved mine from the grave. I am Frank Crofts,
to whom you used to bring cakes at Chelsea. Mr. Greenwood knows all
about me, and my scheme; here is a letter for you from him; and I
shall come for you on Saturday night; fear nothing; try to be easy:
you will soon be with my mother, and honest people.' So saying, he
retired. Mr. Greenwood's letter was satisfactory. And two nights of
repose gave her strength to descend from the room two stories high by
means of a ladder. Frank securing some linen she had provided, gave
himself no trouble to remove the means of her escape. She recollected
her concealed treasure, and he disinterred it. Greenwood was at the
avenue gate with a decent looking man and a chaise. He told her she
was safe, and that her guide would protect her. She instantly got
into the carriage, which was an open, old-fashioned vehicle, with
two stout horses, and driven by her conductor. They soon lost sight
of the village. Frank retired to his pillow in the stable-chamber:
and Greenwood returned home. I have given to my tale the language of
romance," continued Howard, smiling, "we are now come to the climax.
After morning-service, this lad in passing me, said, 'Go to Mr.
Greenwood's,' and he instantly joined some people at the church-gate.
I looked at him, and I perceived there was more in his manner, than
could be understood by a common observer; with a palpitating heart I
took the road to my friend's house. I had not proceeded far, when
Frank, breathless with speed, overtook me. 'She is safe, Sir!' said
he, 'blessed be God, she is safe. Mr. Greenwood will tell you all
about it. They cannot murder her now.' He darted from me. 'I must not
be seen with you,' cried he, measuring back his hasty steps. Judge of
my feelings! I cannot describe them! Greenwood suffered my tears to
flow; and at length begun with his darling topic of the excellency
of human nature when uncorrupted by the world's contagion. This
Frank _Armstrong_, as he properly styled himself under his borrowed
name," continued my friend, "has been the deliverer of Miss Flint,
from the simple suggestions of gratitude and pity. He brought me a
letter from his mother who lives at Newcastle, in which she recommends
him, to leave no means unemployed to rescue your mistress from her
hard captivity, to consult me on every step, and to inform me of
the obligations she was under to Mary's mother. These were fully
stated, and Frank proceeded to his own confession. He preferred being
a sailor to working with his brother-in-law, a wealthy farmer, who
lived five miles from Newcastle; he left his good friends secretly,
and by chance stopped at the Ram for refreshment. There he met a
groom just discharged from the hall, and who disgusted by Miss Flint,
entertained Frank with the history of the family, and gave vent to his
own resentments. Miss Mary was the heroine of this history. She was an
'_angel_,' but with the rest, made miserable by the '_she-devil_' who
ruled in the house; and he had left the hall in a fine '_kick up_;' for
they had found out that Miss Mary had been writing a love-letter to
the curate her sister's sweetheart. Curiosity appears to have been the
first stimulus to Frank's project; he won on the landlord to recommend
him to the vacated post, and Tarefield being in no great repute for
kitchen comforts, he was engaged on trial, and entered into the family
as groom, under the name of Frank Armstrong. In a few days Frank was in
the family secrets, the kitchen account was in the captive's favour.
Anne, the chamber-maid, to use Frank's words, made his blood boil in
his veins. He wrote to his mother, promising he would never go to sea,
if she would come and take away Miss Mary. The good woman's letter to
me, was an undeniable proof of her principles and prudence. I observed,
that the only difficulty was to remove Mary from the house. 'Leave that
to me, Sir,' said he, exultingly, 'leave that to me, I will die rather
than she should! only, as Miss does not know me, I must have a letter
from you; she may think that I am an enemy.' Struck by this acuteness,
I gave him a short note and he disappeared. The next evening he called
upon me. 'All will be ready for Saturday night,' said he. 'My brother
will be here. I have contrived it.'--I stared with surprise. 'Why you
know, Sir,' said he, 'I could not do without a ladder, seeing Miss
Mary is locked into a chamber two stories high; and as for unbolting
and unbarring, were she even below stairs that would be impossible,
without making more noise than we want. So, Sir, I have provided
ladders in plenty, and what is better, as high as the house. He laughed
immoderately. It was a good thought, cried he, though I say it; for I
have made them a job which will put money into their pockets for the
use of the ladder. An explanation followed. I found that Frank could
reason on causes and effects. A six weeks drought, said he, with a new
moon, promised rain, and I was determined that there should be no want
of water at the hall when it did come, so I have been in the false
roof and have made such breaches in the tiling, that the garrets are
afloat every shower that falls, and we have had plenty! just as though
God Almighty had sent them for the purpose of serving the poor young
lady.'--But why did you chuse Saturday night? asked I, on any other I
could have gone with her. I will answer that in a moment, replied he.
First your honour must know, that Sunday is a Sabbath of rest with our
folks at the hall; I had them safe in their beds till eight or nine
o'clock, and there was time gained. Secondly, Mr. Webster, my brother,
could not so well come on any other day, because of his horses: and in
the last place, said he, rubbing his hands with vivacity, I shall never
as long as I live forget Sunday, whether I am at church or at home. The
better the day, the better the deed, say I. God will bless it again,
if I can save this poor soul! He then gave me with emotion the account
of her treatment which he had learned from Anne the chamber-maid, who
was as he said Miss Mary's '_true friend_.'

"Yesterday evening Mr. Webster made his appearance, we concerted our
measures, and all has succeeded. The rescued prisoner is now on the
road to a shelter, and she is safe from pursuit.

"I am," continued Mr. Greenwood with dignity, "perfectly satisfied with
my own motives for an interference in this business. It is the duty
of every man to assist the oppressed. Mr. Flint by his imbecility and
injustice has forfeited the rights of a parent; he has given up his
authority into the hands of an enraged and disappointed woman, whom he
well knew to be ungovernable in her passions, and under whose power
he himself groans. I have acted for this father, Mr. Howard; he may
one day thank me, as the deliverer of his child. It requires but a
superficial knowledge of human nature, and little experience in life,
to know the fatal effects of counteracted and opposed passion, in a
youthful mind, when cruelty is the means employed to accomplish the
purpose. I am not disposed to believe that many girls die of love; but
I have seen many examples of an evil more to be dreaded than death, by
an improper and harsh opposition to this passion, as well as others;
and when I saw your Mary I was convinced that I was acting in favour
of humanity and justice. I have, however," continued he, "engaged
her promise of obedience to my directions; and I now claim your word
of honour, to be governed by me. I will endeavour to see Mr. Flint;
have patience; write to your beloved Mary. I will take care she has
your letters; and you will soon hear from her. But you must not quit
Tarefield without my permission." I answered him with my tears; he was
satisfied.

A month passed. Greenwood found Mr. Flint inaccessible. He desired to
see Miss Flint; and at length gained his point. With well affected
concern she mentioned her father's illness as the reason of his
refusing his friendly visits, adding, that no consolation could at that
moment reach a mind sunk to despair, by the conduct of an ungrateful
and too tenderly beloved child. She entered into the detail of my
infamous duplicity, and Mary's as infamous advances to my preference.
I wave however, continued she, my own injuries, bitterly as I still
feel them; but the letters now in my father's hands I can never forget.
The cruel mockery, the insolence of them, as they relate to him, is
unpardonable! Would you believe it possible, added she, that amongst
these proofs of depravity in a girl so young, my father has one, which
has convinced him, that she was in Percival's secrets; and that she
favoured him in his profligate inclination for Mrs. Flint, telling him,
that in time she might listen to him more kindly. Could you give credit
to this report Mr. Greenwood asked she, on a less certain evidence than
mine? Even yours, replied Mr. Greenwood, is insufficient; for I will
maintain every syllable you have uttered to be false, till I have seen
those letters, and have confronted them with the declaration of the
supposed writers. When I see Mr. Flint less a prisoner than he is, when
he is permitted to listen to _truth_ and to _justice_, you may have,
Madam, better claims to my confidence than you have at present. If your
visit was intended as an _insult_, replied she, rising with fury, its
purpose is accomplished; and your character, which you have forgotten,
shall be your protection, till you leave this spot. It shall do more,
said Mr. Greenwood calmly, for it is proper I should warn you to
pause in the road you are in. I am well informed, Miss Flint, and I
caution you, as the minister of a master who "hateth the oppressor, and
abhorreth the workers in iniquity," to consider what you have done to
offend him; and what you still meditate to do, in order to ruin that
innocent which is God's peculiar care.

He instantly quitted the room, leaving her confounded or choaked with
rage. Mr. Greenwood soon after gave me my leave of absence. I flew
to my every earthly good. Mrs. Croft had conducted her to Berwick,
and on my joining her, we were united in the presence of as many
witnesses as curiosity and the admiration of Mary's beauty collected.
We passed a week with Mr. Webster, and finally settled here, with a
welcome of a long hoped for blessing. Frank was early in his visit of
congratulation, and our gratitude overcame him. He gazed on Mary. "Now
I see," cried he, "the same face I so well remembered; but Lord help
me! when you came, like a reed, down the ladder, and I saw your deadly
paleness, I could hardly help thinking that ghosts had bones, and that
I had one in my arms, for you looked for all the world like one. Who
could have believed, Sir," added he, "turning to me with exultation,
that a month or six weeks with my mother, could have made roses so
cruelly frost-bitten, blown again! Oh! I would give the world if Miss
Flint could see you both at this moment! she would be paid interest
for all her wicked labours! but she will have it, yes, yes, Sir, the
reckoning will stand; there are no sponges for her accounts! you know
that, Mr. Howard, no _white-washing_ in the creed you teach!"

"I am prolix, Percival," continued my brother, "but you share in the
enthusiasm, which has for its object, a character like _this_." He at
length, sedately gave us the particulars of the discovery of Mary's
escape, which, you will easily imagine, produced the utmost confusion:
I was naturally the first person suspected as having aided her; but I
had, fortunately, passed the Saturday at Bishop's-Auckland, and had
slept there. This _alibi_ proved, and my remaining quiet at Wilson's
perplexed them, and lost in conjectures, they gave up the fruitless
question. Frank was requested to convey our letters to Mr. Flint. My
master keeps his room, said he, sorrowfully; and Madam Flint no more
dares to act in the matter, than to swallow fire, or poison, poor
soul! But do not cry, my dear lady, all will turn out well in time.
Let me consider, I will contrive! Anne goes into the room, and there
is nothing she can refuse me, she is as honest as the day is light,
and loves you, Madam. Never fear, you have got Mr. Howard at your
side, and it is a long lane indeed that has no end. I know but of one
that never ends, let them take that who like it, say I; but yours is
a _sure road_, Madam, and never mind, altho' it is not, at present,
all on the nail. "Oh Percival," exclaimed poor Howard, lifting up his
expressive eyes to Heaven, "what is man when true to his endowments!
He is indeed but little lower than the angels, and worthy of the
all-perfect hand which made him! But I shall meet this fellow-mortal,
and rejoice with him in his glorious recompence! Our letters were
committed to his faithful hands. Two or three days after, he came to
make his farewell visit, and to request Mary to write to his mother,
that she was satisfied with his conduct. Our letters to the hall were
returned, the _seals unbroken_. Anne was discharged at a moment. Mr.
Flamall, said Frank, paid me my wages, and told me I did not suit my
place nor the family. I could have told you that, said I, long ago; but
you had nothing to do with me, nor I with you, Mr. Flamall. I spoke as
I felt, Sir, added he, nodding to me. He warned me if I valued a whole
skin, not to be insolent; but I told him that neither my skin nor my
honesty would be in danger from him. He said, I was a low scoundrel. I
never heard, said I, keeping my ground, of a scoundrel who was not low,
though he tacked _squire_ or _counsellor_ to his name. He advanced to
strike me, but he thought better of it, I believe, for he turned on his
heel. I wish to the Lord he had, he would have met with his match at
a hard blow, though he will never find one in his roguery. Anne says
there are fine doings going on between him and Miss Flint. So much the
better, let them have their swing, till their own noose catches them!
'tis the old one's trick, you know _that_, Sir, continued he, and
have often told us that his snares were of our own making, and that
we had arms in our hands, that would bind his, if we were disposed to
use them. But I must go, added he, to fetch my things, and I will call
again for your letter, Madam, and my blessing. He bowed, and hastily
left us, penetrated with admiration and gratitude."

From this time we have not seen him; but we hear from his mother, that
he is married and settled, and continues in the line of conduct that
was to be expected from such beginnings of virtue and goodness.

To Mr. Greenwood's and Mr. Wilson's exertions in my favour, I stand
indebted for the bread which has supported me here; the former
convinced the rector, that I was an honest man; and the latter employed
such zeal in my cause, that a paper was signed by most of my flock,
containing such a report of me, as proved that I was qualified for a
bishopric at least. Happy in the wife of my bosom, cherished by the
worthy beings who sheltered us as the honour and blessings of their
roof, I should have forgotten Tarefield-hall, with its inmates, but
my poor Mary heard continually of her father's declining health, and
prompted by her tenderness, she was as continually making attempts to
see him. A letter she sent to Mrs. Flint, reached her, and in a few
days we were surprised by the sight of Mary's clothes and linen, which
were left without a message. In arranging them, with the sweet hope
which this consideration inspired, a note dropped from a gown sleeve;
it was from Mrs. Flint, and contained a bank bill of twenty-five
pounds. "I send you as a token of my love, my dear and injured girl,"
wrote Mrs. Flint, "the inclosed trifle; this is all I am able to do. My
interference in respect to sending you your clothes, has been highly
resented. Believe, that in me you have a friend, but alas! that friend
is too much oppressed to serve you, or your unhappy father, whose heart
still turns to his child. Have patience; write no more to Harriot
Flint, she is watched, and hazards her peace even in this simple act of
humanity.

"In proportion as your father approached his grave," continued my
brother, "my wife became wretched, and my spirits were in continual
agitation lest in the concessions which she prompted me to make, I
should be censured, as being governed by self-interest. At length we
heard of his death, and in due form were summoned by an attorney, a
Durham man, to the hall, in order to be present at the opening of
Mr. Flint's will. You know its purport. When the lawyer had finished
reading, I rose, and taking my nearly sinking Mary's cold hand, I fixed
my eyes on the heiress's face. 'This is at least Howard's,' said I,
'and in his affection at least your sister is _rich_. Neither malice
nor envy dare invade these rights. The Being whom we adore is able to
provide for us, and the bread he bestows, will be that of peace and a
good conscience.' Miss Flint made no reply. Mrs. Flint, who had during
this time covered her face from observation, now rose with emotion, and
stopping me as I was advancing to the door with my precious burden,
she said, 'As Mr. Flint's wife I was dumb; but as his widow I _will_
speak. If Mrs. Howard wishes to follow her father's remains, have the
goodness, Sir, to let me hear from you.' She hastily left the room
before me. The next day my wife received from her a parcel of mourning
stuffs; but my heart revolted at favours given to _beggary_. I sent
them back with a card, 'Mrs. Howard is provided with _mourning_.' A
fever of some danger prevented my Mary's thinking of the funeral.
It was magnificent, and your mother's remains were disinterred and
brought hither to rest with her husband's. Poor Mary has been one of
Greenwood's hearers ever since; and even my nerves were for a time
shaken by their monument, which is in the chancel."




CHAP. VI.


_Memoirs of the Flint Family continued._

"My health had not been spared in these vexations, and its
interruptions made a coward of me. I experimentally felt the truth of
our favourite Terence's observation, 'I am a man, and have the feelings
of a man.' Whilst counting my throbbing pulse, my widowed Mary and
helpless child smote on my heart, and weakened still more the springs
of life. My little fund of about five hundred pounds had insensibly
diminished; you were remote and might _never return_; and I yielded to
despondency. But my God has graciously heard my sighs; you are with me
and I am comforted; for you will never forsake my wife and child."--I
must pause, Miss Cowley.

I saw with sanguine hopes the renewal of my brother's health and
cheerfulness. I received orders to join my regiment, and our
embarkation for America soon followed. Once more, oceans divided me
from my dear friends! Waving as useless the detail of my military life,
I will hasten to a conclusion. My brother's letters were for a time
such as I wished; but the arrow had been aimed too well. He died when
I was remote; leaving his daughter in her fifth year. My return to
England followed in a few months after this event.

In our passage home we captured a rich vessel bound for St. Malo's. In
the engagement I lost my leg; but gained six or seven hundred pounds
prize money.

On reaching London after a delay thus imposed, I found Heartley on
his dying bed; this trial did not accelerate my recovery. A fever
succeeded to his last embrace. Alas, his virtues suited not the world
he had escaped! Its cold and ungenial maxims could not find admission
into a heart glowing with every noble affection. Trusting to vigorous
health, and scorning the prudence which gives but to receive, he
lived honourably and died poor, leaving his widow with a jointure
of barely two hundred pounds per annum, for the support of herself
and two children. This inestimable woman found in her difficulties
and principles resources for ennobling her character. Her sorrows
were reserved for her pillow; and with a calm and collected mind,
she disposed of her effects, paid every outstanding debt; and then
declared to her friends, her intention of quitting London, in order to
give in retirement those habits to her children, which alone could
render them contented and independent. Mr. Wilson's house was the
asylum she chose; and in me she saw the guardian whom her husband had
named for his son. My dear Mary had her share in these arrangements,
and we left town, I having succeeded in my application, and seen my
claims established as an invalid on half-pay. We reached this place:
and I entered Wilson's friendly gate once more. Again did I fold in my
agonizing embrace the image of death. Great and merciful Being! thou
wilt not in rigour remember the frenzy of my despair, while, bending
over my fainting sister, I called down for vengeance on her destroyer!
For some days my soul sickened whilst I contemplated in her emaciated
form, the triumph of cruelty and the ravages of sorrow. But she smiled
me to resignation; and my heart received the blessings which Heaven
had spared me. Our tranquillity met with no disturbance from the hall.
I had been settled more than a month, when one morning, in passing
the hall gate, I saw Miss Flint and Mr. Flamall standing in the road
opposite to it, as though waiting for some one from the house. I
passed them as an absolute stranger. Mr. Flamall called me by name,
and added, "Miss Flint, Sir, wishes to speak to you." She advanced,
and I stopped. "I should have sent my attorney to you, Sir," said she
haughtily, "if I had not thought that you would in less than a month
have found leisure to call at the hall."--"When I have any business at
the hall, or interest in those who reside there, I shall find _leisure_
to call," replied I, with ill-suppressed emotion. "I neither expected,
nor desired your visit," answered she, "on my own account; but I beg to
know your pleasure in regard to the books you left behind you, when you
deserted it."--"Consult your _lawyer_," replied I; "if it be allowed
that I have a right to more than a shilling, send them; I will pay
the carriage, as I did the bookseller of whom they were purchased." I
walked on, and soon saw that she was joined by Mr. Snughead, to whom
she had recently given the living of Tarefield. This circumstance did
not contribute to restore my equanimity. Poor Howard pressed on my
memory and I returned home dejected.

My books made their appearance on the following day; and contributed
to my success as a tutor. Malcolm, Maclairn, and Henry Heartley were
my pupils; and neither of them have disgraced me. I pass over all the
fluctuations of a malady so fallacious as my sister's. Her approach to
the grave was so gradual, that at times she laughed at our precautions,
and beguiled us of our fears; but when on the confines of it, she was
untroubled, and spoke of her dissolution with serenity.

One day she told me that she had been writing to Lucretia, and wished
me to read the letter before she sealed it. I waved my hand, and
turned away my weeping eyes. "Well, I will not urge it," said she
putting in a wafer; "but I cannot die in peace, without assuring her,
that I sincerely forgive her. I am hastening to an abode, into which
no animosities can enter. I have none to impede my entrance; and the
time may come, when poor Lucretia will find a consolation in this
assurance. I have even recommended my poor child to her regard, as a
proof that I have pardoned her unkindness to me. The only sentiment I
now can feel for an offending fellow-creature," added she, wiping away
a starting tear, "_is compassion_; and I leave you to judge, Percival,
of that which now actuates my breast for a _sister_, the child of
the same parents, of a mother without equal in piety and humanity;
of a father!"--her voice sunk--"whom I grieved, perhaps more! Do not
think I have forgotten my Howard's noble spirit," continued she; "I
have not meanly sued for his child's bread. I have not an anxious care
for her as far as relates to her maintenance. I have resigned her to
_Providence_, and I leave her to you. But were I wholly to omit her in
a letter of this kind, it would, I think, have shewn a spirit of pride,
and of indifference to my child. Her aunt is rich in this world's
wealth, _she_ is poor. Lucretia may live to recollect her duty; and in
this destitute girl find an object who, without any claims of affinity,
will be worthy of her favours. Be not alarmed, my dear Percival,"
continued she, seeing my emotions, "indeed I have not said too much!
You ought to consider that you may be removed, and I have pointed out
to Lucretia, a _positive duty_; I have not solicited _her charity_."

Mrs. Wilson took charge of this letter. Some time after she returned,
her countenance glowing with resentment and the speed she had made.
"Thank God!" cried she, showing the letter, "there it is again! For
once I have my mind, and what is more, have _spoken_ my mind!" Mrs.
Howard took the letter with a trembling hand. "Why surely, my dear
lamb!" continued the affectionate woman, "you are not grieved that
your enemy will thus set her face against you! Her time is not yet
come for your tender mercies, for she is at variance with her Maker. I
told her so, _word for word_, and more than that; for I said Miss Mary
would never want her notice. She will remember me, I'll be sworn!"--My
sister was touched, though troubled, by this well-meant zeal, whilst I
only felt its justice. Two or three days passed, when the now rapidly
declining object of my tenderness gave me a packet directed to Miss
Flint. "Promise me," said she, "to deliver this into Lucretia's hand;
it is become indispensibly necessary that she should know I neither
meant to wound her feelings, nor to exasperate her temper. I conjure
you to promise me."--"Were she guarded by a legion of devils,"
exclaimed I, yielding to the anguish which tore my soul, "she shall
receive it from my hand into her own! She shall feel the misery which
she has caused!"--"Remember," replied she, "that the probe which is
not skillfully used must inflame. When you do meet her, remember _your
mother_!"

Her death soon followed. I was frantic in my grief. My passions would
not be opposed, and these brought the murderer of my comfort before me
in a sister's form. I swore solemnly that she should witness the ruin
she had effected; and that I would drag her to Mary's bed of death.
These violent agitations subsided to a more collected and determined
purpose of thought. I was incapable of receiving Greenwood's arguments,
and I was soothed by being left to my design. Greenwood performed the
last sad office. Preparations were made for receiving the remains of
Mrs. Howard, for the purpose of interment at his church, where her
husband was buried; but the hearse and coach stopped short of the
hall. Following the coffin I proceeded on foot to the great gate of
the house; and, bidding the bearers stop, I rang the bell with fury.
A man-servant answered my hasty summons; and, appalled by the object
in view, he stood motionless before me. "Tell Miss Flint," said I,
"that I must see her; that I am the bearer of a commission from the
_dead_, and that I will be numbered with the _dead_ before I leave this
spot if she refuses to admit me." Some little time elapsed: I was
admitted; and the trembling heiress, surrounded by her maid-servants,
and protected by Mr. Flamall, with terror met my slow approach. Flamall
broke the silence. He asked me what I had to say to Miss Flint. I waved
my hand. "Be wise!" said I, "this is no time for you."--He took the
advice and shrunk from my eye. I presented the packet to Lucretia;
she attempted to retreat on seeing the address. "You must take it,"
said I calmly: "nay, more, Lucretia, you must read the contents in my
presence: such are my orders; and before my Maker, have I sworn to
fulfil them."--"Give it to some one," cried she, covering her face;
"I promise to read it when I am able."--"That will not suffice,"
replied I, sitting down and bursting into agonizing tears; "I have no
apprehensions: a sister's dying blessing cannot injure, a sister's
forgiveness cannot wound you." She took the packet, broke the seals,
and, hastily glancing her eyes over the two letters it contained,
asked me, with rising anger, "whether I was satisfied with having
insulted her under her _own roof_?"--"Call it as you please," answered
I, sternly; "my business was not to compliment. I leave you with a
remedy you need. Profit from it, lest a worse thing befal you than my
insults." I instantly left her; and on my sainted Mary's grave wept my
feelings down to composure, Time, and my remaining comforts, healed, to
a certain degree, these breaches in my peace. I was at length summoned
to town with young Heartley, by his friend, to prepare for his voyage
to Calcutta. A month was employed in my cares for Heartley's son, and
my gratitude had its turn. I saw him embark with all the sanguine hopes
of youth, qualified by my care, for an honourable destination; and
gifted by nature with every virtuous and noble trait of his father's
character. He was under the protection of a man who loved that father,
and I contentedly went back to my lodgings in order to prepare for my
return home. My demands on my banker had been extended beyond their
usual course; and I had to settle my account with his books before my
departure. I called at his house, it had stopped payment; and in a week
or ten days detention in town I learned, that I might expect for the
remaining sum of five hundred pounds in his hands, a dividend of "five
shillings in the pound."

Mrs. Heartley was informed of this event by her London correspondents.
My philosophy did not console her; but it was shared by the Wilsons,
who observed "that the captain was quite in the right not to fret about
it, for that his comforts were in no danger of a bankruptcy."--From
this time my influence with them rose to a marked respect and
deference, and we had no difference in opinion but on quarter days.
About a year and a half since I received a letter from Miss Flint,
by the hand of our daily guest Malcolm Maclairn. "She wished to see
me, having something to propose which she trusted would heal the
differences between us." Mrs. Heartley's and Greenwood's arguments
prevailed. I went, and, after some prelude, she told me, that she had
been informed of the banker's insolvency, and was willing to relieve
me from the _burden_ of supporting Mary. I coldly replied that I had
never found her such. "Be it so," answered she, "I mean not in this
interview to offend you. I will take another mode of expression.
Consider whether a girl may not be as safe under an aunt's protection
as under an uncle's, and that you may die and leave her destitute. I
have lost sight of my brother Philip; I think she would amuse me; and
if you like the proposal send her, I will instruct her to be _useful_
at least."--"Ah, Lucretia!" cried I, "you may at this hour render
her so! Let this precious girl be the cement of our renewed ties of
nature!"--"I must first be assured that she has not been taught to
_hate me_," answered she, colouring: "neither my intentions nor your
wishes can be effected, if this be the case. Let her come; I wish
to know her, and she must remain a stranger to me whilst she is at
Wilson's; but we will at present drop the subject: in a week I shall
expect an answer."

She then detailed to me the miserable state of Sir Murdock Maclairn,
pitying his wife, who lived nearly altogether in his apartment. I
will pass over the struggles which ensued. Mary eagerly solicited my
consent. I saw her motive, and clasped her to my bosom. Mrs. Heartley
and Greenwood seconded her. "It was my duty to resign her."--"It
was incumbent on all to submit to necessity."--"It was Mary's future
support to have an interest with her aunt, and she could not fail
in humanizing her."--"By a refusal I was hardening her heart, and
perpetuating enmity."--You will distinguish the different speakers.
Greenwood's argument prevailed; for they breathed peace and love, and
reformation and pardon. I submitted, Miss Cowley, and conducted my
harmless, sweet child, to her unfeeling aunt; and I became a weekly
visitor at the hall. Surprised by her not coming to see her deserted
friends, I questioned her on the cause of her omission. "It will be
only for a time," replied she, in a caressing tone, "we must have
patience. My aunt fancies I shall not love her if I visit my dear
friends. It is unlucky that she should so much dislike them; but I
write to my Alice, and that is a comfort. When my aunt perceives that
I am obedient to her commands in this no little trial of my patience,
she will be more indulgent; in the mean time I am perfectly contented
with my situation, and you shall see that she will love me." Mrs.
Heartley approved of Mary's conduct, adding "Miss Howard must subdue
that inflexible woman, or she is lost to all hope."

You have seen the result! You have witnessed her aunt's obduracy! I
accept, with gratitude, your offered protection. Heaven has given you
the means, and a mind worthy of the donor! The time may not be far
remote when this destitute young woman will present herself before
you, weak in her youth, in her beauty, and in her purity. Shelter her,
Madam; the work will be honourable, and the recompence beyond what my
most fervent prayers of gratitude can reach.

 I remain respectfully,
 Your obliged humble servant,

 Percival Flint.

P.S. I had intended to suppress one instance of the power of passion
over a mind unchecked by reason or religion. You will be tempted to
think it insanity. It might be as well could I _think thus_.

On Mr. Howard's bringing his wife to Wilson's, Miss Flint, in
transports of fury, flew to the apartment in which hung my mother's
picture, and with a hand animated by an implacable ferocity, she cut
and defaced the cherub face, which was its beauty. My sister Howard,
who was ignorant of this impotent act of revenge, often wished for this
picture; and I employed Malcolm's good offices with his brother Philip
to gain it. By this means I learned the incident, and consequently
diverted my sister's direct application from being made.




CHAP. VII.


LETTER XX.

_From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

You will be prepared, my Lucy, for the resolution I have formed, of
supplying to Miss Howard the loss of her parents, as far as I am able;
to defeat the malice of her oppressor is a motive which I reject with
disdain, as incompatible with my present state of mind. She shall be
protected, Lucy, from better principles of action; and protected,
as Mr. and Mrs. Howard's child ought to be protected. But I am not
altogether satisfied with her remaining under the care of her good
uncle. I wish to prepare her for a situation under the roof of her
sister Rachel Cowley, when with the name of Hardcastle I shall be
qualified to act as a mother to her. She would by remaining at the
Abbey be precluded from those improvements she needs for the world;
and Mrs. Heartley, whom I have consulted, is of my opinion, that her
mind might be strengthened and benefited by being placed more remote
from Tarefield, and the extreme tenderness of the Wilsons. She must,
whilst with them, experience an attention which tends to confirm the
habits of dependance, and to increase the natural timidity of her mind.
But I wish to see Mary Howard my equal and friend. Let me have your
opinion on this point; consult my dear father. Ask him whether his
Rachel Cowley is right in her judgment,--that, with a simplicity which
knoweth no evil, and a humility which needs encouragement, something
more than the cultivation of the good affections is necessary, in
order to meet the world. Mary, at the Abbey, will be made too _good_
for an acquaintance with it; and I wish her sphere of knowledge to be
enlarged; yet I am aware of the hazard of entrusting her innocence and
beauty the care of strangers; nor would the captain concur in such a
plan. I am much perplexed on this point: my views being to produce Miss
Howard as she _ought_ to be produced, and as her future provision will
render necessary. You know me, Lucy; and you will not call the present
object of my attention one unworthy of my principles, or unsuitable to
my abilities. "I am an enthusiast," it will be said. This has been said
a thousand and a thousand times by a cold-hearted apathy, which sees
nothing beyond its own forlorn limits, and in its dread of deviating
from that narrow path, rests stationary there, till its powers of
action are irrecoverably torpid. Peace be with such! Rachel Cowley is
contented to be an _enthusiast_, and still, "like the needle true,"
will she turn "at the touch of joy and woe;" though "in turning she
trembles too."

I shall expect to have your advice on this subject; being resolved to
be governed by a discretion which has never failed to guide safely.


LETTER XXI.

_From the same to the same._

I have somewhere read that wonder is the child of ignorance; it was
fortunate for me that I recollected this sage remark, for I was in
danger of oversetting it, by wondering without being ignorant. Have I
ever yet seen Mr. Hardcastle act like a wise and prudent man during
my whole life, except in one melancholy instance? And yet, Lucy, the
_folly_ and _extravagance_ of his letter to Captain Flint produced
so sudden an impression of surprise on my mind, that experience was
confounded; and I exclaimed to Mrs. Allen, "Who could have believed
_this_, even of Mr. Hardcastle!" On reflecting more deliberately on
this proof of his inveterate opposition to all that is _proper_ and
_suitable_, I find however a consistency in his eccentricities, which
might have secured me from _wondering_. After having laboured in
meliorating a stubborn and unfruitful soil, he has taken the fancy
to shew his skill in the flower garden, and to please his taste by
cultivating the sweeter blossoms of a more genial spring, and a more
productive mould. Peace be with him! His work is worthy of his hand!
Under his culture will Mary Howard shed her mild fragrance around,
and, secure from nipping colds or wintry blasts, she will, with,
amaranthine bloom, cheer and delight his bosom! And you, my Lucy,
"will be cheered by a companion your friend loves." These are your
words. What shall I say to you in return? _Nothing._ Let Mary speak
my thanks, whilst I bless Heaven for permitting me to be the means
of sheltering innocence, and communicating to others the happiness I
have enjoyed. I must nevertheless check my gratitude, in order to tell
you, and this _unaccountable_ Mr. Hardcastle, that I mean in future,
to decline the honour of being the bearer of letters, which turn
honest people's heads giddy. I am aware, that my own would not better
sustain me, on the sight of _some_ signed Hardcastle, than the poor
captain's has sustained him; this, however, escaped your good father's
consideration, so let it pass; whilst I proceed to inform you, that
"gold may be bought too dearly," and that my nerves are not strong
enough for _heavenly delights_. We are, however, somewhat more settled
into mortal cares; and the captain, I presume, will, in his letter,
find room to tell you when you may look for your guests. We have now
something else to _do_; and which is _doing_ with April faces. Mary is
so busy that she does nothing. I am asked over and over again, "whether
Miss Hardcastle will not think she dresses too much for a young
creature in her condition of fortune; whether, I think Miss Hardcastle
will not find her aukward for her age." Then comes hope, to dispel her
doubts and fears. "If she should please, if Miss Hardcastle should take
a fancy to her as I had done, how happy would be her lot! Her dear
uncle's heart would be at rest, and she in a course of improvement!"
Why do I write all this to you? Alas! I cannot impose on you. It is not
Rachel Cowley that is preparing to set out for Heathcot; and I must
weep, and envy.

I will not go to the Abbey to-morrow: what have I to do with trunks and
band-boxes destined for your abode! No, I will not go near them! Pity
me, my dear Lucy! Tell me that your good uncle has produced some change
in your father's inflexible resolutions. Mr. Freeman is a wise man,
although he loves my poor Horace so tenderly. Surely he might convince
Mr. Hardcastle without invading on the prerogatives of the immortal
Newton, that no material injury would be done to the planetary system
by our writing to each other! He might go farther, and safely predict,
that our marriage would not hasten a single comet. No extraordinary
thunders would announce to the world, that happiness had triumphed over
cent. per cent. and over certain scruples, unheard of by multitudes,
and which multitudes would laugh at. Urge him to try his utmost
eloquence in favour of an union of pure and unmixed affection. Can
there exist a reason for the cruel separation to which we are doomed? I
have no father to offend now; none to implore, but Mr. Hardcastle! Pity
your

 Rachel Cowley!


LETTER XXII.

_From the same to the same._

You bid me hope for every thing that can relieve my spirits from their
present oppression; and again you repeat, that Horace cannot have
a better advocate than his uncle; yet, my Lucy, I am as weak as an
infant. Why am I not permitted to accompany Captain Flint and Mary to
Heathcot? I would return to my captivity with patience, could I but
see _this Mr. Freeman_; it would satisfy me: no one here would oppose
my journey. Oh! that cruel and too firm spirit may be trusted. Mr.
Flamall's ward will not be seduced,--will not be inveigled by Mr.
Hardcastle--his son is nothing to him! Malcolm gave me last night
a note from Mary, "believing that Miss Cowley can effect _every
thing_." _So it appears._ She and the captain intreat her to employ
her influence with Sir Murdock and Lady Maclairn to favour them with
a visit at the Abbey; or to permit Mary to pay her respects at the
hall before her departure. Unwilling to disturb the baronet, or to
distress his lady, I mentioned Mary's note to her only. She requested
me to assure Miss Howard that she sincerely participated with her
best friends, in the satisfaction they felt, on the subject of her
absence. "Her removal from Mrs. Wilson's," added she, "will do more, I
trust, than the captain thinks, towards conciliating her aunt's mind;
but independently of this consideration, the advantages she will
derive from her situation with Miss Hardcastle, are obvious; and I
rejoice at her good fortune. It grieves me to refuse Captain Flint's
invitation," continued she; "but the implacable animosity which his
sister entertains for the whole family at the Abbey, has been hurtful
to Mary's interest. I cannot, without injury to that interest, and
exasperating Miss Flint, lose sight of the neutrality I have hitherto
maintained. I wish you to give this sweet girl every assurance of my
regard and esteem: tell her, Miss Cowley, that I never was her parents'
enemy, nor am I capable of being hers. She must not come hither, unless
her aunt consent to see her. Say nothing of this application to Sir
Murdock. He will attend you as usual. It is utterly beyond my power to
act otherwise than I do." Her eyes filled with tears, and to conceal
them, she hastily quitted me, saying, that Miss Flint had not sent for
her, being too ill to rise.

If I am to believe Mrs. Allen, this "poor woman" is hourly manifesting
a better frame of mind; but I am under a fit of the spleen, and want
faith for her charity. I am disposed to think that horsewhipping, like
Doctor Lob's muscular exercise, or the dumb bells, might have been
useful to her constitution. Why may not evil spirits be dislodged, in
the same way that certain peccant humours go off, by perspiration? If I
thought the remedy a specific for discontent, I would try its efficacy,
provided the prescription admitted of a whipping-post, instead of my
own _bosom_, or one as white and as soft as the cygnet's down.

I am just returned from Miss Flint's room; her civility supports me in
my theory. She insists on my using the coach as my own. "The weather
will not do for an open carriage, and I ought to be careful of my
health." Poor woman! on saying this, she exhibited the havoc which
sickness has made of late in her robust frame. She looks dreadfully; is
much fallen away; and is nearly confined to her bed-room. She mentioned
her niece's journey; said she was glad to hear she was going from
Wilson's, and thanked me for my recommendation of her to you, adding,
"that Mary could be useful when it pleased her, having a _pretty taste_
and a _quick hand_." Suppose you commission me to purchase for you the
unfinished cross-stitch carpet; as needle-work of this sort goes on
with you, it will employ Mary very well for seven years; and by that
time the Turkey carpeting in Sedley's study, will be the worse for
wear. You will think, no doubt, of availing yourself of this "quick
hand" in some way or other.

To-morrow, yes, to-morrow, I dine with Miss Howard. Her friends will
be collected for the special purpose of taking leave; wishing her a
pleasant journey, with such like _ceremonies_: I have escaped the
word _fooleries!_ so much in honour of my self-command. But is it not
nonsense, to wish people a pleasant journey who are going to Heathcot?
Oh! how much good would it do me, only to behold the direction-post
that points out "Heathcot-farm," and that is within one little mile
of Lucy. Not a word more will I add in this froward humour; but still
subscribe myself

 Your own

 R. Cowley!


LETTER XXIII.

_From the same to the same._

"You shall expect a letter by Miss Howard." Well, I will try, and
convince my dear girl that I am not a simpleton, whose philosophy
resembles the feather in her hat, discomfited by a falling shower, or
a rough blast. I will be your Rachel Cowley, although no longer your
_Beatrix_.

I was pleased on Thursday morning to find that my good baronet had not
finally renounced all "the pomps and vanities of this wicked world;"
being convinced that in a moderate use of them, he will be in less
danger of corruption, than many who think sackcloth and ashes the
only guards to keep off temptation. He entered the music-parlour, in
which Mrs. Allen and myself were prepared for the carriage, with an
erect air, and as I thought a firmer step than usual, to ask when the
coach should draw up. He wore his bridal suit, somewhat modernized; an
embroidered waistcoat, and, as Mrs. Allen and myself both believe, a
rich diamond stock buckle; a new hat, and a gold-headed cane. We made
no remarks on his finery; he prevented it, by instantly adverting to
my robe, which was the one we embroidered together; and paid it many
compliments. Mrs. Allen observed, that her grey silk gown and black
bonnet would disgrace the well-dressed party. "No," replied he, with
easy politeness, "that can never happen, till you keep bad company.
Wisdom acknowledges her children under any attire; and sober matron
grace is your ornament. But Malcolm means to leave his boots behind
him, and begs a corner in the carriage with us," added he, taking a
pinch of snuff from a superb gold box; "I am not sorry to see him now
and then lay aside the _farmer_ for the _gentleman_, as of the latter
class he may always be, though of the former, without sinking his
character; whereas, I have seen farmers, and rich ones, who were not,
nor could be _gentlemen_." Malcolm's entrance and dress produced the
consequences to be drawn from Sir Murdock's inferences. He smiled on
him with complacence, and said, "Why, now, indeed, you look like a
_lover_, and _a Maclairn_!"--"When I forget what either of those titles
claim," replied he, gaily, "hang a calf skin on my recreant limbs."

Thus attired we reached the Abbey. The captain in his best regimentals
was prepared to receive his guests; and leaving the baronet to survey
at his pleasure, those stationary friends which lined the room, Mrs.
Allen and myself went to Mrs. Heartley's. Mrs. Wilson was with her;
the girls were with Malcolm in the garden, and in our view. "Poor Miss
Heartley will sadly miss her friend," observed the good woman, looking
attentively on them as they walked leaning on Malcolm's arm. "It might
have been as well for _us_ had Miss Howard not passed the last month
here, as it must make parting with her more hard." I spoke of my Lucy.
"I have no doubts of her being happy," replied Mrs. Wilson, "and I know
she will be respected, and improved in her learning, as Mr. Howard's
daughter ought to be; but as to her comforts with us, they have been
always our blessings. To be sure, we could not introduce her as you
will do; but otherwise----But, if she be happy? Yet, as my husband
and I have told the captain hundreds of times, there was no reason
for his troubles on Mary's account. Thank God, we have enough for
her and ourselves too, and, though we have relations to maintain, we
never grudged them assistance, and surely we had a right to be happy
in our turn. But I saw how it was," added she, wiping her eyes, "when
the innocent lamb was sent to that savage aunt; the captain thought I
should love her too well to please my husband's nieces. Dear me! duty
and affection will not always march side by side! They were not born
in my house, I never dandled them on my knees, nor saw them frisking
before me! yet I do not forget them, they are _relations_. But this
child!"--She wept.--"I beg your pardon, Miss Cowley, but I cannot
help being sorry that she is going from us." I consoled her with the
assurance that her absence would not be many months; and mentioned my
hope of seeing you under her roof, as much a favourite as Mary. "So
Mrs. Heartley tells me," replied she rising; "but in the mean time
what is become of our young folks. They do not consider how cold it
is turned." She disappeared in order to give them the caution. "How
little do those understand the genuine goodness of human nature," said
Mrs. Heartley, following with her eyes the retreating Mrs. Wilson,
"who maintain, that it is indebted to acquired attainments and
borrowed lustre for its excellence and stability! No one can estimate
the advantages of a good education more highly than myself; but there
are some of our fellow-creatures, so richly endowed with virtuous
propensities, that they appear to me to be peculiarly marked, in
order to humble the pride of human reason; and to exhibit virtue in
her native dignity and simplicity. What system of education, or what
refinements of the polite world, could have better taught this woman
the art of conferring benefits without oppressing the receiver, than
her own heart, and the precepts in the gospel. That which thousands in
the world would consider as a work of supererogation and superlative
merit, she is firmly persuaded, is doing no more than what Mr. and
Mrs. Howard's child has a right to exact, because they were good and
unfortunate; and she left an orphan under her roof. She has not a
doubt of her being answerable for this young creature's comforts; and
her regret on losing sight of her, is by no means unmixed with the
fear, lest some mischief should arise from her acquaintance with the
world. We have happily succeeded in satisfying her on this point; and
she blesses God, that Miss Mary is not likely to see _London_. I am
frequently so struck by this good woman's purity of heart, and sound
principles of action," continued Mrs. Heartley, "that I am in some
danger of despising too much the philosophy and refinements of the
world. I cannot help believing, that, whilst immersed in its cares and
its pleasures, not only my enjoyments were more controuled, but my
heart less pure than it is at present. My ambition, which then looked
forwards to the well-earned recompence of my husband's toils, and the
honourable establishment of my children in that class to which their
parents had a claim, is now settled into the wish of seeing Alice a
good wife, and a farmer's wife: and I should be contented to leave her
with the qualities of a Mrs. Wilson, and in the protection of a man
like Wilson."

"A little refinement," answered I, with an arch smile, "will not
spoil your plan of rural innocence and peace. Malcolm may work as
industriously as Mr. Wilson, notwithstanding his wicked taste for
Virgil and Theocritus; and it will be Alice's own fault, should she
neglect the churn for the harpsichord."--"Rather say, her foolish
mother's," replied she, laughing, "who, in spite of her convictions,
could not leave her bad habits with the world she quitted. However,"
continued she, "I can give you no stronger proof of being a sincere
proselyte to the opinions I have supported, than in the disposal of
my daughter. On this important point I have so far deviated from the
prescribed rules of parental prudence, as to hazard the censure of
weakness, if not indiscretion, in permitting a girl who has no fortune,
to engage herself in a promise of marriage to a man nearly as little
favoured as herself in this essential article. It may not be amiss,"
continued she, laughing, "to endeavour to justify my conduct on this
particular head, with _one_ so rigidly attached to the doctrine of the
'suitable,' 'convenient,' and 'equal bargain' in this grand business
of human life. The truth was, I had no alternative in the question
concerning the happiness of my child. I foresaw, that circumstanced
as she was, Malcolm Maclairn would either remain a second brother, or
become her lover. There was no inequality of condition or of character,
to oppose to their growing attachment; both were virtuous and amiable;
both had the same moderate expectations; both had been educated for
a decent mediocrity, I wrote to Lady Maclairn my _observations_, not
my _fears_; for I had none. Malcolm's visits were not restrained. I
considered, Miss Cowley, that worldly prudence was not without its
victims; that human wisdom was not unfrequently frustrated, and that
an anxious eye to the future often overshot its mark. In the dread of
poverty we sometimes forget to appreciate justly the barriers which
talents, industry, and sobriety can oppose to its encroachments, and
still more heedlessly, turn from the numberless examples, in which
wealth, with the habits it induces, has been the high road to penury.
Malcolm is a practical farmer; and from the application of better
opportunities, and superior talents, he has enlarged Mr. Wilson's
agricultural knowledge, who calls him 'his master.' Malcolm was not
sixteen when I warned his mother of his _danger_," continued Mrs.
Heartley smiling; "since his father has sanctioned his views, I have
regarded him as my son. Fortunately, Alice's pedigree pleased the
good baronet; and he told Malcolm, that with such an education as he
described, and from so _honourable_ a stock, any girl was rich to an
independent and wise man. From that hour his plans have been brought
forward; and when, by means of his friend Wilson's assistance, he can
find a farm, my children will be happy. An advantageous project in
order to effect this, is now before them; and I hope will turn out as
profitably to Mr. Wilson, who is a sensible and prudent man, as to Mr.
Maclairn: in the mean time he is contented with the privileges I allow
him; and Alice calls me her friend and confidant, and is in no hurry to
change her name."

A summons to the party below prevented more on this subject. But tell
me, Lucy, what is your opinion of this mother? I thought whilst I
listened to her, that I was with _ours_! I found Mrs. Wilson presiding
at the head of Captain Flint's table. The _feast_, for such it was,
was in her parlour. A noble room, with a dark wainscoat, and a
profusion of carving, gave dignity to the repast, and also a contrast
peculiarly striking to the appearance of the guests; for we ought to
have been dressed in farthingales and Queen Bess's ruffs; and the
donor of the feast, as we suspect, to have had pages and gentlemen
ushers. Simplicity, gaiety, and ease, supplied the place of ancient
ceremonials; and I could not help recalling, in remarking the modest
but independent farmer Wilson, the times of vassalage, when pride and
abject submission bound the human race in the fetters of ignorance.
Mrs. Allen, who appeared to be particularly Mrs. Wilson's favourite of
the day, assures me, that I am forgiven for my wickedness in sending
Mary from the Abbey. Miss Hardcastle's character has effected this
lenity on Mrs. Wilson's part. "Her gentleness is exactly the thing;
for to Mary Howard, _gentleness_ is meat, drink, and clothing. She
hopes Miss Hardcastle will attend to the _little cough_, which from
time to time alarms her fears, Mary's dear parents having died of
consumptions; but then indeed these were brought on by sorrow and the
barbarity of the wicked. Miss Howard will have no such troubles; yet
she has given her the recipe for the cough, which was always useful.
How so tender a creature got through her hardship at the hall is
beyond her conception! It appears to her a miracle! She who never went
to bed or rose without a fire in her room, and who was reared like a
_cot-lamb_!" Mrs. Allen received these hints with due attention, and
with good-natured seriousness told her, that she had only one fear to
combat with, namely, that Mary would be still too much the _cotted-lamb
at Heathcot_. She smiled, and nodding her honest and contented head,
answered, "That is well: she will never be spoiled by nursing, as they
are, poor fools!"

Malcolm waits for my letter. He sleeps at the Abbey in order to
accompany the travellers one stage. I have written a note to Mary, in
which I have inclosed a bank note of fifty pounds, and in the most
dictatorial language of an _elder sister_, recommended to her care the
escort which Providence has given her to her new abode. I could not
take leave of this dear girl; it is better as I have managed matters;
nor shall I go to the Abbey to-morrow. Malcolm shall have the triumph
of consoling the simpletons there; I have enough to do, to make
reasonable your

 Rachel Cowley.




CHAP VIII.


LETTER XXIV.

_From Rachel Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

It has fallen out exactly as Mrs. Allen predicted: my restlessness has
done no more than to weary my body; my mind travels to you, and I must
humour it. We will not talk however of those, who, with palpitating
hearts, are, as they journey on, thinking of their first reception,
and the embarrassments of an introduction to beings of an higher order
than such poor mortals as croud this busy scene. How I should enjoy
your defeat, Lucy, when your eyes, for the first time, behold "My
fairest amongst women," an epithet you have so unmercifully rallied.
You will be candid, and I shall forgive you; only in future acknowledge
that I can praise _accurately_, and, in this instance, have praised
_soberly_. It is an age since I have examined my talents in this way;
but so confident am I that the sight of Miss Howard and her uncle will
establish my excellence as a painter, whose hand is guided by truth and
nature, that I fearlessly send you two other portraits, which ought
long since to have graced your cabinet. I wish Sedley was thirty years
older than he is, it would save me the time necessary to delineate not
only the features, but the character of Mr. Greenwood, who,

 "In manners gentle, in affection mild,
 In wit a man, simplicity a child,"

brings to my fancy what Sedley will be when a grandfather, and whom
I already reverence as one every time Mr. Greenwood speaks. They
certainly are near relations; only nature, always provident as well as
kind in her donations, thought that one at a time would be sufficient
for her honour; and one in a country enough to allure mankind to a love
of goodness and simplicity of heart. One trait which they possess in
common, convinces me that my hypothesis is not altogether fallacious;
for I dare not be saucy with either, though I love them both. You who
are deeper than myself in metaphysics, will descover the cause for my
respect and good behaviour with them, when, with others, "my lips utter
folly," and I am as "a bubbling brook."

Doctor Douglas is the delight of my eyes, and, like Falstaff, not only
witty himself, but the cause of wit in me; and although it may not be
Attic salt to all palates, it supplies a seasoning necessary to my hard
fare. Douglas is a true and genuine North-Britain, large, muscular,
and six feet at least in height. He is by no means a beau; nor is he a
sloven, although he looks more like a London watchman than a physician.
His dress is the result of system, raised probably upon his early modes
of attire, and abhorrence of ligatures. Cold bathing and Bath-coating,
a sort of cloth, such as your curricle wrapping-coat, are with him the
essentials health and longevity; and he maintains, that with those,
and Scotch barley, a man needs not either a carriage, a carpet, turtle
soup, crutches, or an apothecary. He is a widower, Lucy, and has too
great boys, whom he has rendered, as I am told by himself, fit for
any climate, and taught to be contented with even _barley-broth_ and
a knapsack. A healthy countenance, and eyes which still sparkle with
the vigour of his mind, would deceive you in his age, for he is more
than three-score by his register; but the loss of two or three of
his fore teeth, are mementos that his youth is past. These several
defects and impediments have preserved me from the sin of inconstancy;
for I was in danger of admiring, for the first time in my life that
I can recollect, one of those figures which you would expect to find
at the head of a banditti, in the scenery of a Salvator Rosa. After
dinner Mr. Greenwood, observing him making his dessert of a piece of
sea-biscuit, which he took from his pocket, could not help expressing
his surprise, that he should hazard the loss of such teeth as he
envied. "I have every grinder," replied he, "as sound as when Nature
gave them me."--"Of this fact I needed no better evidence," answered
Mr. Greenwood, "than the seeing you grind that flinty biscuit; but I
conceive you might have been taught, by the loss of two or three of
your fore teeth, to understand that yours, like your neighbour's, were
perishable."--"Why does he not get them supplied?" cried Alice; "they
make false teeth now, I am told, of a substance as white and as firm
as his own."--"Why do you not plaister over that honest and honourable
testimony of your having faced your enemy, Captain Flint?" asked he,
with gravity. "The girls like a smooth, though empty front."--"Oh,
that is pure malice!" replied Alice, "Captain Flint's scar is his
glory, and was acquired in fighting for his country."--"Well, hussey,"
retorted he, "and mine was gained in buffetting with the stormy surge;
and saving from its overwhelming fury _twa bonnie lasses_, I could not
make more arms than I had, and one steered the float, the other grasped
one of the sinking wretches, and my teeth I gave to the second; and
shall I not wear my laurels in rememberance of my prowess, without
cramming my mouth with sea-horse teeth and vile springs?"--"You are
quite right, doctor," remarked I; "and what is more, they would, like
every thing artificial about you, be disgraced by the gifts of Nature.
You can bite close enough with the teeth you have, whilst a fool and
a sea-rusk cost you so little to reduce them to dust." He laughed,
and displayed from ear to ear, the snowy white and even teeth; not of
Lucy Hardcastle's sort, because one would make four of her pearls,
but yet as well adapted to the mouth they reside in. So much for the
doctors teeth; now for his humour. Some one asked him whether he had
lately seen a certain Sir Peregrine Lofley, a gentleman of consequence
somewhere in the neighbourhood. "No," replied he, with a peculiar
expression of contempt. "He has not had the cholic of late; and when
he has, he will not apply to the _Scotch quack_ for physic; he found
mine unpalatable."--"How did that happen?" asked Mr. Greenwood; "when I
last saw Sir Peregrine he told me you had saved his life, and that the
London physicians were fit only to beat your pestle and mortar."--"That
opinion speaks the fool," answered he; "but neither the Scotch nor
English physicians can cure him of a radical want of brains. You saw
him three or four days after I had accomplished the same business
which they had done more than once; the only difference consisted in
the mode. This fellow," continued he, turning to Sir Murdock, "had,
by his gluttony, produced a malady, which, without a miracle, might
have killed him in twenty hours; and having heard of '_one Douglas_,'
who had saved a man from a mortification of the bowels, I was sent
for. The danger of Sir Peregrine was not less imminent, but happily
yielded to medicine. Perfectly knowing the cause of the malady, I
became the friend of nature and of him; and for a few days longer than
was absolutely necessary, kept him on a very spare diet. He had been
terrified into docility, and, on enlarging his bill of fare, I honestly
told him, that his health was in his own hands; that temperance would
preserve it, and that excess in eating would shorten his life. From
this well-meant caution he drew an inference perfectly useless. He
would eat nothing that Doctor Douglas did not order; and during the
course of a fortnight I received my fee, for directing his cook to boil
his mutton and make his panada. I saw the machine was going on well;
and, without farther concern, took his superfluous gold for advice
and controul so beneficial to him. Not, however, classing him with my
sick patients, I one morning omitted my visit. The following evening
as I called on passing his door, I was questioned on the cause of _my
neglect_. He had expected me in the morning. 'I had a great desire
for a stewed carp for my dinner,' added he, with a disturbed air,
'but I did not dare to eat of it without your permission.'--'It is
not my intention, my good Sir,' replied I, 'to play _le docteur Pedro
Rezio_ with you: with the constitution and appetite of _le governeur
Sancho Panca_, all things are lawful with one sauce, moderation and
exercise. Eat like a ploughman if it please you, on condition you work
like one.' He graciously smiled, and said he would try what he could
do when stronger. I now mentioned the melancholy accident which had
engaged me the whole of the day. A man working on the roof-beams of a
house had fallen; he had broken his thigh, and, as it was supposed,
had fractured his head. It appeared that this unfortunate man had
been Sir Peregrine's carpenter, but had incurred his sore displeasure
by two offences equally unpardonable. The first was, refusing him
his vote for the candidate he supported; the second, the man could
read; and with this dangerous talent he had discovered, that he was
not altogether a piece of elm or oak. 'And was it for this fellow,
doctor, that Sir Peregrine Lofley was neglected?' said he, rising from
an easy-chair, with much resentment; 'surely you must know that he
is a notorious Jacobin! a rascal who reads newspapers and seditious
tracts, at alehouses; and prates of magna-charta and the liberty of the
press! He is the veriest dog in the neighbourhood a common nuisance!
Surely you must have known this!'--'I was perfectly acquainted with the
man's _reputed_ character,' answered I, drily; 'but I was called upon
to judge of his _fractured skull_, not of his _political creed_. It
happens, however, fortunately for my hopes of saving his life, which is
not unuseful to his wife and six children, that he has loved politics
better than ale: the remarkable sobriety of his habits is much in his
favour, and I hope to conquer the fever. You must not expect me to
call to-morrow, I shall be engaged with him.'--'It will not suit me,'
answered he, with evident haughtiness, 'to place my health in any man's
hands, on whom I cannot depend for _punctuality_ as well as _judgment_;
and I should conceive that Doctor Douglas has had no reason to complain
of my want of attention to his visits.' He offered his guinea: I
declined it. 'This was a call _en passant_,' observed I, 'but it has
led to an explanation of your expectations. These, Sir Peregrine, may,
on certain occasions, be regarded by me, as not less _incumbent_ on
your medical attendant's observance, than they appear useless at this
moment. _All are men_, without distinction, on my list of patients;
the urgency of the case settles their precedence. You want not medical
aid at present; nor do I want your guineas, in return 'for small talk
and bowing,' although born on the other side of the Tweed.' I left him
swelling with rage, and have never seen him since; and finding that
I am neither a democrat, nor a nuisance, he calls me a _pretending
quack_!'--'And yet,' observed the delighted Sir Murdock, 'the united
suffrages of every university in Europe could not have better qualified
a man for the purposes of healing the sick. Your remedies must be
infallible, doctor, if you can prescribe to other diseases as well as
you have done to pride and narrowness of spirit.'--'The patient was
heartily welcome to it,' replied he, with invincible gravity. 'I am not
an ill-natured man, Sir Murdock, and when a good action of this sort
falls in my way I conceive it to be my duty to be useful. It is true
that my nostrums, on such occasions, are like most of my unlicensed
brethren's, more _rough_ than _infallible_; but I am more generous
than the common herd of venders of this class; I give my pill and bolus
gratis to all who apply for them."

"I wish I could give you a special diploma, Douglas, for prescribing
your physic to those who do not ask for it," observed the mild
Greenwood; "you might find plenty of patients, who, not thinking 'they
need a physician,' become incurable by neglect."--"Is not that your
fault," asked he, smiling; "you are too tender and compassionate. The
diet you prescribe of self-knowledge and self-discipline, will not do
for all constitutions. Some need _caustics_ and the _probe_, and with
such patients will Douglas exercise his functions without interfering
in your trade." The good doctor had, however, as I thought, been rather
too tender of a foible of his own. His national prejudices had not
been pruned. "Scotland was the genial soil of philosophy, courage, and
honour." The conversation took, from some assertions of this sort,
an argumentative form. Malcolm with delight listened to his father's
eloquence. Stimulated by his opponents, Mr. Greenwood and the captain,
and supporting Douglas's arguments, he forgot the past; and brought
forth his long-concealed stories of knowledge, with an animation which
marked the acuteness of his mind and the strength of his memory.

Wherefore is it, my dear Lucy, that so many are found who, in the pride
of reason, appear to forget the feeble tenure on which depends their
boasted privileges; their justly prized prerogatives? The pulsation
of an artery more or less rapid than suits our fragile frame, may, in
a moment suspend, and, for a time, annihilate those faculties that
distinguish us from the brute that perishes. Are we not liable to
diseases, to accidents, to sorrows, which no human skill can remedy,
no human prudence can prevent, and which, in a moment, may reduce
us to idiots, or render us as ferocious and dangerous as beasts of
prey? Suspend, but for a moment, the agency of that Being in "whom we
live and move," and what are we? Surely there needed not the awful
interdiction of eternal truth, to teach us, that "Pride was not made
for man." Our own weakness, our own feebleness, might have sufficed
to point out the lesson! You are fortunately released from a train
of thoughts more useful to myself than needful to one who "bears her
faculties so meekly." I am summoned to the card-table; Lady Maclairn
requested me so earnestly to make up a rubber for _poor Lucretia_, that
I cannot refuse her. There are sceptics to be found who deny that there
is constancy in love. It would save much cavilling if these ingenious
people would use proper terms. No one, I presume, would contradict them
in their assertion, that people cannot eat with such an appetite, or
drink when not thirsty, as if they were hungry or thirsty; but leaving
such to their ignorance, I will start a new subject of argument, for I
will maintain that one cannot always _hate_. No, Lucy, irreconcilable
hatred, like a raging fever, must either kill the patient or wear
itself out. My cheek no longer flushes on seeing Miss Flint; nothing
rises in my throat when I ask her how she passed the night. Are not
these gracious signs, Lucy, that I am becoming truly your sister? You
shake your dear head. Well, "Rome was not built in a day," says the
proverb; and after all, can I help that people should reap that which
they have sowed? Would you wish me to give to Miss Flint the tribute
due to suffering virtue? and to think, with Mrs. Allen, that the wicked
are more to be commiserated than the good? If you do you must give me
time, and in justice commend these dawnings of virtue; for I have, in
consequence of my charity, been two days writing this, instead of one.
Love me, Lucy; be sure to love me with all my faults. Nothing you can
do for my benefit will so soon correct them.

I am impatient to hear what you think of "My lilley of the valley!"
There! it is breathed! Take the dear blessing amongst you! and, oh!
that I could add: take with it your

 Rachel Cowley.




CHAP. IX.


During an interval of three or four weeks, the period during which
Captain Flint was on his excursion to Heathcot, no occurrences
of importance to this history appear in Miss Cowley's letters to
her friend. It is my duty to supply this chasm by detailing a few
particulars relative to Mr. Horace Hardcastle's situation and pursuits,
these being so immediately connected with the thread of the narrative
as to claim attention.

The young nobleman, his friend, with whom he went abroad, continued
gradually to yield to the slow, but fatal malady which had so long
menaced the hopes of his family. Intervals of comparative ease, with
that flow of spirits which commonly attends this disease, and which
was further sustained by his patience and principles, had, from time
to time, beguiled him in the course of his unprofitable search after
health. He became weary of the sea, and disgusted by the confinement of
a ship's cabin; and he expressed much reluctance to quitting Lisbon,
where he had wintered. His friends about him strongly recommended to
him a retreat from the heat of the summer, which was within their
reach, and the accustomed resort of the society to which he was
attached and endeared. Doctor Innes, his tutor, convinced of the
inutility of the many cruises he had patiently submitted to undertake,
and the necessity of amusing his mind, immediately secured, in this
delightful asylum, a convenient house for his reception, to which the
family repaired in the early months of the summer.

The mutual confidence which subsisted between Lord William and Horace
Hardcastle, was of that nature which precludes all concealment; and the
dejection of the lover's spirits was not only a subject of disquietude
to Lord William, but of anxiety to Doctor Innes. He was influenced,
by the account given him of the young man's difficulties, to write to
his uncle, Mr. Freeman; and, stating to him his fears for his nephew's
health, he with much earnestness expatiated at large on the effects
of a domineering passion. "I have, my good friend," added the doctor,
"said thus much of Mr. Hardcastle's inclination, because I well know
it was implanted, and is nourished, by the purest affections of his
nature. Opposition will never destroy it; but it checks his activity,
preys on his spirits, and may blast the hopes of his family. It is time
his father should know this. Some indulgence is necessary, unless he
means to sacrifice his happiness to a point of honour." Alarmed by
the seriousness of this application, Mr. Freeman determined to quit
his beloved home, and to plead in person for the lovers; conceiving
that Mr. Hardcastle would be more accessible to his remonstrances,
when urged by an affection which had led him to think Horace a match
for the first woman breathing, in point of merit. He was successful,
or rather Doctor Innes's letter prevailed. The interdiction of writing
was removed; and Horace was informed that he had only to be cheerful
till Miss Cowley ceased to love; and to wait patiently for Counsellor
Steadman's operations with the redoubtable Mr. Flamall. These letters,
and the change of measures which Mr. Hardcastle had adopted, were
carefully concealed from Miss Cowley. Horace had been mentioned as
not only _depressed_ but _indisposed_, and the confederacy who had
jointly aided in the victory over his good father, concurred with Miss
Hardcastle that it was more prudent to leave Miss Cowley in repose, and
to Horace the pleasure of telling his own tale. Mr. Freeman, contented
with these advantages, and encouraged by Mr. Steadman's concurrence,
with whom he had an interview in London, in his way to Heathcot,
returned home. Captain Flint and Miss Howard's arrival immediately
followed. Some conversation, relative to her beloved brother, led Miss
Hardcastle to say to her guests, that she had been very unhappy from
the time he had left England; "but Heaven be praised," added she,
with unguarded warmth, "we shall be happy soon!"--"Do you expect your
brother home?" asked the captain. "No, but he will be more comfortable
than he has been abroad," answered she, with vivacity; "and it has been
his dejection as much as his absence which have been the subjects of
my regret. Thank God! all goes well at present." She instantly checked
herself, and changed the conversation.

The captain's return to Tarefield was followed by the letter before us.


LETTER XXV.

_From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

Pray, Lucy, by what enchantment has it happened that Captain Flint,
with the loss of his idolized niece, has also lost his care-worn face?
How has it happened that in a mail-coach, and exposed to cold and
fatigue, he has contrived to leave behind him his rheumatic pains and
nervous head-achs? But our first interview gave me a nervous head-ach,
and a nervous tremor into the bargain! for, after having, with the
patience of Job _himself_, listened to his rhapsodies in praise of
all his ravished eyes had beheld at Heathcot; giving him his full
swing in the history of the _concerts_ at Worcester, and the _feasts_
at the baron's, and the Chudleighs, &c. I did contrive to edge in;
"and what did you hear them say of Horace?"--"Mr. Hardcastle," replied
he, "walks every morning in the little plantation"--he shewed me the
_children's oaks_--"raised from acorns of your setting. His son's have
got the start of yours and Miss Hardcastle's?"--"Well, I know all
this," answered I pettishly; "but did his father never speak of him to
you?"--"He talks of him perpetually," replied he, "as every one does,
and Miss Hardcastle appears to be quite reconciled to his absence, for
she assured me, that he would be happier than he had been."--"Good
God!" exclaimed I, "what could she mean!" Something in my _too honest_
face betrayed me. "Be composed, my dear Miss Cowley," said the
terrified captain, "I am certain there is no cause for alarm, when
Miss Hardcastle says '_all will be well_:' these were her words, in
speaking of her brother." Judge, Lucy, of the effect of such ambiguous
information on my irritable mind. "_All will be well_"--yes, _all will
be well_ when I am in my grave, if I am deserted and forgotten! Write
to me; write only these three words, "Horace loves you," then _all will
be well_ with

 R. Cowley.

       *       *       *       *       *

A short letter from Miss Hardcastle indicating the success of Mr.
Freeman's interference, without any mention of his apprehension on the
subject of Horace's health, reached Miss Cowley by return of post. The
subjoined letter will, speak for itself.


LETTER XXVI.

_Horace Hardcastle to his Sister._

 Cintra, Sept. 20th.

 MY DEAR LUCY,

My last letter informed you of our intention of remaining stationary
for some months; and I have now the satisfaction of telling you, that
I think Lord William has, on the whole, gained more from this climate
than from any he has tried, and that hitherto we have had no reason
to regret the plan we have adopted. An assured refuge from the heats
of summer and the advantages hoped for from his vicinity to the sea,
have not altogether failed. He has been amused, his thoughts divested
from what he calls "a cowardly flight from death," and free from the
inconveniences of Lisbon, he enjoys placidly, the few short days of
his allotted space. We have been constant residents in this terrestrial
paradise only since the first of June. Our spacious house and elevated
situation at Lisbon, being perfectly adapted to our dear invalid's
comforts; and to say the truth, we quitted the view of the noblest
harbour in Europe, with an intire persuasion, that we might have
remained with safety under its protection and the sea-breeze, which
blew on our faces from every balcony. But Lord William had not then
seen Cintra! He had not then seen from the _Cabo de Penah_, nor from
_Cape Roque_, the sublime objects of nature which surround them. Rocks
and mountains; the expanded ocean; the wide-stretching Tagus; plains
rich in cultivation; impending woods; bubbling fountains, and falling
cascades! Nor had he then traced the footsteps of havoc and confusion,
left by the earthquake, and which the broken fragments and ponderous
masses of the bare rock, mark at every approach.--But recommending to
my Lucy the names of those writers who have embellished their works
with a description of this favoured haunt of nature, I will proceed to
place before her an adventure much more interesting to myself. Twiss,
Baretti, Southby's Tours through Spain and Portugal will satisfy your
curiosity, as to the spot in which I met with my good genii. You will
not wonder, that your brother seeks solitude. My Curro[1], who knows
his master for his friend, is no less impatient than he is, for the
early dawn; about that hour he conducts me daily to some otherwise
almost inaccessible haunt, and contentedly browzes the verdant paths
in his way. The sun had gained upon us, whilst my Grison breakfasted
on what nature made to him a luxurious repast. I conversed with an
intelligent friar, one of the inmates of this singular retreat, who
has been banished by the superior of his order to this place from his
convent in Lisbon, to expiate the sin of loving _English heretics_, and
English books; both of which temptations are yet too strong for him, in
a spot

 "Whose darksome round contains
 "Repentant sighs and voluntary pains;
 "The rugged rocks, which holy knees have worn,
 "The grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn."

But leaving these allusions and poetical flights, let us proceed
in our usual way.--Slowly winding up the steep ascent we reached
the ruins of a Moorish castle, which is on one of the three highest
promontories. You will imagine that the prospect from this elevation is
unconfined. Alas! my Lucy, your brother saw only _one_! It was clouded
by despair, and rendered intolerable by the certainty that I was not
the only sufferer who was enveloped in its frowning aspect. "Were I
alone to suffer, I would try to meet disappointment and contradiction
like a man," thought I: "but to know that I am beloved, that I am as
necessary to the happiness of the being whom I love, as she is to
mine! To know that we might be happy, but for considerations----"
I checked my murmurs _then_, as I suppress them _now_; and with my
usual despondency, quitted the spot. In descending I saw, not far
remote, an elegant girl, seated on a fragment of a rock; a gentleman
on his knees before her, and she in evident distress. The narrow path
admitted of no deviation; I was obliged to pass the supposed lovers.
In so doing I perceived that the pretty creature had hurt her ankle,
which the gentleman was rubbing; and the expression of her countenance,
indicated that the application of his hand had not allayed the sense
of pain. I stopped, and learned, that fearful of trusting herself
to the sagacious animal she had rode, she had left her party at the
Cork convent[2], preferring to walk. "With a shoe of _this fashion_,"
added the gentleman producing a green satin slipper, which might have
rivalled Cinderella's, you will not be surprised at our disaster; the
heel snapped, and here we are, with a sprained ancle! The _husband_,
rather than the _lover_, appeared in this _observation_; and my idea
was confirmed; for the pretty creature, rubbing the ancle with a hand
which did not disgrace it, displayed a wedding ring; and with assumed
gaiety, said, "The accident was nothing, she was certain the sprain
was trifling; the pain was already subsiding, it was only numbed.
If the gentleman would only have the goodness to call as he passed
the Convent, and send forward the beasts, all would be well." _The
gentleman_, as in duty bound, assisted her in mounting his own; and
with the utmost caution, we proceeded down to the village. Having
safely gained the more easy road, our timid charge unaffectedly
thanked me for my goodness; and in reply to her companion's raillery
on being such a coward, she remarked the superiority of the beast
she was on, to the wretched animal they had lent her at the hotel;
adding, that the satisfaction of leaving him feeding, was one motive
for her preferring to walk. "I might have guessed as much," replied
her companion; "but after all, my dear Margaret, you have been more
charitable than fortunate. You should have kept your glass slipper
for more level ground: it will be long enough before you see again
a spot like this, or find a mountain to ascend."--"That may be,"
answered she with cheerfulness, "but I shall have time to rest on
ship-board." This observation led to my being informed that she was
going with her _brother_ to Jamaica, where her husband was expecting
her. "It will be a long and a tedious time before we shall meet,"
added she with tenderness: "and when I think of the many hours of
expectation!"----"Never fear!" cried the brother, "you are a good
sailor, Margaret, and with fair winds we shall go quicker than we do at
present."--"God grant us them!" replied she with emotion.

We reached the hotel, and I took my leave of the strangers. The
following morning on passing it, civility prompted me to enquire after
the sprained ancle. The brother gave me a favourable account of the
accident, adding, that _Mrs. Flint_, his sister, would be happy to see
me again; and instantly leading the way to the next room, introduced
me to his sister, and another lady whom I recollected as being the
wife of a merchant resident in Lisbon. The name of _Flint_ had visibly
discomposed me; and for some moments I had only to listen to the
reiterated acknowledgments of the delicate Mrs. Flint. She was still
at the breakfast-table, and with the most perfect contentment she told
me that her friend had not only enjoined her the penance of remaining
in her bed longer, by some hours, than was her custom, but had doomed
her to the sofa for the whole day; and with a sweet and amiable
frankness of manner she reminded me of my little services; intreating
me to assist her again, and by dining with them to make her peace with
her brother, who had threatened to reduce her to a pigmy-height by
obliging her to wear flat-heeled shoes. I bowed my acceptance of this
invitation. The island of Jamaica and the appellation of "Mrs. Flint"
had rivetted me to my seat. At length I summoned up resolution to ask
her, whether she was connected with the _Flints of Tarefield-hall_. She
coloured deeply; and the brother, without hesitation, answered, that
his sister was the wife of Mr. Philip Flint, the youngest son in the
family. "Then you know Miss Cowley," said I trembling with agitation,
"you know she is at Tarefield with Lady Maclairn?"--"Margaret knows
little of her husband's family," answered he, "having always resided
in Scotland." I was silenced, and a certain air of embarrassment was
dispelled from Mrs. Flint's countenance by the lady's asking her
brother, whether it was still his intention to leave Lisbon on the
Saturday. He replied in the affirmative, allowing for winds and tides;
then turning to me, he asked me to take a ramble in the gardens of
Penah Verde. I complied; but on sallying out we found the potent rays
of the mid-day sun inconvenient; and allured by a fountain within
two hundred paces of the hotel, we took our seats by it, under the
umbrageous shelter of the cork and elm-trees.

I immediately began the conversation by apologizing for the warmth and
earnestness of my interrogations relative to Tarefield; and proceeded
to inform him of so much of Miss Cowley's history as was needful, in
order to account for the interest I had discovered in relation to
her. In the course of my little narrative, I spoke of Mr. Flamall,
as having by his authority removed his ward from friends devoted to
her, and to whom she was attached; and I added that, having learned
from you the repugnance with which Miss Cowley had quitted her wonted
asylum, I wish to know, that, with Lady Maclairn, her situation had
been such as she merited. "We know none of Philip's connections,"
answered he, carelessly lading the limpid water with a brass bason
attached by a chain to the fountain; "but if Philip's mother resembles
him, she must be worthy of the guest you have described; for he is a
good and an _honest man_. For the rest of his relations, to give you
my honest opinion of them, I do not believe they would give this cup
of water towards the happiness of any one. As for his precious uncle
Flamall, he is a complete scoundrel."--"Then you know him!" observed
I, eagerly. "Yes, yes," answered he, with warmth, "I know him, and I
trust he will know _Sinclair_ before many months elapse. He will not
be the first rascal this arm has chastised!"--"Would to God," cried
I, "that mine could second you!" He smiled and observed, "He would
recollect my wish, and that it should strengthen his own." I now, my
dear Lucy, more explicitly detailed to him Miss Cowley's connection
with this villain: and if my own wretched anxieties appeared, I could
not help it. He listened to me with the deepest attention, and grasping
my hand, swore a solemn oath, to search to the bottom of a business so
perfectly consonant to the man's character and conduct. "Hear my story,
Mr. Hardcastle, and then judge whether your Miss Cowley's cause can be
in better hands," added he, in an impressive tone. "I do not believe
she would need a defender whilst an honest man can be found; but to
me she shall be another sister, and with Margaret's injuries will I
remember Miss Cowley's! My situation in life," continued he, "separated
me from my mother soon after she became a widow; a maternal uncle, who
lives at Boston in America, having destined me to the same pursuits in
life, from which he had risen to respectable opulence. I had quitted
my father's study, who was a minister of the kirk of Scotland, some
time before his decease; and under the favour of my good uncle had then
risen nearly to my present station, to wit, commander of one of _his_
ships, instead of one of my _own_, which is at present in this port. I
was fortunately not too remote from my father for his last blessing and
embrace. I had also the consolation to find, that my uncle was disposed
to render my mother and sister comfortable; an attention peculiarly
necessary in the low condition of my father's finances. I am eight or
nine years older than Margaret, and, both in principles and affection,
disposed to perform the relative duties of a father and a brother. Such
were my sentiments when I left her, after the events which I have
mentioned, to return to America. During an absence of three years from
my native home, I heard with contentment of my mother's tranquillity,
and of the improvement of the poor little girl you have seen. She was,
Mr. Hardcastle, my delight and pride from her cradle; and I knew that
in my mother's care, her innocence was secure. This spring I had an
opportunity I had long desired; and I failed not to avail myself of it
to visit my mother. I was so pressed for time, and urged by impatience,
that I arrived unexpectedly; and with some surprise I found that my
mother had given up her house in Edinburgh, and lived near it, at a
small village indicated to me. On reaching her abode, the cause of
her removal was apparent in the emaciated form which poor Margaret
exhibited. I was told she had been some months declining in health; and
that country air had been judged more favourable to her, than that
of the town. We are no adepts at hypocrisy. My mother's agitations
betrayed her. On my asking whether any love disappointment had laid the
foundation of the illness, she burst into tears; and unable to contain
the secret, told me the sorrows of her aching heart.

"My sister had for a playmate and friend an amiable girl, somewhat
older than herself, of the name of Montrose. They were near neighbours,
and their parents were in the habits of familiar and friendly
intercourse. On the death of Mr. Montrose, his widow, unwilling to give
up her house, received, but with extreme circumspection, boarders.
Philip Flint was recommended to her by her usual adviser, an old
friend of her husband and a professor in the college. The young man
was particularly committed to his care, and as peculiarly formed for
the suitable inmate of a house remarkably sober and well regulated.
Young Montrose was a pupil of the same gentleman, and had already
distinguished himself for talents and application. I will abridge my
romance, by telling you at once the result of his love advances to
Margaret. Their measures were wonderfully prudent, when you take into
the account the age of the lovers, who could only reckon eight or nine
and thirty years between them; and those of their faithful and zealous
confidants, who, in their calculation might have a right to four or
five more. With the assistance of Montrose, they were married, and
with the consummate prudence of an _old civilian_ this young man saw,
that the marriage was duly and legally valid, according to the laws of
Scotland, his friend being anxiously solicitous on this point; pleading
his dread of his despotical uncle, and the influence he maintained
over every branch of his family. A few short weeks of _perfect
happiness_ were the prelude to Margaret's cares. The fond husband took
all the blame on himself like an honest fellow; and at my mother's
feet made a confession which subdued her; for it finished by imploring
her pity and consideration of his wife's condition; urging her to
permit the marriage ceremony to be renewed in her presence, if she
were dissatisfied with the proofs which her daughter could produce of
the legality of those vows which had united them. 'My own marriage was
not more binding,' added my dear mother, 'and what could I do, Henry?'
'Exactly that which you have done,' answered I. 'Proceed.' 'Nothing
could be more amiable than his conduct was to Margaret and myself,'
continued my mother, 'nor more prudent. He explained his situation to
us over and over again: said he was certain he should have a friend
in his mother, and that his sister Lucretia would make him independent
the day he was of age; for that she hated to see him controuled by a
man so tyrannical as Mr. Flamall.' A letter from this sister, broke in
upon our comforts: it was affectionate and tender in the extreme; it
contained bank notes to the amount of a hundred and twenty pounds, and
a letter from Mr. Oliver Flint, his eldest brother, with an invitation
to come over to him to Jamaica. My mother then mentioned Philip's being
a posthumous child, with those particulars which you know relative to
his father's second marriage, and extraordinary will, continued Mr.
Sinclair, which particulars I pass over. Miss Flint urged him, in this
letter, to avail himself of his brother's good intentions. 'You will,'
added she, 'by this means shake off the yoke, which now oppresses you
more than it serves you. You will soon be independent of your mother's
family; and I think you ought to lose no time. The bills enclosed are
for your use. Say nothing of them to your uncle. You may have incurred
some little debts, which although not disgraceful to a young man, he
will call profusion, and tease me, and torment you for months with
lectures, should they be brought to his accounts. For once in his life,
at least, during the term of years, he has concurred in your mother's
and my opinion relative to you. Lose no time in coming hither. We must
enjoy your society a little while before you commence your voyage.
Your absence has already been tedious to your affectionate--_Lucretia
Flint_.'

"In a postscript she again added her caution: respecting the bills
informing him that she had got the start of his uncle by a post or
two, who was then writing to his father! 'The doctor,' adds Miss
Flint, 'is to settle every thing of a pecuniary sort, and to supply you
with cash for your journey. I have insisted on your not travelling in
the stage-coach; you will therefore on your part be prepared for his
intentions on this point.'

"'This letter,' continued my mother, 'occasioned all the distress that
it was calculated to produce on the mind of your sister. Her husband
consoled her with sanguine hopes, arising from his prospects in this
cruel separation. His brother Oliver was very rich, had buried all his
children, and had promised to provide amply for him, on condition he
paid him a visit. He would be a mediator he stood in need of with his
uncle; and his sister Lucretia's letter was brought forwards in proof
of her affection. He also exulted in his prudence. 'I have not,' said
he, 'a single debt that I fear leaving to my tutor's examination. My
wife will have a little supply, and Providence has rendered my best
friend useful to my first of earthly blessings.' He quitted us, leaving
his sister's remittance with his wife. His letters from the hall and
till he embarked were cordials to Margaret. In his last from London,
was inclosed another bill of a hundred pounds, and in this he suggested
the expediency of our retiring into the country. We had already
determined on so doing. Your sister advanced in her pregnancy, and
concealment was becoming daily necessary. From this time we have not
heard from Mr. Flint. During the course of these events,' pursued my
mother, 'poor Mrs. Montrose was suddenly removed by an apoplectic fit.
Her family was broken up. Charles went to the south; and Miss Montrose
took a situation as governess in a family at Leith. I shall only say,'
continued she weeping, 'that during these trials Fanny Montrose was
our consolation. She also is removed from us! A Mr. Lindsey, the
head clerk in Mr. Maclin's office, married her; and they removed to
London, with advantageous views of his going abroad as supercargo to
the West Indies in a ship of Mr. Maclin's. Poor Margaret, who had not
recovered from her lying-in, and the shock of losing her little boy,
whom grief had prepared for a speedy grave, sunk under the loss of her
affectionate Fanny, and the doubts which distracted her: she will soon
quit this world of sorrow!'

"It is needless to mention to you, Mr. Hardcastle," added Sinclair,
"the inducements I had for suppressing those resolutions from
appearing, which, as a man, and as the guardian and only prop of an
injured sister, it became me to adopt. To comfort and to sooth was my
business whilst I remained with her; and her spirits relieved from
the oppressive secret with me, became more composed. In the third
week of the four which I was permitted to be absent from my vessel,
then undergoing some necessary repairs, we were one morning surprised
into a state of more imminent danger to Margaret's life than any she
had hitherto sustained. A double letter was delivered to my mother by
the servant-maid, in my sister's presence. She saw the address, and
uttering a faint scream, instantly fainted. The contents of Philip's
letter will better please you, than a description of the alarm which
it produced," added Sinclair smiling. "To my mother he recommends the
utmost caution in the delivery of the one enclosed 'to his beloved
wife, to his long lost and only blessing.' To Margaret he writes with
incoherent joy. His brother Oliver was stiled 'his saving angel,'
'his more than father:' 'Providence in rescuing him from the blackest
treachery, had in its mercy, he confidently trusted, preserved her.
She could not, it was not possible that she could have believed him a
faithless villain, unless the same wickedness which had been employed
to destroy him, had reached her.' This letter concluded with ample
instructions, to repair immediately to London; where his brother's
agent would receive her, and provide for her immediate passage to him.
An unlimited credit on this gentleman, with a draft for two hundred
pounds on a banker at Edinburgh, were inclosed, with a positive
injunction written by the good old man, to take care of herself as
well as of the _dear infant_: to bring with her a female servant,
qualified to be useful to her, as well as the nurse; and to be heedful
about _fashions_, he having promised some of the girls, who had been
unsuccessfully employed in setting their caps at Philip, the pattern
of the one which had gained his heart. Poor Margaret on reading this
passage forgot for a time her joy; but the hurry of the moment and my
presence, checked her useless lamentations. My duty was prescribed. I
was resolved never to lose sight of her till she was in her husband's
arms. When in London I made some inquiries respecting this Flamall.
From what I could collect from Margaret relative to her husband's
opinion of this _worthy_ uncle, I made no doubt of his having been the
cause of all the mischief. The character he bears in London justifies
me in this suspicion; for I was informed, that he had the talents of
a swindler, and the impudence to face any danger but the frown of an
honest man. I shall put this to the test whenever we meet."--"You
would do much, better," observed I, "to turn him over to those as
well disposed as yourself to rid the world of a rascal; and who have
not your impediments in their way. Remember that your sister's worthy
husband is his nephew; and beware of breaking into the happiness which
now invites her to Jamaica."--"We shall see," answered he rising,
"much will depend on my knowing the particulars of this story. I am no
Drawcansir; but by G-d he shall find me a _Sinclair_!"--We returned
to the ladies; and after dining with my new friends, and drinking
to the health of Philip Flint, with the utmost sincerity of heart,
I escaped from Sinclair's toasts of Miss Cowley, with a head still
sufficiently cool to detail my adventure to his lordship. He has done
what he never fails to do; he has entered with the most lively interest
into my concerns. Sinclair has letters from him to the governor of
Jamaica and some others of his father's connections. He dined with Mrs.
Flint; and was charmed by her sweet and modest manners. She is one of
the prettiest women I ever saw. The perfect symmetry of her form and
features is wonderful! and with an expression of innocent vivacity
and an infantile simplicity, she appears the beautiful _school-girl_,
rather than the wife. She wants not solidity; for with some address
she entered on the subject of her past troubles; and with a direct
application to mine, bade me never despair, for that virtue would
always attain its recompence. "You will have friends in Jamaica," added
she affectionately, "who, in their own happiness, will not forget yours
nor Miss Cowley's interest. Be assured of this, and contrive to inform
the young lady that my husband will vigilantly watch his uncle. Philip
is, Mr. Hardcastle, the most amiable and worthy of the human race! I
was always convinced that he could not desert me; and I am certain he
will serve Miss Cowley if he can."

I have seen my friends depart from this port. The ship sailed on
Sunday evening. Sinclair will write to me immediately on reaching
Jamaica.--My father will expect to hear something of my health and
pursuits. I have no inducements to wish the former of these articles
better than it is: the latter are such as will not disgrace him or
myself. To any nearer inquiry I cannot reply to his satisfaction,
without deviating from that sincerity and truth, which he has taught me
to respect even with more veneration than himself. I wish I were able
to deceive myself in regard to my dear friend Lord William. Alas, Lucy,
he must die! Nothing can save him from the ravages of the cruel though
insidious destroyer. He knows this; and it is his concealed wish to die
any where rather than at home. "My absence," said he to me the other
evening, "has prepared my mother for the more final separation. She
will not see my last struggle, nor hear my last sigh. Her home will
not be a perpetual remembrance of my funeral obsequies. I will winter
at the Madeiras, Hardcastle, in order to be more remote from her." Poor
fellow! amiable as thou art, what can lessen the sorrow which thou art
doomed to inflict, long before that period, on all who know thee? I
think he cannot live two months!

 Yours, affectionately,

 Horace Hardcastle.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here also is found a break of a few weeks in the correspondence between
the friends. Letters, however, regularly passed from and to Lisbon,
and the animated Miss Cowley, with renewed health and gaiety, thus
continues her correspondence to Heathcot.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Jackass.]

[Footnote 2: A convent near Lisbon, so called from being built of the
Cork-tree.]




CHAP. X.


LETTER XXVII.

_Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

 December the 29th.

I Shall leave to Alice's descriptive powers Mrs. Wilson's triumph on
Christmas-day. With all her mild and sympathizing qualities she would
nevertheless have been an object of terror, had a poor Hindoo heard
her tale of the slaughtered poultry, and her secret of making them
fat and fair. Such is opinion, Lucy! But leaving this disquisition to
wiser heads than my own, and honestly confessing myself implicated
in the crime of conniving at the shedding of innocent blood, I will
proceed to inform you that I am deserted for a _plum-cake_, which will
not be eaten till Twelfth-day at Durham, and which Mrs. Heartley and
her train annually assist _to cut up_. I am, however, proof against
all discontents. The Bay of Biscay continues open notwithstanding a
Dutchman with skaits might go from hence to you in a strait line, in
an hour or two. The weather has been celestial here during the frost.
It gives to me aerial lightness, and I defy the intense coldness of
the atmosphere. Wisely, however, reflecting that I had not the sylph's
wing, I attired myself in my habit yesterday morning, and with my
snow-shoes and India-shawl, I scudded away to the village, in order
to see dame Dobs's fire-side. A bright sun, and the wind at my heels,
sent me forward with a blithsome heart. I found her hearth blazing,
and the good old woman so cottoned up with _Mary's_ comforts, that
even the rheumatism is kept in check. She was quite amazed how I could
"brave such deadly cold weather; and yet I looked like _a full-blown
rose_, and so cheerful! But that did not amaze her, for in warming
other people's hearts my own would always be gay." On leaving her
cottage the whim took me to visit some friends of _my own_; and cheered
by a few benedictions, and as many welcomes, I resolved to return
home, by taking the circuit of the mill. Now, knowing that the finest
description of a frost-piece that the most poetical imagination ever
composed, would not please Mary, at least so well as one of my long
stories, I will spare myself the disgrace of being censured as the
dullest of mortals in this art; and the shame of feeling, that this
is probably one reason for my yawning over descriptive subjects,
except with a crayon at my fingers' ends. But we have all our several
gifts; _holding forth_ is, unquestionably, mine, and I will begin my
story by an exordium for Mary's edification. My text is drawn from
my recollection of one of Quarles's emblems. You may, if your less
retentive memory need it, still borrow the book from Deborah; and
with the pictures recall the days when the restless Rachel stood for
hours quietly listening to her expounding histories of them. One of
these ingenious devices, if I be not mistaken, exhibits a youth borne
on the wing of Hope, Fancy, and Desire, to an elevation remote from
his safe abode. Careless of the approaching storm he still advances
in his heedless career, till nature, exhausted, prompts him to pause.
He does so, and with terror and amasement beholds the blackened sky,
and hears the threatening thunder roll over his defenceless head. Now
for the application. Thus did your heedless friend press on, although
the friendly sun, from time to time warned her, by his retiring
brightness, that he had something else to do besides gladdening her
path. At length I took the alarm, and on looking towards his late
refulgent road, saw him covered with a black curtain, which, from
time to time, he put aside, to see whether the heedless wanderer had
wisdom and was seeking a refuge. I had the _wisdom_ to speed as fast
as I could to the miller's house, which was the nearest; but, like my
emblem, I had not learned to know, that sailing with a fair wind, and
an adverse one, made some difference in the course of the ship. I had
now a north-easter in my teeth; and as if in return for my temerity,
he rattled with his rude blast a shower of hailstones about my ears,
which, though they did not subdue my courage, greatly discomfited me.
The gracious luminary once more peeped through his veil and smiled on
me. I had gained the last field between me and my retreat when I took
advantage of the hedge in order to adjust my shawl more about my face,
which smarted with the keen blasts, and to recover my panting breath
for renewed buffettings. At this providential moment I heard a child,
concealed from my view by some hurdles, crying most lamentably, and
repeatedly saying, "Get up, Johnny! pray get up! let us go home! I will
go without you!" I removed the hurdle, and perceived the mourner in
the hollow path. He was a stout boy of about nine years old, and was
endeavouring to raise from the ground one of about seven, who appeared
insensible. The danger was apparent; I flew to the children. "Where is
your home?" asked I. "At the mill," answered the shivering boy. "Pray
wake brother Johnny, he does not mind me; and my granny will scold me
if leave him, because I took him out without leave." Unmindful of this
petition, with the sturdy boy's help, I wrapped the torpid child in my
shawl, which, as you know, is of the largest size, and I hastened to
the house, with the offending and terrified culprit. He complained that
he was weary and must rest; whilst I, with an air of authority, dragged
him on till I became nearly exhausted myself, though remote from his
danger; for I did not even feel it was cold, so great was my terror
respecting the poor child I had left behind me, and the dread of seeing
the one with me refuse to advance; for he hung back from time to time,
saying that I hurt him, that he would sit down a while, and bade me go
on without him.

From this terrible dilemma I was relieved by meeting with a servant
of the house, who was looking for the vagrants. He called to another,
and I was soon relieved from my burden, who had conquered me, and had
composedly laid down on the ground. I followed the person who bore the
child in his arms to the house, and the other man went forwards to the
succour of the poor abandoned boy.

A neat and genteel-looking woman met us in the yard, whom, from her
terror and grief, I supposed to be their mother. I tried to allay
her fears, but finding that was not possible, contented myself with
supplying her duty. She carried the boy to the kitchen fire, and,
weeping bitterly, began to chafe his hands. My authoritative voice was
at length heard, and in spite of his outcries he was put to bed in the
blankets. Happily the village farrier was present, and supported me
in my opinion. He said he had read some published cases of the Humane
Society, and that he would answer for the other child if they would
trust to him. The child appeared, and my shawl having been useful, he
was judged to be in no danger by the doctor, who began his operations
by rubbing him with snow. The children being considered as safe, I was
next thought of. With many excuses the young woman led me through a
large brick-floored parlour to a neat staircase, which conducted us
to a very pretty snug room, in which was quietly seated an old lady
knitting; and who had, as it appeared, escaped the general horror of
the family in the kitchen, by being somewhat deaf and lame. She looked
surprised by my intrusion, but instantly enquired whether the children
were returned. The daughter, with more self-command than I expected,
replied in the affirmative, adding that I had been so good as to lead
them home. Her face betrayed, however, in part, the disaster, and I
assured the grandmother that the danger was past and both children
doing well. Her thanks for my services were followed by her "being
certain I wanted some refreshment." She was not mistaken, for I was
faint with hunger. Her little dinner was just ready, and she thought
something warm and comfortable better for me than wine. I was entirely
of the same opinion. Susan was dispatched to hasten matters below
stairs; whilst with officious zeal I was placed in her own white dimity
easy chair, and the hearth was replenished with fuel. The neatness
of the apartment, the order which presided at the dining-table, the
delicacy of my napkin, and the china in which was served a boiled fowl
with vegetables and bacon, and a bread-pudding, excited in my mind a
curiosity to know something more of my courteous hosts, concluding
that these relics of former opulence did not belong to the miller's
lady. I had no sooner obeyed the calls of my famished stomach, than
I thought of my friends at the hall, and dispatched a note to Mrs.
Allen, informing her simply, that, finding the air too sharp for me,
I had stopped at the mill till the coach came for me. I added a verbal
commission to the note, and desired that the person who was to carry
it, might be cautioned to say nothing of the cause of my delay. The
old lady heard more of this message than I intended. She turned pale,
and with much emotion said, she was sure the truth had been kept from
her: she would see her children, and if they could not come to her she
would be carried to them. A more particular detail of the disaster
followed; and her daughter assured her both her boys were in a fine
perspiration, and the apothecary had no doubt but they would be fit to
truant again on the morrow. The grandmother still looked incredulous.
"My dear Madam," observed I, "you see their mother composed, and
satisfied that the children are doing well: why should you now doubt
of their safety?"--"Poor creature," replied she, "she has with myself
to thank God's providence and you, for their preservation. She would
have lost her senses had they perished, though she is not their mother;
but these poor babes have no parents, nor any friends to love them
but ourselves." She wept. "However," added she, "their aunt is father
and mother to them." Susan mentioned as a sort of apology for her
carelessness, that the eldest boy had persuaded Johnny to leave the
mill-chamber where they were playing, to go and slide with some boys of
the parish. It appeared that he enjoyed for some time his pastime with
these children; but Johnny cried, and complained of the cold, and his
chilblains, and said he would go home. Frank, his brother, soothed him
from time to time, bidding him sit down on his coat, which the vigorous
boy gave him. The hailstones sent the boys to their cottages which
were at hand, and the truants began their walk, till Johnny would
rest, saying he was sleepy, and would "stay a bit where he was."--"You
know the sequel," added the grateful Susan addressing her mother, "and
what we owe to this young lady."--"Would it be credited," observed the
good woman, with visible thankfulness to Heaven, "that a creature so
delicate and seemingly feeble, should have been the chosen instrument
of a work of such mercy! But he who destined her for the work, will
recompense her! Thousands more equal to the trial of strength would
have turned aside!"--"I cannot think so," returned I. "Ah, my dear
young lady!" answered she mournfully, "I have lived to see that what
was every one's business was no one's business. Their poor grandfather
might have been saved, had there been one with a heart like yours,
amongst fifty, who saw him sink." To divert her from the silence which
ensued, I praised her abode, observing that I could not have supposed
the house so commodious from the road. "Why, in fact," replied she,
"this wing can hardly be said to belong to the miller's house. It is
quite separate, except by the back stairs you came up. In summer we
enter by the garden, which is our own, we have our little kitchen and
parlour below stairs, and four chambers. This wing was built for her
own use, by the friend who left us the estate, and is not included
in the lease of the farm. I also kept it for my own use. But my good
tenants," added she, "not contented with having us for their next door
neighbours a part of every summer, persuaded us to pass our Christmas
holidays here; and what with the severe cold, and the rheumatism in
my hip, they are likely to have me on their own hands some time; for
Susan must mind her business, and the boys will be safer at school than
here; for Frank is the copy of his dear father, always in harm's way,
with the spirit of a lion, and the heart of a dove!" She wiped her eyes
again, and knitted with astonishing quickness. "What business does your
daughter follow?" asked I. "She was a milliner and mantua-maker; had
a shop at Bishops-Auckland; clear-starched and mended lace; nothing
came amiss to her hand; for she was industry itself, and the best
of daughters."--"You have been fortunate," observed I, smiling, "in
keeping to yourself this comfort: she is a very pretty woman."--"She
was pretty at twenty," answered she, "but more than fifteen years may
be added to that reckoning; and the troubles we have had have greatly
changed her. She had once in her cheeks a colour like a rose; but
like yours, my dear young lady, it could not stand all attacks. But
you are not so pale as you were an hour since; I hope you feel warm.
How you contrived to keep yourself from perishing is astonishing. I
wonder how you kept your feet, or had courage to face such an air."
She stirred the cheerful fire, and begged me to draw my chair closer
to it. I smilingly told her that she gave me credit for more courage
than I had, for that on sallying out I had turned my back on the enemy,
forgetting that he would not turn his on me on my return home. But
he shall not intimidate me, added I; "for I will come again and see
you, in spite even of hail storms. She looked pleased, and said the
sight of me would do her good as long as she lived.'You look healthy,'
observed I.--'Pretty well for my years,' replied she,'but within sight
of four-score one must expect infirmities. Thank God, I have not
outlived my memory, and that reminds me of him, who from the hour I
was an infant at my mother's breast, has watched over me, and whose
arm of mercy will support me to my grave. Here is another instance
of his loving kindness to those who lean on him!'--She renewed her
tears. Susan now entered to say that the carriage was in sight, and I
instantly took my leave of the good woman, whose spirits did not appear
quite composed enough to receive more guests; and as I perceived Mrs.
Allen and Sir Murdock in the coach, I tripped down stairs to them. My
ruddy face and gay air, somewhat surprised them; for notwithstanding
my prohibition and the fidelity of my messenger, the story had
reached them; the farrier having related his share of the miracle
in the stables at the hall whilst doctoring his patients there. The
frost-bitten Miss Cowley was received with greetings and endearments
which might have warmed her had she been congealed; and during the
first enthusiasm of humanity, no one thought of chiding her for her
folly in leaving a warm covert for a freezing walk. But, alas! who is
perfect? Mrs. Allen, _even our Mrs. Allen is mortal_. Before night her
philanthropy cooled. My colour offended her: I was, (she insisted it
should be so,) _feverish_: and she gave the most solid reasons in the
world for the partinacity of her opinion: 'it was _impossible_ I should
be otherwise.' As my stiff joints and aching head were rather too
stubborn evidences in her favour; and, being moreover too sleepy for a
debate, I passively suffered her to make me up like a bale of flannel;
and drinking with docility a treacle posset, to her great contentment
I fell asleep; when, lo and behold! the fever had disappeared, and I
had lost eight hours of my existence; for not a dream had found access
to my fancy in all those dormant hours. The dear and too tender Allen
is now only anxious for my _complexion_. Peeling lips are however
within her diploma: and with a face more crimsoned than my own, she
has now brought me some lip-salve. Who can help loving her? I am
sometimes afraid I shall love her too much. She wishes me not to write
any longer. The second dose of treacle posset is preparing, and my
flannels are at the fire. I never felt more comfortable in my life; but
no matter, she is gratified. Good night. The frost could not find the
heart of your R. Cowley; that was in another latitude secure from its
influence."

 Dec. 30th.

P.S. I would not seal my letter last night, lest I should have
boasted too soon of my triumph over the northern blasts; but this
morning finding even my complexion not the worse for its malice, I no
longer hesitate to say, that Eolus resembles his stern-faced sister
_Adversity_, only oppose each in their own way: _he_ may be fearlessly
encountered, and _she_ softened down to a friendly aspect. Activity
and firmness are the only guards against both. With this armour within
and without, we shall neither shrink from the storm of the elements,
nor faint at the visitation of the angel who is sent to purify our
hearts with an efficacy not less salutary than that agent of mercy,
which directs the whirlwinds in their desolating career to sweep away
plagues, pestilence, and death, from the air we breathe. I have just
now made my dear Mrs. Allen look grave. I had forgotten my wrappers
this morning, in crossing the passage to Lady Maclairn's apartment. She
appealed to Lady Maclairn, and again, it was "_impossible_" my blood
could be in a state to resist cold. I had just finished my last moral
inference, and I could not at once be made to tremble at the tempered
breeze of a covered passage. I argued in favour of my own theory; she
maintained that I had more confidence in my strength than was prudent.
"Alas!" replied I, "how many wretches, more feeble than myself, bide
the pelting of the pitiless storm!"

"Poor naked wretches, with houseless heads and unfed sides who protects
them from cold, my dear friend?" "Who indeed!" replied she, with the
glow of pity we have so often remarked, "who but that Being whose
providential care is with _many_ a subject of speculation, with some _a
doubt_, and with multitudes neither remembered nor acknowledged."

Do you know I begin to suspect that Mrs. Allen has taken an unfair
advantage of me; for seeing since the arrival of the Lisbon packet that
my charity is enlarged to "good will to all men," she fancies it admits
of no limitation, and that Miss Flint stands a chance of coming in for
a share. She has therefore trepanned me into her room so often of late
under some pretence or other, that my harp is nearly stationary in her
apartment; and if I am to credit Mrs. Allen, it has something of the
powers of David's, and from time to time lulls into temporary repose
a spirit not less perturbed than poor Saul's. I am not yet an entire
convert to Mrs. Allen's creed in favour of repenting sinners, although
I can pity them. I cannot exactly think with her, that they deserve our
peculiar commiseration and tenderness, still adhering to the maxim of,
"as you sow, so must you reap." But I am becoming more placable, and
more worthy of you; and I am going to read to Miss Flint an hour or
two; for to tell you the truth, I do relent when I behold her writhing
with pain. The total loss of the limb she hurt, would be nothing to the
exquisite pain she suffers in the means used for its cure. Mary will
think this a penalty sufficiently severe for the discipline she gave
to her niece, and I may as well confess, that I am of the same opinion.
Heaven bless you, and remember in your prayers your

 Rachel Cowley.




CHAP XI.


LETTER XXVIII.

_From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

"Six mails due from Lisbon! and yet Rachel Cowley talks with
contentment of the _celestial weather_!" To be sure she does, my dear
Miss Hardcastle, and for the simplest reason on earth. If _I_ be
disappointed, Horace is _not_; and I can subsist upon his happiness,
and be thankful. Besides, it is something in my favour to reflect,
that the very elements can be _obstinate_ as well as myself. You
tell me, that it is begun to be suspected, that my rejection of my
Jamaica pretender, with my refusal of Sir George's reiterated and
_generous_ offers, arise from some engagement of a tender kind between
Horace and myself. Be so good as to inform the good people who so
carefully qualify their words, that _I am engaged_, that I make no
secret of my engagement, and that in defiance of Lady Coldstream's
lecture to me at ten years old, I still love, _passionately love_,
Horace Hardcastle, and almond biscuits. I remember perfectly the
solemnity of her face when she observed that "young ladies were to
love nothing _passionately_." It may therefore be as well to inform
her, that I only love _obstinately_; if such it must be thought, to
prefer that virtue which has rendered me virtuous. If to cherish an
affection resulting from the best gifts of nature, and sanctioned by
my reason and principles, be to be culpable, I am of all women most
to be censured and condemned; for I glory in my shame, and rejoice
at my defeat. But you will say, that even Horace Hardcastle must
fall short of that elevation to which my fond imagination has raised
him. You are deceived; I neither expect, nor even wish for absolute
perfection in a husband. My eyes are human, too strong a light would
but dazzle and confound them. But I love Horace even in his foibles;
twelve years acquaintance with them have made them _my own_, as well
as his virtues. But to be serious, tell me to whose influence was your
dear mother indebted for a docility on my part which she did not even
expect from the untamed rebel to all constraint. To whom am I indebted
for patience, and forbearance now? What moral attainment, what acquired
knowledge do I possess, that has not been encouraged by Horace's
example? I never was, nor ever shall be, one of your sentimental misses
who can at pleasure decorate any man with the trappings of a hero
in romance. I think, if I can judge of myself, that I am ungentle by
nature, and so fond of freedom, as to love but little the shackles
which some so eagerly seek. I am confident however, that I have one
ingredient necessary for perfect love: _for I fear_, and I always
have feared Horace. How often has his reproving eye recalled me to
obedience and submission! What has been the delight, when by my little
exertions, and petty triumphs over my turbulent spirit, I have seen
his face glowing with pleasure, and heard his joy expressed by his
saying, "Rachel Cowley will be as gentle and amiable as my mother!" I
am persuaded that Heaven has destined Horace Hardcastle to be my guide
and my protector. I should faint and tire in the road of duty with a
companion whose paths I had to chuse and point out. But with Horace
Hardcastle I shall be safe, for he will neither loiter himself, nor
permit me to relax in search of that virtue which leads to peace. I
would rather live to feed monkeys and nurse cats and kittens, than to
be the wife of a man no wiser than myself. Negative virtues will not
satisfy me, I must be the wife of a man whose understanding and whose
conduct will preserve active the emulation my mind requires. In a
word, I must esteem, respect, and even _fear a little_ the man, whom
it will be my duty to obey. Now have the charity to point out to me a
man better qualified to direct my mutinous spirit than your brother?
You cannot. Be then perfectly indifferent to the nonsense you hear
from empty heads and cold hearts. I leave such without malice to their
opinions of happiness; if they be satisfied it is well. It is not my
business to investigate the solidity of those principles from which
their opinions originate; but whilst I feel that my own correspond
with all that is worthy of a reasonable and responsible being, I will
adhere to them, and laugh at the advice I know to be no better than
folly in a grave dress. You will perceive I am not in one of my gentle
moods. I should not have been so guarded, had I met my kind friend
Lady V----. She is a simpleton. Her son behaved properly, and Rachel
Cowley's rejection of his hand has neither lessened his merit, nor his
consequence. Adieu my dear girl, and believe me always yours,

 R. Cowley.


LETTER XXIX.

_From the same to the same._

Some benevolent fairy, my dear Lucy, who presided at your birth, on
finding nature had done so much for you, that her intended and usual
donations would be but kindness thrown away, has graciously reserved
her gifts for me, foreseeing the hard destiny to which I was subjected.
Being condemned, like the sleeping beauty of the wood, to a hundred
years nap, it is presumable she would, had her power been equal to her
benevolent wishes, have bestowed perpetual youth on me, and a face that
in any night-cap would have been worthy of a lover at the expiration of
my captivity. But as this effort was beyond the power of her magical
wand, she has been contented with gaining permission for me to walk in
my sleep, and to seek adventures for your entertainment, and my own
relief from despair. But to my tale, lest you should fancy it a dream,
and that, far inferior to Prince Rufus's enchanted palace, cooks,
turnspits, fidlers, and beaux and belles, awakened to eat, drink, and
be merry.

Finding I began to be weary of my good friend Eolus (for one may be
tired of what is good, by having too much of it,) I determined, in
order to vary the scene, to pay a morning visit to my new friends at
the mill. "I should like," said I, "to see these boys now warmed into
life by a pinch of snuff and snow water." The whole junto took the
alarm. The roads were impassable; I should get my death of cold. I only
laughed at their prognostics, and persisted in my intention, urging
that the thaw, which has began here, had moderated the severity of
the air. Lady Maclairn, _always ready at an expedient_, recollected
that the coach-wheels wanted some repair, and her cook some corn to
be ground for the fowls; and that at all events it was better for me
to ride than to walk in the dirt. I readily conceded to this opinion,
and, being wrapped up in pelisses and shawls, to the exact resemblance
of the bag of corn, I departed. I found the little family one of
those who, according to _Deborah_, "go as they would be met, and sit
as they would be seen." Wisdom is wisdom with me, Lucy, "whether," as
my darling Sancho says, "it is in a silk purse or in a sow's ear."
There is nothing, in my opinion, more indicative of good sense than
a habit of order. But let us go on. The old lady was giving the boys
their reading-lesson when I entered, in a bible which was before them.
Susan was making a muslin gown. My entrance interrupted them; and my
notice of the children was followed by their being dismissed, but not
before the grandmother, with unaffected anxiety, dictated to them their
speech of gratitude to the dear good young lady who had saved their
lives. This ceremony performed, they with glowing cheeks retired to
enjoy, unconstrainedly, their existence. My observations were next
directed to the beautiful muslin robe Susan was trimming with very
fine edging: it was made with taste, in the _Circassian stile_, as
the fashion has named it. "It is intended for a bride who lives in
this neighbourhood," observed Susan, with a suppressed smile; "perhaps
you may have seen the young lady: she rides frequently on horseback."
Finding this insufficient for my information, she proceeded to tell
me that it was Miss Gubbins she meant, who was going to be married to
a young farmer. "Her father," added she, "knows what is to be done in
that line of business by experience: he has got a good fortune by the
plow." I instantly recollected having met _this Miss Gubbins_ on her
road; and the idea of her singularly short and corpulent person, in a
Circassian robe, was too ludicrous for my gravity. "Dear me!" observed
the old lady, who had joined in my laugh with great glee, "what would
you say to many of my daughter's best customers! I am sure they
divert me, though they make me stare. Young women whom I remember with
a flowered-cotton short cloak, now buy what they call _patent lace_,
and the straw or black silk bonnet is supplied by velvet, flowers,
and feathers. It was only yesterday that a dairy-maid was here to get
Susan to shorten the waist of her Sunday-gown, and to make it draw
round the neck with a frill like the ladies'."--"My mother makes very
free with my customers, Madam," observed Susan, smiling; "she forgets
that those who keep a stall in _vanity fair_ live by the folly of
those who buy; and to say the truth, so do I sometimes, for it is
amazing to see the money now expended by a class of people who, a few
years since were in the habits of frugality. This gown, for example,"
added she, "is one of _four_ I have made for Miss Gubbins; and you
will laugh again when I tell you that her best dress has tassels and
loops of silver." Susan folded up the robe, and made her apology for
quitting me. She was going to her _shop_ with Miss Gubbins in the
gig, which was in sight, and she left us. I mentioned my intention
of employing her to the good old lady, and engaged to speak to the
ladies of the hall, not doubting but we should want Circassian robes
with the rest of our neighbours. "You are very kind," answered Mrs.
Crofts, slightly bowing, "but pray, Madam, is it true that Miss Howard
is gone to London to serve in a milliner's shop?" I replied in the
negative, expressing my surprise at her question. "Why to be sure,"
answered she, knitting with amazing rapidity, "one can hardly believe
her aunt to be so unfeeling as to suffer such a young creature to be
thrown into the wide world _in such a way_. But after what has lately
happened, and what I know of Miss Flint, nothing of her cruelty would
surprise me! Yet I did imagine her uncle would not permit Miss Mary
to leave him for such a situation." She dropped some stitches and
turned from me to repair them, wiping her eyes at the same instant. I
now consoled her by briefly mentioning Mary's precise situation with
you; said I would read to her a part of Miss Howard's last letter to
me, and I immediately read to her Mary's account of Lucy Hardcastle's
mode of treatment. "May the Almighty shower his blessings on her and
hers for generations to come!" exclaimed the good woman in an extasy.
"May the orphan she shelters be to her a blessing! and may her cruel
aunt live to see Howard's child in no want of her protection!"--"Miss
Flint has suffered much, I fear," observed I, "from the violence of
her temper, and also from the misrepresentations of her conduct to you
as well as to others. She is truly blamable on some points, but I am
persuaded she never meant to place her niece in a situation of danger
to her innocence. I think she has feeling; I am certain she is sorry
for the late instance of her want of self-command."--"Ah, my dear
young lady!" replied Mrs. Crofts, shaking her head, "you judge by the
goodness of your nature; I have heard of Miss Cowley. My children are
not the only objects of her benevolence! But I cannot think charitably
of Miss Flint. The friend who left me this estate knew her better than
you do. Poor soul! she suffered enough by knowing her! and I have had
many a heart-ach in hearing Miss Flint's degeneracy from the angel, her
mother! If I thought it would not tire you, I would tell you by what
means I have gained a knowledge of the family, and a competency so far
beyond my expectations; for when the first Mrs. Flint saw me, I was
poor and wretched. It was the day or two after I had seen my husband
a corpse, that she came to succour me. Susan was then at my breast,
and I had a boy and a girl besides her to support. My poor husband,"
continued she, brushing away a tear, "was well known at Chelsea; he was
a boatman, and always called 'honest Frank' by the gentry; for he was
sober, diligent, and civil. He lost his precious life in endeavouring
to save a man from drowning who was intoxicated, and could do nothing
for himself. A subscription was raised for my relief. But it was _Mrs.
Flint_ who poured the oil into my wounds. She it was who raised my eyes
to God, and bade me trust to the never-failing friend of the widow
and the fatherless. She found I was expert at needle-work, and she
furnished me with plenty of it, besides assisting me with money, for
my rent and coals. I got on with comfort like this. When my daughter
Jenny was fourteen, she fixed her with an old lady, a widow, with
whom she went to live at Newcastle. Jane was a clever, active girl,
and could read and write well. Her lady became so fond of her that
she made her, as one may say, her favoured child, and when she died
left her all her clothes and linen with three hundred pounds. She was
too well trained to forget her mother in her prosperity; and on her
marrying a farmer, to whom she had been sometime engaged, I removed,
and settled at Newcastle, Jane being fixed near that town. Thus I lost
sight of Mrs. Flint, and escaped, in part, the sorrow of her death,
which happened soon after. But I shall never forget her! No, nor the
angel who used to accompany her to see us, with her pockets filled
with cakes for Frank, who was nearly of her own age. I think I now
see her putting on Susan's new shoes, and exulting over her, because
she could step alone! But she was formed for the heaven she is in!
and surely never was there beheld so perfect a beauty! I do not think
Miss Howard altogether so beautiful as her mother; for Mrs. Howard had
height, and more vivacity; but if she is as good, it will be well for
her that she has lived in this world of trial! Well, my dear young
lady, time went on with me, sometimes sunshine, sometimes cloudy; but
the widow's friend was always near me! My Susan was an apprentice to
a milliner and mantua-maker. Mr. Webster, my son-in-law, grew wealthy
every day; and acted by me like a child. Frank gave us some sorrow; he
was discontented with living at the farm, and wished to be a sailor. I
had suffered enough from water! and I could not be brought to consent.
Besides, his brother loved him, and had promised to make a man of him,
if he would continue to be diligent and sober; and this Frank was,
to his dying-day!" She dropped a tear, and proceeded. "I had just
settled myself and Susan in a well accustomed shop, when Frank secretly
left us, and for a time my sorrows were renewed. At last I received
a letter from him, and I found he had not forgotten his poor mother,
nor his gratitude to her benefactress and his own. He was actually
groom at the hall under another name, whilst I thought him exposed to
the dangers of the sea. The account he gave me of Mrs. Howard's (then
Miss Mary Flint) distressful situation, in her father's house, and
left as it were to the mercy of the merciless, quite overpowered me. I
went with Frank's letter to my daughter Webster's; and she declared,
that Frank was sent by the Almighty for the purpose of delivering this
innocent lamb, who had a hundred times been kind to him, and whose
dear mother had saved us from ruin. So we continued, Madam, with the
blessing of God, and the worthy Mr. Greenwood's assistance, to rescue
Miss Mary from her cruel sister's power; and Mr. Webster, who went
for her, conducted her in safety to his house, where for some days
she was very ill. A month's good nursing, and our love, set her up
again; and then, following Mr. Greenwood's instructions, I accompanied
her to Berwick, where Mr. Howard met us. I was not surprised, when I
saw the lover, at her preference of him; nor that Miss Flint should
want to marry him, for he was one of the handsomest men I ever set
my eyes on; but beauty was the least of Mr. Howard's advantages! You
have heard how much he was respected here, Madam, and to this hour
his name is reverenced. Well, my business was finished at Berwick and
I witnessed a marriage, which, with all its difficulties, united two
hearts and two creatures who were gazed at as being made for each
other's happiness. Mr. Howard returned to Tarefield with his wife;
and I neither repented _then_, nor have I _since_, of the part I had
in bringing them together. Let those who blasted their comforts answer
for the mischief!"--Her hands trembled, and she put aside her work
to wipe away the falling tear.--"Frank, finding that he could be no
farther serviceable to Miss Mary, returned home; but we soon after lost
sight of him again, though with contentment. He married a very good
girl, and went into partnership with her father, who was a wheelwright,
and lived many miles from us. They were, however, comfortable, till a
dreadful fever swept them away."--She paused.--"I had yet a child with
me. Susan was my anchor of hope, and again I took heart. She refused
several suitors for my sake, Madam; and her industry and good behaviour
gained her many friends. To ease the rest of a house, which suited her
increasing business, we let the first floor; and my son's attorney, a
very worthy gentleman of the name of Lloyd, knowing it to be vacant,
and that we only received one lady, recommended to us a Mrs. Barnes, a
client of his, who had recently lived near London, as a suitable lodger
for us; being a very quiet retired lady, and having no connections in
the town but his family. Little did I suspect, when she arrived, that
I was taking under my roof the wretch who had so barbarously treated
Mrs. Howard! nor could I have conceived that time and repentance could
have produced such a change in any one; for a more quiet and obliging
woman could not be found than my lodger. She was satisfied with every
thing; and we were so pleased with her, that at last we agreed to her
request, that we should provide her table for her; and for which she
paid so handsomely, that I was enabled to keep a maid-servant. She
was, in the mean time, evidently a sickly and melancholy woman, but
never, with us, a discontented one; and when, in the evening, we were
with her, in her apartment, she took delight in helping Susan in her
work, at which she was not less expert than herself. She never quitted
her room, but to go to morning prayers, and sometimes to Mr. Lloyd's;
but these visits were rare. Thus passed three years, and her increasing
fondness for Susan was returned by every endeavour on our part to
make her comfortable. But it was clear to us that she was a declining
woman, and broken down by grief. Soon after this period, she told us
one morning, as she passed through the shop, that she should go from
chapel to Mr. Lloyd's, and meant to dine with him. We both remarked,
when she returned, that she was more chatty than usual, and we renewed
our usual exhortations, to induce her to use more exercise, and try to
amuse herself: her answers were as they had always been, desponding;
and we changed the subject. That very day week, she went again to the
attorney's, and again we fancied that she returned home more cheerful.
Some few days after she went again, telling us that we should think her
a gossip; but that she should drink tea at home. We consequently waited
some little time for her; but concluding her friends had detained
her, were just set down, when she arrived in a sedan chair, and as we
thought, in a dying condition. The people who attended her, kept a
snuff-shop; and they informed me that she had been seized with a fit
in the shop, whilst waiting for some snuff. You may suppose we did all
that could be done; and in less than an hour, she was in bed, with a
doctor and a nurse to attend her, both of whom Mrs. Lloyd sent us. I
was, however, too much concerned for her, to leave her that night with
a stranger. She was hurried and confused till near morning, when she
slept, and awoke composed. We had soon the satisfaction of seeing her
better; but her melancholy was more apparent than ever; and from that
time she never left her room.--On her sending me one day to Mr. Lloyd's
on business, soon after her recovery, I asked her why she would not
take my arm and try to go herself, the morning being so pleasant. 'No,
no!' answered she with great uneasiness, 'I will never expose myself
to such another shock as I have had, I have enough on my mind without
such terrors.' On my questioning her, she owned that the sight of Mr.
Flamall had occasioned her fit. He entered into the snuff-shop with
his nephew Mr. Philip Flint, as it appeared, and she was overpowered
by seeing them. I was nearly being so, Madam, continued the good
woman, when I discovered by her discourse whom I had harboured in my
house; but I concealed my surprise; for I said to myself, assuredly
God has created in her a new heart; and it is not for me to judge her.
She wept most grievously; and from what I could gather, I thought
she had been seduced by Mr. Flamall when a young woman, and had thus
become subservient to Miss Flint's cruel purposes. She perceived my
suspicions, and redoubling her tears, told me that I was quite wide of
the mark; for that she had been always too homely for his pleasures,
though not so for purposes more base and wicked than I suspected.
'But,' added she, with a look of despair, and wringing her poor hands,
'for God's sake, do not question me farther. I cannot shew the villain
without bringing destruction on the heads of the innocent: and that I
will never do! Besides, I cannot prove the fact. All I know for certain
is, that he has ruined my poor soul!' From this time she frequently
talked of the Tarefield family; and in such a way, that I persuaded her
to open her mind to a clergyman; but she always said, that God would
bring the truth to light in his own time; she would not be the ruin of
more of her dear lady's children. She even solicited the visits of the
minister notwithstanding this; but always chose that either myself or
Susan should be present, and he was struck by her piety and submission.
She never got the better of the surprise of meeting with Flamall. The
doctor said, she died of a consumption; but I know it was of a troubled
conscience, and a broken heart; although a penitent one. I was with her
the last night she breathed in this world. I shall never forget her!
Such a dying-bed, Madam! She raved continually of Miss Flint, of Mrs.
Howard, of Mr. Flamall; then looking piteously in my face, she would
ask me twenty times 'who told me the secret.' Weary with hearing her,
I at length said, 'What secret?' '_The coffin!_ put me in! put me in,
they will not find me _there_!' said she. Another time, she called on
Mr. Philip Flint. 'Oh, do not let him hang me!' said she, struggling
and tearing off the cap on her head, 'I nursed you; I was faithful to
you; I loved you as the child of my own body! Poor child! you could
not help it!' 'Help what!' asked I. 'That Mrs. Howard died for want of
bread,' answered she. Then followed another struggle for breath. Then
she knew me, and said, 'Pray for me, I am dying. All is over with me!'
So, I soothed her; and she pressed my hand, and held it so fast I could
not get it from her. Then she whispered so low, I could understand
only these words:--'They told me it was _a deed_!' In this manner she
continued till five o'clock in the morning. When, poor, poor soul! she
sunk into her last sleep, trying to spell the word _Philip_; which she
never could do: at nine her sufferings closed.

"You will not wonder, after this account, at my opinion of Miss Flint,"
continued the good woman. "I am not the only one in this neighbourhood
who believes she has no more right to the wealth she enjoys than I
have; though but few have my reasons for this belief. However, what
I think I keep to myself, not even Susan knows what I have told you;
who, like an angel, have taken care to remove from this _vile woman_
a niece whom she hated; for the wicked can never bear the sight of
those whom they have defrauded. God is just, Madam, even in this world.
Let Miss Flint try to purchase, with her ill-gotten wealth, one sleep
like yours, when you close your eyes, thinking of the innocent lamb
you have protected! Poor wretch! poor wretch!" added she, shaking her
venerable head, "I pity her. But to proceed, you may guess at our
surprise, when we found that Mrs. Barnes had left to us every shilling
she had; and you may judge of what passed in my mind, when I found
she had signed her will that very day on which she so accidentally
met Mr. Flamall and his nephew. This estate was left me only for my
life. Susan had her legacy, in the furniture and clothes. The dear
children are my heirs. They are orphans, Miss Cowley," added she,
sinking her voice to a whisper, "poor orphans! What could I do in such
a strait! But I often think of the _price_ my poor friend gave for the
means of these children's future bread. How do I know that the wages
of sin will prosper even in the hands of the innocent?"--"Leave that
consideration," replied I, "to the Providence which directed its uses
to the innocent. Forbear to consider too minutely the retributive
justice of an all-wise Being; but in this instance of his mercy to
you, do not forget the conduct of your worthy son."--"You encourage
me," replied she, "to trust every thing that troubles me on this
subject to your better reason. I have a paper or two of poor Mrs.
Barnes's that do me no good at times. I found them by chance, and
even Susan knows not of them. I do not like to destroy them, lest it
should be improper; and yet I should be sorry to leave them for other's
finding, when I am gone. You shall see them." She turned towards a
bureau at her hand, and from a private drawer produced the papers. "I
found them _here_," said she, placing them in my hand; "put them in
your pocket, and at your leisure read them. Keep them, or destroy them
as you think fit. I am certain you are the friend of Miss Howard, and
her worthy uncle. But as I was saying," continued she, settling herself
with more composure, "this unexpected legacy and my son Webster's
going to America with his family, where, according to him, they pay
neither tithes nor taxes, induced us to take a good-accustomed shop at
Bishop's-Auckland, which has answered very well although we pay taxes
and tithes; and I shrewdly suspect my son Webster has repented selling
his farm in Old England, although Jane will not own it. I have told
you a long story, my dear young lady," continued she, "and I think you
will no longer wonder at my thinking Miss Flint '_up to any mischief_.'
But may I take the liberty of asking you whether it is true that she
rules Lady Maclairn with a rod of iron?" I satisfied her curiosity with
_discretion_. "I am glad to hear she is so considerate," replied she,
"for Mrs. Barnes always said _she_ was a _lamb_ amongst _wolves_. But
pray, how does Miss Flint bear her brother Philip's absence so long?"
I mentioned his prospects, adding, that although her spirits were
much depressed from the probability of his remaining in Jamaica with
his elder brother, who had declared his intention of making him his
heir, yet she considered his interest as something. "God be praised!"
exclaimed she, "who knows what this may do! Poor Captain Flint may,
at last, have his own; and Mrs. Howard's child will be secure of
comfort. I do not wish to see the proverb verified," added she, "which
says,'out of sight, out of mind;' because I never heard any one speak
ill of young Mr. Flint; but there is money enough to make more happy
than _one_; and whether I am right or wrong in what I think, I must
say that Captain Flint is as deserving as his young brother, and has a
just title to be considered. He was his dear mother's pride, and Mrs.
Howard's comfort! However, rich or poor, he will be reverenced here,
and happy hereafter." The carriage appeared, the corn was ground, and
your Rachel Cowley took her leave.

It were time lost to follow my train of thoughts; yours will run in the
same channel. But it delights my soul, Lucy, to contemplate the proofs
of a Providence visibly interfering in the cause of the virtuous.
Poor Frank's children! How succoured! How relieved! But I will say no
more, lest you fancy me more _superstitious_ and presumptuous than
rational, in those thoughts which at this moment occupy me. I know your
ascendency, and will repress my enthusiasm, till you decide, whether
I have been the appointed instrument of a deserving power, in its
peculiar mercy to this family; and whether, my strong affection for
Mary Howard does not originate from the same efficient cause of all
good. Be this as it may, I am grateful to my Maker for the pleasure he
has annexed to my duty; and for a heart, which knows no gratification,
that equals the sense of living to perform his will. And in what does
this consist, Lucy, if not, in loving our neighbour as ourselves, and
our Maker supremely. God bless you, my friend; I am _oppressed_, but
not _depressed_ by the reflexions of the present hour. But you know
your own

 Rachel Cowley.


 _Papers found by Mrs. Crofts, copied and sent to Miss Hardcastle by
 her friend Rachel Cowley._

"Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy
presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there. If I make my bed
in hell, behold thou art there also. If I say, surely the darkness
shall cover me; even then the night shall be light about me!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Will no suffering for sin be accepted, no expiation admitted, but that
which would, with my ruin in this world, bring down destruction on the
innocent? Thou must suffer, my soul, the penalty of thy transgressions;
it would be to _multiply them_ to declare them. No, I will be silent.
God knoweth all things. In his own time that 'which is done in secret,
shall be proclaimed on the house tops.' Then, and then only, will it
appear that I was tempted beyond my strength, nay, even deceived! But
let me pause, and _curse_ the love of gold that made me an easy prey!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"I was told I should be well here, that repose from labour was all I
wanted. I was dismissed with kindness, and loaded with the bounty of my
lady! But she could not give me what she has not, _peace_ of _mind_.
Yet, _she can sleep_! She has not dreams like mine! She can laugh at
my sufferings, and tell me, that they are fancies, and proceed from
fever. Was it _fever_ that suddenly rushed into my views at the sight
of Mrs. Howard's coffin? I knew for weeks that she was in a dying
condition, and yet I could then sleep. Was it fever that conveyed to my
astounded ears the voice of the accusing angel, whilst Mr. Flint was
speaking to his sister? She could stand the shock: I was obliged to
leave the room, benumbed with horror, and the weight of the whole earth
resting on me! Oh! had I died _then_, what miseries should I have been
spared!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"I was brought up by good and pious parents. When poor and friendless,
sick and an orphan, the first Mrs. Flint sheltered me. She gave me
good wages, as well as kindness and consideration; told me, that the
small-pox, though it had injured my face, had not lessened my good
qualities or my good character; and as a proof of her opinion of my
prudence, I should be the young lady's-maid. And what was my return
for her humanity, her confidence, her unexampled sweetness of temper?
Oh conscience, conscience, bitter are thy recollections! _sharp are thy
wounds!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

"I was doomed to be the author of evil to my benefactors! God abandoned
me to my wicked lust of money; the object of my senseless worship! What
scenes of misery, of ruin, of treachery, and imposition have been aided
by me!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"I mean to pass over the period which passed after poor Mrs. Flint
married Sir Murdock Maclairn. Tarefield-hall was no less fatal to her
tranquillity, than to mine. But she was the victim of usurped power;
I was the willing captive of sin. I still, however, bore up against
conscience. I had laid out my ill-gotten gains in the purchase of
this mill and land; and Mr. Flamall advised me to rebuild, instead
of repairing the south end of the house, saying I should have a nest
for my old age, and be always near my good mistress. This object, for
a time, filled my thoughts. It was finished, and Miss Flint's great
pleasure seemed to render it comfortable. She observed, that my health
declined, and with great kindness listened to my plan of quitting her
service.

"I was rejoiced at this relief. In the evening my lady sent me a hamper
with wine and other articles of comfort; and a box containing household
linen, with a kind note. I was weary with my day's exertions, and
requested the miller's wife to place the trunk of linen in my bed-room;
she did so; and supported it on two chairs, in order to elevate it for
my ease, when I unpacked it. I soon repaired to my bed; a glass of
wine had raised my spirits. Whilst undressing myself, I felt a ray of
comfort. I was my own mistress; I had a competency; and by riding a
double horse, and managing myself with care, my health might return.
The good woman who attended me, encouraged these hopes, and left me
to enjoy them. But they were fleeting to a mind diseased like mine!
Some part of my gown by chance hung over the trunk, which was in my
view from the bed. The moon threw its light on the object; and my
imagination gave to it the shape and appearance of a _coffin_. Mrs.
Howard rushed into my mind, and the usual train of thought succeeded.
Feverish and sleepless, I counted the hours as they passed, till four
in the morning, when nature sunk to unquiet repose. I dreamed that I
was with my old master, that he was struggling with me, to prevent my
looking into the coffin, telling me that it was his, not Mrs. Howard's.
My force prevailed, I opened it; and saw only an infant in it, whom I
took to my bosom, for it was cold and naked; it uttered a piercing
cry, and fell into dust. I awoke: a faint sweat bedewed my whole frame,
and an oppression on my chest was for some minutes insupportable. Yet
my eyelids were heavy, and again I dosed. I was now, in imagination,
closed up in Mrs. Howard's coffin, and striving to put aside her
mouldering bones, when a voice bade me repent and live. To this
appalling admonition succeeded new terrors. I thought I was flying from
my habitation, which was falling, from the convulsion of the ground, in
a dreadful earthquake. I sought the hall; it was levelled to the dust.
Mrs. Howard, like an angel bright in glory, stood before it. She turned
towards me, and said, 'Behold! and tremble!' I started at the loudness
of her voice, and the severity of her countenance. The bed trembled
under me with my agitations. I dreaded to slumber again. The morning
sun rose bright; all nature smiled; the birds raised to heaven their
hymn of joy. I sunk on my knees: I endeavoured to send up a petition to
infinite Mercy. _My lips_ were closed and parched: _my tongue_ heart
_was dumb_. I wept bitterly; for my mind was contrite, and my soul was
humbled before an offended God. Surely these tears reached the throne
of grace! for kneeling as I was, with my bursting head supported by the
bed, I slept peaceably till I heard the _family moving below stairs_."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Was this the pillow of repose for which I had given up my everlasting
peace? My soul sickens at the thought! An alms-house, a cave in the
earth is preferable to this abode! Let me fly to a spot where I am
not known. My God is a reconcilable God: my Redeemer still liveth!
The outstretched arm of infinite justice may be suspended by my
repentance; by my bitter repentance! My weakness and my ignorance
cannot produce any benefit to the injured. Alas! will it be allowed me
to plead, that these betrayed me to guilt, to cruelty, to wretchedness;
and that I cannot remedy, though wishing so to do, the least of the
mischiefs I have done?"

       *       *       *       *       *

I shall make no comments, my Lucy, on these extraordinary and affecting
papers: they evidently make only a part of a more detailed confession.
But we may ask,

 "What is this secret sin, this untold tale,
 "That art cannot extract, nor penance cleanse?"

 MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

For I cannot persuade myself that Mrs. Barnes's guilt went no farther,
than being subservient to Mrs. Howard's cruel treatment when her love
affair was discovered.

I intend to see the good Mrs. Crofts, and to say that I think the
papers can be of no use; being evidently nothing more than the effects
of a disturbed mind and a great depression of spirits.




CHAP. X.


LETTER XXX.

_From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

Why, my dear Lucy, after such a dearth of intelligence from our dear
Horace, did you scruple to open the budget he sent me? You could not
imagine, that he could, or would fill nearly a ream of paper with his
vows of unalterable love and fidelity. He well knows, that were he to
conjugate the verb _aimer_ with all its moods and tenses, I should look
only to the present and future. _Je vous aime, et je vous aimerai_,
contents me. You will find in fact that Horace understood this when he
sat down to write me a love letter; and that he wisely considered I
should be better pleased with the contents of the packet which swelled
his dispatches, than by the most elegant display of his talents for a
tender epistle.

In the mean time he has been contending with the winds of heaven;
but as I know your father has received a bulletin of his health and
spirits, I shall only add, that I _am happy_.

I send you enough to compensate for the brevity of this letter; but I
must caution you not to take a fancy to Mr. Oliver Flint; for, although
he is in the main a good sort of _Flint_, compared with some, yet he is
a rough pebble by the side of our captain: and I will not permit him
to share with his brother the esteem which _he_ merits. Tell my dear
Mary not to be distressed about writing to me. Her letters to the good
folks at the Abbey are a common banquet, except now and then, when
Alice is penurious, and only treats us with scraps. Be it so; she has
rights which no one wishes to invade. Mrs. Wilson, who furnished our
last treat, poured forth her blessings on Lucy Hardcastle; and with
her honest face glowing with rapture, said, "Aye! never tell me that
wickedness abounds in the world and if it did, one family as righteous
as Mr. Hardcastle's would again save it from destruction."--Farewell.

 R. Cowley.


LETTER XXXI.

 _From Henry Sinclair to Horace Hardcastle, (sent by the latter to Miss
 Cowley, and by her inclosed, in the foregoing.)_

 Kingston, Jamaica.

 MY DEAR SIR,

After a safe and speedy passage hither, and having happily witnessed a
scene of tenderness, which whilst it unmanned me, gave to my anxious
heart the most complete assurance that my sister had nothing for doubts
or fears, I hasten to acquit myself of my promise to you, reserving for
my future leisure the particulars of Margaret's little romance. I have
not seen Mr. Flamall; but enough has transpired, to satisfy me that it
is better I should not see him. In the mean time, I have succeeded in
gaining the good will and entire confidence of the good old Oliver
Flint. I took an opportunity when he was exulting at the prospect of
Philip's happiness, and paying his assiduous court to "his Margaret,"
to ask her whether her head and her shoe-heels were of the same stuff;
"for" added I, "the road of happiness and prosperity, though smoother
than the rocks at Cintra, have made many stumble." This observation
brought forwards Margaret's adventure, and your knight-errantry. With
this prelude I began my questions; and I found a willing auditor. "You
shall have my opinion of this matter," said Mr. Flint, wringing my
hand with eagerness, "on condition that you promise me not to disturb
my poor boy's comforts, nor attempt to see this uncle of his. We have
done with him, Mr. Sinclair, and the arm of justice will reach him,
without your aid; but let me tell you, by what means I have formed
this opinion of a man, whom for a time I respected. You need not be
told my reasons for desiring my brother Philip to visit me. My last
surviving hope was nearly of his age, and bore the same name. I had
lost sight of my family in England; and for many years had considered
this as no misfortune, having been led to conclude that the conduct
of some amongst them, had proclaimed their unworthiness. My sister
Lucretia was the only one of my father's children with whom I had any
intercourse by letter, and she constantly mentioned this posthumous
child with tenderness and promising hopes. Her adoption of him pleased
me, even before I was childless myself; and as it was obvious she had
an influence with his mother, I wrote to her, stating my wishes and
intentions in this boy's favour. Her answer was satisfactory; but I
was informed that Philip had an uncle, who claimed his rights in a
child who from his cradle had been his care and comfort; and that
he intended to share with his nephew the hazards of the voyage, and
the pleasure of seeing me; and in this arrangement his mother had
concurred. They arrived; and I soon showed Mr. Flamall that I was
satisfied with my heir. He, on his part, convincing me by his conduct,
of the part he had taken in forming him for a worthy one. My friend
Mr. Cowley, the father of the young lady for whom you are interested,
was not less pleased with this serpent in disguise, than myself; and
indeed, I know of _none_ to whom his company was not acceptable. He
was, or affected to be, charmed with his situation, and from certain
hints and well-timed displays of his capacity for business, my friend
made him very advantageous offers of employing him in the regulation
of his accounts. He accepted them, and from that time resided with Mr.
Cowley, who became attached to him more and more. About this period
my poor friend received his daughter's picture from England; and I was
summoned to celebrate its arrival with others of his acquaintance.
Curious to see the change which time had produced, on an infant I had
carried in my arms many and many a time, I went at an early hour, and
found poor Cowley fondly surveying it. I was struck by the beauty of
the image before me; but it had recalled to poor Henry his lost wife,
and he yielded without restraint to his tender regrets. I endeavoured
to soothe him, and amongst other things said, that his girl pleased
me, though she had his saucy eyes, adding, 'Suppose, Henry, we make
up a match between us? My _boy_ is as handsome as your _girl_; and
he will have reason to be satisfied, if she is only half as good and
as beautiful as her mother was.' 'She has my saucy eyes, you say,'
replied he, fixing his own on the picture; 'if she have my spirit also,
she will wish to chuse a husband for herself; and I am very certain,
she is well qualified to chuse wisely.' He continued to expatiate to
Mr. Flamall, on her good fortune in having been brought up by _Mrs.
Hardcastle_, and with much satisfaction continued to enumerate his
daughter's various attainments, and the proofs he had in his letters
from her, of good sense and discernment. This merely accidental
conversation produced on Flamall's mind the first suggestions of his
ambition; I have no doubt of this; for he frequently mentioned to me
the advantages which would result from an alliance with my old friend;
and withal intimated, that he was certain that Philip was a favourite
with Mr. Cowley. Moreover, he frequently joked with us on the subject,
and advised Cowley to send for his daughter. I had, however, by this
time seen enough of _my youngster_, to suspect that he was in love
elsewhere. I observed, that whenever Miss Cowley's picture was the
theme of praise, Philip paid his tribute of admiration as much to the
_drapery_ as the _face_; and that with the _young ladies_, he was more
pensive, than with their _mothers_. But hourly, my dear Sir, did he
gain upon my heart; for in every thought, word, and deed, he brought
to my remembrance my own dear boy, the last of my mortal blessings!
But let this pass: you will soon know this worthy lad. I had soon
after, having given up listening to Flamall's match-making scheme, the
shock of seeing Mr. Cowley seized with his first apoplectic fit at my
table. He recovered from this attack; but he was a changed man. He
was not insensible of his diminished strength; and his conversations
frequently turned on his settling his worldly affairs, before he left
me. On an occasion of this kind, he one day in particular consulted
me in relation to his two natural children. 'They are mine, Oliver,'
said he with great tenderness; 'and their mother is as unconscious of
evil as themselves. I have appointed them a provision and a guardian
which will be a security for my honour, when I am dust. They will
perceive that I was in affection _a parent_, when I thought of _you_
for my substitute in duty. Tell me, have I taxed your friendship too
heavily?'--'You have always been more than a match for me, Henry,' said
I taking his trembling hand; 'but for once, I have the ascendency;
for without consulting you, or having a doubt of your friendship, you
have for years been my appointed executor, and the destined prop of
those children now in heaven.' Poor fellow! he was moved to tears.--'I
mean,' continued he, 'to try the effects of a change of climate. I
wish to see my dear daughter before I die; I wish to recommend to her
those proofs of her father's weakness. She will be kind to my innocent
Marian; and when the boys are sent to England for instruction, she
will protect them as my children. I have no fears for her happiness,'
continued he; 'Hardcastle will continue to watch over her safety,
and I have named him and Counsellor Steadman joint executors with
yourself, in all matters relative to her concerns. Hardcastle has a
son,' pursued he, 'of whom my dear girl has written me _wonders_. I
have good reasons for believing that the lad's romantic father has for
some years banished this boy from his house, lest he should exchange
hearts with my girl. I have never dropped a hint of this suspicion to
any one but yourself; but should I live to reach England, and find this
young man a _Hardcastle_, and my daughter disposed to favour him, I
will see her married to him, and then die in peace with the world and
myself, as having well managed the talents given me.' This conversation
finished by his repeatedly thanking me for the comfort I had given to
his dejected spirits; and some short time after, he told me that he had
finished his most important concerns; and should, whenever he embarked,
leave Marian and her little ones under my roof; which promise had
reconciled her to his voyage."

The second shock to his enfeebled frame left us little for hope. Yet
he again rallied; but with the loss of all power in his legs, and with
a general debility, that rendered every exertion fatiguing. He did not
quit his apartment, and rarely his bed, for much time together. His
faculties were notwithstanding less oppressed, than after his first
attack; for he was more cheerful and equal in his spirits. During this
term of his trial, how often have I heard him bless me for being the
agent in the hands of Providence, in conducting to him Mr. Flamall,
who so ably went through the business he was no longer in a condition
to superintend, and whose society was a comfort to him! To say the
truth, I was no less pleased with his conduct than my friend; 'for this
fellow's talents are up to every thing _but honesty_.'

One morning I went as usual to Cowley's; he was still in his bed, and
the sun-blinds were down in the bow-windows of his spacious apartment.
I stumbled on entering, from the sudden transition from light to
darkness, against some moveable; and with the utmost cheerfulness, my
friend said, 'Why, how now, Oliver! you are one of those 'who love
darkness rather than light because your deeds are evil;' therefore take
care of your shins.' Rubbing the one offended, I approached the bed,
and then only perceived, that on a small table close to its side, was
a sheet of parchment, with pen and ink, and that Flamall had quitted
his station near it to receive me. 'You are busy,' observed I, thinking
he was, adding a codicil to his will, for such the lessening obscurity
discovered the parchment to be.--'I will call this evening.'--'I had
finished, my dear Oliver,' replied he, grasping my hand. 'We have
wished for your appearance; I have only to sign and seal.' He rung
the bell and desired the servant to show the gentlemen into the room.
His physician, with one of the most respectable men at Kingston,
entered.--I retreated to the bow, and passing the blind, stood in the
balcony. I heard him say something as an excuse for having so long
detained them; and he added, 'I have been hearing Mr. Flamall read my
will once more. I now, in a sound mind, declare it to be last will and
testamentary act, which I am about to sign in your presence.' The
business was performed with all due formalities; and his faithful Juba,
to whom he had given good learning when he was in England, witnessed
this act of his beloved master with such emotions, that he left the
room the moment he had written his name. Mr. Flamall asked him where
he should deposit the will; and Cowley answered, 'in the cabinet.' The
gentlemen saw him place it in the cabinet, which stood opposite to the
foot of the bed, and Cowley received the key, which was attached to the
chain of his watch. He now called me from my post, and for some time
chatted with us. At length the gentlemen departed; and Juba, recovered
from his grief, entered with some refreshment for his master. 'Try and
get off this key,' said Cowley to him, giving him the watch. He did so
without difficulty. 'There, my dear Oliver,' said my friend, giving
it me, 'you will take care of it; and I have closed my accounts with
this world.' We were both silent, for I could not speak. 'There is
one thing,' resumed he, 'which I had like to have forgotten: you will
find my wife's jewels and trinkets in that cabinet; let Rachel know
I should have sent them to her long since, but that I could not bear
to see them. There is a pearl necklace amongst them; her mother wore
it the day she was married.' His voice sunk, and he burst into tears.
'Come, come,' said I, 'my dear fellow-sufferer, let us have no more of
this; get well, and carry your daughter this necklace yourself. You
will find, when placing it on her neck as a bride, that God has many
comforts for you yet in store.' He shook his head.--'I trust he has,'
replied he, 'but they are not in this world.' Flamall, who had left the
room with the visitors, returned, and my friend changed the subject of
conversation. He lived only nine days after this interview. You may
judge of my surprise at the contents of the will, when called upon to
produce it. Mr. Flamall acted his part to the life, but with me his
villany stood confessed! I need not tell you his power over poor Miss
Cowley, nor Philip's surprise that he was involved in her fate. His
spirits, which had visibly declined from the time he had been with me,
became totally dejected, and he passed his time here in solitude. I
was certain he had the same suspicions with myself; and, although it
went to my heart to vex him, I determined to open my mind to him: I
did so by relating to him all I have told you; and I added, that if he
preferred going to England, I would go with him and leave Flamall 'to
the devil's care.'--'I have no wish to return to England,' answered
he with emotion 'I wish to die here, and would this hour resign my
breath willingly were it not for you!' The poor boy clung to my bosom,
and wept bitterly.--'Well,' said I, 'we now understand one another. I
would sooner see you dead than Miss Cowley's husband: but you may be
her _friend; we also will try to be cunning_. Flamall is your uncle;
so much the worse for you, and the better for him, according to the
estimation of danger. We will leave him to an arm which will, in its
own time, reach him to his cost. Show some alacrity in the post your
uncle has assigned you, and be vigilant over _accounts_ which relate
to the heiress he has gained for you. Inventories will not be marriage
articles, Philip, but they may be evidences of what Miss Cowley is
worth. She may like you as an honest man, though not as a suitor forced
upon her. We do not want her money, but Mr. Flamall does; and if he
finds he cannot have it one way he will try another.' Philip entered
into my views; he worked like a negro in Flamall's office for Miss
Cowley, but complained bitterly that his uncle persecuted him daily
on the subject of the marriage, and highly resented his reluctance
to the voyage to England. About this time the partner of an old and
respectable house of correspondence I had in London, arrived here. He
met Flamall at my table, for I was a _cunning man_ you will observe,
and preserved appearances on many accounts. The stranger, before he
quitted me, asked me how long I had known Flamall. I answered; adding
that he was nearly related to my brother Philip. 'I should be sorry
for the young gentleman,' replied he, 'were I not assured that I
must have heard a false representation of Mr. Flamall's conduct in
England.' I urged him to explain himself; he evaded for a time my
enquiries, saying that he had only common report to produce as an
apology for _wondering_ at seeing Flamall _in good company_, and in
an honourable station of _trust_; but, added he, "I am safe with you;
I have heard that he _writes too well_, therefore take care of him,
my good old friend." I smiled and shook his hand: we understood each
other. Well! I am making this a long story! but now for the conclusion.
One evening Philip returned from Kingston so ill that I thought he
was dying. I say nothing of what passed in my mind. Here was my last
hope within sight of the grave! He grew better, however, towards the
morning, and the doctor told me his disorder was not the cruel fever
which had made me childless. Philip was moved to see my distress, and
he at once told me that he did not deserve my love and goodness, for
that he had been afraid to trust me. He then told me all about his
marriage with that poor little girl of ours, and the roguery which that
d----d Flamall had practised to make him believe she was a faithless
baggage. He had met Miss Lindsey by chance at his friend Dalrymple's,
where he had persuaded Flamall to place the two little Cowleys and
their mother; and, as you may suppose, poor Margaret's innocence was
cleared up. It was well Flamall was then beyond my reach! He was at the
large plantation, twenty miles from hence; so instead of shooting him
through the head I employed my time in getting my poor boy well; and a
contented mind hastened his cure. I shall never forget what passed in
my mind when this _affectionate_, and very _anxious_ uncle came on the
wings of the wind to see his "dear Philip!" I met him, however, with my
_cunning face_ in the hall, and told him the patient was doing well,
for he was asleep; and he followed me into the eating room. A thousand
questions ensued, which were all answered by assuring him that he was
in the road to better health than he had enjoyed for many months.--"We
must part with him," observed he, "Jamaica will be the ruin of his
constitution: he was never robust."--"Oh!" replied I, gaily, "he will
do very well here when he has his wife."--"He will never have her,"
returned he, "by remaining here: Miss Cowley must be better wooed to
be won."--"We will leave Miss Cowley to be wooed by those suiters who
are nearer to her," answered I, "and be contented to receive the wife
who has been villified, and it may be ruined in health as well as in
peace, _by treachery_." He began to storm. "You had better be quiet,"
said I, "and thank fortune you are Lady Maclairn's brother: as for
mine, within yonder, he is my care, not yours: I will provide for his
happiness without delay, and only by signing Oliver Flint, do more
to effect it than you have done with your _penmanship_. I have seen
you, Mr. Flamall, for the last time, _for I know you_. When Philip is
well enough to be _disturbed_, without risk, he shall wait upon you if
you please, and introduce to you _Mrs. Lindsey_, who wishes to send a
letter to her good friend, _Doctor Maccleod_, whom she finds, to her
_surprise_, you correspond with, _although he is in Heaven_." I thought
the fellow would have dropped at my feet! I never saw a man _so cut
down_! "You will call for what you want," said I, retreating, "I will
send a servant to you; but my brother shall not see you to-day."

He followed me, without uttering a word, and, mounting his horse, left
the house. Poor Philip, who is the most affectionate of creatures, was
vexed when I told him of this visit. He wrote to his uncle, who sent
back the letter, and quitted the creek plantation. He resides now at
the other, and lives like an angry lion in his lair. "Philip will tell
you all the particulars of this villany," added he, rising to meet
him and Lindsey. "Be sure to advise him not to regard this fellow's
stubborn pride; he has been too humble with him, in my opinion, but
his mother's peace is always uppermost, and I cannot bear to see him
uneasy, so I never name Flamall."

Thus far, my dear Sir, you have seen Mr. Flamall as the _guardian_,
the _friend_, and the _relative_. I leave to you to draw your own
conclusions; but as the detention of the vessel permits me, I will
continue my history by informing you that they have amongst them made a
fool, to say no worse of your friend, of Henry Sinclair.

I perceived in Margaret's face a degree of anxiety and confusion
whenever she saw me look serious. Our party, the following day, was
augmented by two families, who came, in great form, to pay the bride,
as they called my sister, their compliments, and to plague us with
their ceremonious intrusion. I was in no humour for such company,
and, pleading a head-ach, I kept close in my own apartment. Thus
retired, I had just finished my solitary dinner when Lindsey entered
the room; and, sitting down, commended my prudence and good fortune
in escaping the people who were yet in the house. "I can do no more
for Philip," added he, yawning, "and it may do him good if they teach
him that no happiness here is permanent." I made no reply. "I find,"
continued Lindsey, "it is exactly as my wife had foreseen, you have
taken offence, and Philip's caution is misconstrued. I will follow
her counsels, for I have never had reason yet to repent of so doing.
Listen to me, and then be angry if you please. During your brother's
voyage hither his uncle informed him that he had long known of his
_intrigue_ with Miss Sinclair. Lecture followed exhortation, and
exhortation lecture: the unrepenting sinner kept his secret, and
listened in patience. One letter from _Miss Sinclair_, enclosed in
one from Montrose, reached poor Philip soon after his arrival here;
and the reception he met with from his brother cheered his drooping
spirits. At length his intelligence from Scotland failed; and his uncle
gave him seriously to understand that Mr. Cowley wished to secure him
for a husband for his daughter. Philip endeavoured to laugh at his
uncle's having taken up a few random jokes as a premeditated design,
but this evasion failing, he firmly told him that his affections were
engaged, and that his honour, without other motives, would oblige
him to refuse even Miss Cowley's offered hand. 'I would have spared
you, Sir,' replied Mr. Flamall, with sternness, 'the pain of blushing
before a man whose authority you have of late cast off, although from
the hour of your birth he has lived for the purpose of making you a
reasonable being. I had hoped to have seen you long since reclaimed
from the weakness and infatuation of a boy deluded by his vanity and
passions; but I see you require harsher remedies than mine since you
have found your path to fortune smooth. Read that letter, and then
judge of the nature of those engagements which your delicate honour
opposes to a situation the most enviable.' He threw a letter on the
table, and abruptly left the room. Philip found that it was one
from his college tutor, Doctor Macleod, to his uncle; and, from its
contents, it appeared that the discovery of his attachment to your
sister had been made by him to Mr. Flamall; for, after his approbation
of the measures which Mr. Flamall had pursued of removing the lover
from so dangerous a predicament, he proceeds in detailing the conduct
of the deserted fair one. 'This imprudent girl, writes the good
Doctor, 'soon supplied Mr. Flint's absence by admitting the visits of
_a new lover_. He was more experienced in the wiles of the sex, of her
class at least; and, being an independent man, of considerable fortune,
she was prevailed upon to quit her mother, and to place herself under
his protection at his seat near Dublin, without the name of a wife.
I am told that Montrose, her _first lover_, shares with her in the
generosity of her gallant; and that he is in Dublin, and supported by
this unhappy girl. Mrs. Sinclair has left Edinburgh. Mrs. Montrose did
not, at her death, leave sufficient to pay her debts. No wonder: her
daughter is somewhere in service: I hope it is an honest one. When your
nephew learns these particulars he will be convinced of the danger he
has escaped, for he wants not understanding; nor will his gratitude
fail in the acknowledgments due to those who, from their interest in
his welfare, have providentially saved him from pain.''This letter,'
added Lindsey, 'finished with latin, and cautions Mr. Flamall not to
forget that the assumed mask of _a Miss Sinclair_, and the designing
friendship of _a Montrose_, had been the destruction of men much more
experienced in life than his nephew, &c.--Philip's state of mind, on
perusing this letter, was such as I shall not attempt to describe. In
the confusion and tumult of his thoughts he crushed it in his hand,
and putting it into his bosom he left Flamall's house. He wrote to
me: no answer was returned. He then wrote to a young man for general
information, respecting his old friends, _the Montroses_ and _Miss
Sinclair_. To this letter he had a reply. It was such as confirmed,
in part, his tutor's intelligence; for the death of Mrs. Montrose had
broken up her little family, and the writer knew not where her son
and daughter were. 'Mrs. Sinclair and her pretty daughter had left
Edinburgh.' In the interim I reached this place with my wife; and my
friend, on whom I relied for my present establishment, placed us in
the house of our countryman, Mr. Dalrymple, till all was ready for
our final settlement at his plantation. You may judge that my Fanny
had formed her designs in favour of her injured friend, and she was
not long without information in regard to Mr. Flint's situation and
favour with his rich brother Oliver. She listened to his praises, and
the Dalrymples were not sparing of them. His conduct in his visits to
the Cowleys and their mother; his friendship to themselves, entered
into these details; and, finally, the disappointment of certain young
ladies who were said to be in love with the handsome stranger, who was
soon to return to England to marry the great heiress, Miss Cowley.
You will imagine the interview my wife so ardently desired was not
long delayed; and without entering into her reproaches or Philip's
distress, I will finish my narrative by telling you, that Doctor
Macleod's friendly epistle and fatherly advise, was dated _just six
months after his death_. The result was much happier than my poor wife
had reason to expect, for she had nearly been the death of Philip
in her indiscreet zeal for friendship. We are all at present in the
right road," continued Lindsey, "and happy; but in our apprehensions
of your warmth; for Flamall is without importance to us."--"I must
see him," replied I, "were it only to thank him for all his good
intentions. It will not, I presume, disturb the peace of the world, if
I should improve Mr. Flamall's art of 'writing letters from the dead
to the living,' or be taught by him the secret road to my old friend
Macleod."--"This is what your poor sister fears," said Lindsey, "and
which is the poison in the cup of poor Philip's present blessings. He
cannot speak to you on this delicate subject." "I do not now wish he
should," answered I, with warmth, "but by the----." I was interrupted
by the entrance of the bewitching widow, who with a smile turning to
Lindsey, asked him, if he had explained to me the wishes of my friends.
Lindsey made no answer. But I will hasten over my defeat. All I know
is, that I was subdued by her tears and pathetic representation of the
misery I should introduce, by my noticing this rascal. And so well
did she plead the cause of mercy and forbearance, that I do not think
I could have shot at a sparrow whilst within hearing of her voice.
"Promise me," said the syren, "promise me, Mr. Sinclair, that you will
leave this miserable man to the upbraidings of his own conscience.
Indeed you are not made for a murderer; nor does this guilty wretch
need your blood to condemn him to a heavier punishment than that which
now hangs over him; he is forlorn and dejected; and the prey of that
remorse and disappointment which his conduct has produced. Shall I tell
your _brother_? Shall I tell Margaret, that you will take no steps
to interrupt their peace?" "You may," answered I, seizing her hand,
"and if I am deemed a poltroon, you must defend me." She blushed and
withdrew as abruptly as she had entered. My pacific intentions have
cleared Philip's brow of care. We have had several conversations on
the subject of his uncle's late conduct. I am assured that Mr. Cowley
could not have found a better agent than this man, for his purpose, as
far as related to business. He is acute, active, and regular in his
employment; and Philip believes, that the same pride which had nearly
been his destruction, will keep him _just_ in regard to Miss Cowley's
property. He is persuaded that Flamall will be miserable, till he
is again on good terms with him; and he strenuously endeavours to
convince me, that his uncle's deviations from honour and integrity may
be traced to his unbounded affection for him, and an ambition which,
though without excuse in some points, has been vigilantly employed for
his benefit in many. "I cannot," added my brother, "_cancel_ from my
memory the numberless proofs he has given me of even parental anxiety
and care; and I will make every concession to his pride that may tend
to a reconciliation; for I know he loves me; and he is wretched. As a
man and a christian, this is my duty; as the brother of Lady Maclairn,
and the instructor of my youth, he has claims on my heart; and I yet
hope to see him restored to himself, and the good opinion of the
world." I had nothing to say to arguments of this kind: _Philip Flint_
is not _Henry Sinclair_; but it is ten to one that he is the happiest
and the wisest man of the two. I must try what wedlock will make of me;
for I begin to suspect I want smoothing and trimming. I still feel that
the current of resentment would carry me down to the creek plantation,
for the sole purpose of kicking this uncle to Margaret's feet. Mrs.
Dormer, my fair enslaver, keeps a watchful eye over me, and what with
balls, feasts, and her smiles, I am a lost man, though yet a steady
friend; and if you give the word of command I will kidnap Flamall, and
send him to you for the recompence of his deserts.

 Yours, most faithfully,

 Henry Sinclair.

P.S. I have not room for my sisters prayers for Mr. Hardcastle's and
Miss Cowley's felicity.


END OF VOL. II.


_J.G. Barnard, 57, Snow Hill._


Transcribers note:

Original spelling, including any possible inconsistencies, has been
retained.