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. III.

                                  ---

                               _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, STATIONERS’ COURT; THOMAS
     OSTELL, AVE-MARIA LANE; AND All OTHER BOOKSELLERS.

                                  ---

                                 1806.




                     W. Flint, Printer, Old Bailey.




                             LADY MACLAIRN,

                                  THE

                          _VICTIM OF VILLANY_.




                                CHAP. I.


Again must the reader be contented with my pen, in order to supply the
interrupted course of Miss Cowley’s letters.

From the period already described the lovers were left to their own
discretion, and the direction of Counsellor Steadman; who, availing
himself of Mr. Sinclair’s information, decidedly supported them in
their attachment; and, in the words of the fond father, “became a
teacher of doctrines, which had silenced his authority, if they had not
convinced his conscience.” As this was said with an acquiescent smile,
it was understood. Besides this no other consequence resulted from Mr.
Sinclair’s letter, as Miss Cowley gave her lover to understand, that
she meant not to marry till Mr. Flamall’s power had ceased. She urged
this point with her usual disinterested spirit. “I will be mistress
of myself and my fortune,” said she, “and manifest to the world my
own judgment, in selecting a man worthy of both. I can be as proud as
Mr. Hardcastle, and I can have my scruples: my husband shall not lose
an ample inheritance, because a girl is impatient to bear his name.
We shall be happy; in the mean time, you my Horace are engaged in the
sacred duties of friendship: persevere, and rest assured of Rachel
Cowley’s faith and love.”

It is to be regretted, that, from motives of delicacy, Mr.
Hardcastle’s letters are not permitted to appear; and I cannot but
lament that so fair an opportunity escapes me of confuting an opinion,
so boldly and erroneously asserted, that “a man in love must write like
a fool.” Had no impediment been opposed to my wishes, I could have
produced incontestible proofs, that love and nonsense have no natural
affinity. Horace Hardcastle’s understanding was neither enslaved by
beauty, nor the dupe of a youthful inclination; nor was Miss Cowley the
child of vanity. Rhapsody and flattery were equally useless to their
rational views and virtuous attachment. The hopes of meriting each
other’s esteem imparted to their language the simplicity of truth and
the unstudied graces of nature. The tribute of Horace’s admiration was
directed to the cultivating the taste and forming the judgment of the
woman he loved; and Miss Cowley, with a well-grounded confidence in
his _principles_, as well as in his superior advantages in learning,
assiduously profited from the lessons of a guide too honest to betray,
and too quick-sighted to be betrayed.

Rational love-letters, in a novel, might, perhaps, with some sort
of readers, have been deemed an equivalent for the absence of the
marvellous; and sensible as I am and must be of the deficiency of
my work in this respect, I have urged my request with persevering
importunity, although without success. To my plea, that Mr.
Hardcastle’s letters would, at least, give _novelty_ to my _novel_,
I am told, that a lover with his eyes open would be the disgrace of
a circulating library, and the utter ruin of the writer’s fame as
a novelist; and in reply to the obvious defect of a work stripped
of its essential support, I am advised humbly to request my young
female readers, to supply this deficiency by reading their own
billet-doux, which, I am assured, will give all the interest to
the work so anxiously desired. “Be contented with the title of a
faithful historian, though perhaps to some, a dull story teller,”
added Mr. Hardcastle. “You have, in my opinion, said enough of your
heroine to convince your readers that she could not love a fool or a
coxcomb. Leave me to the enjoyment of this conviction. I am as little
qualified for the hero of a popular novel, as you are for writing a
fashionable one. With the materials before you, you may produce an
offering to common sense; but my letters would neither lull to sleep
a craving imagination, nor excite the sensibility of any ‘Miss Lydia
Languish.’ They were dictated by truth and sincerity, and addressed
to a reasonable being. My glory is confined to one conclusion; and
the conqueror of worlds is unenvied! Horace Hardcastle was beloved by
a virtuous woman; and that woman was Rachel Cowley! Surely this will
satisfy your readers! If it does not, I pity them; nor can your honest
heart reform them.” I gave up the contest; for his manly face glowed
with conscious worth, and contented ambition. Having again found the
thread of my narrative, I once more re-assume my pleasing task.


                             LETTER XXXII.

                 _From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

Letters are arrived, my dear Lucy, from our island. Fortunately, I was
at the Abbey when they were read at the hall. I rejoice that it so
happened, for I am yet but a novice in counterfeiting; and you will
judge that the contents of these letters required on my part a complete
command of my features. On returning home to supper I found the Baronet
alone, and his air more disturbed than I liked. “I am glad you are
returned,” said he, with eagerness. “We have been very much surprised
to-day; and Miss Flint is seriously indisposed by the intelligence we
have had from Jamaica.” The history of the secret marriage followed.
“Lady Maclairn,” continued he, “entreats you will excuse her appearing
to-night. She is much displeased with her son’s conduct in the course
of this business. She thinks he has been deficient on the point of
honour with you. He ought to have proclaimed his engagement the moment
he heard of Mr. Cowley’s intentions in his favour.”--“He acted from
an opinion much more delicate,” replied I, “for he gave me credit for
sentiments corresponding with his own, and he judged perfectly right
in leaving to Mr. Flamall a business of his own forging, and in which
we had nothing to do. But,” continued I, “from your statement of this
affair as it relates to Mr. Philip Flint, there appears but little for
regret. His brother approves of his choice you say?”--“Yes,” replied
the Baronet, “he speaks warmly in praise of the lady; and the romance
is likely to finish better than most of those in which Cupid is prime
minister. Even his mother would be satisfied with the _denouement_ were
she left to herself; but Mr. Flamall is offended, and we dare not be
placable.” Sir Murdoch coloured. I smiled, and observed that he would
be polite, and bend to the rising fortune of his nephew. “You do not
yet know him,” answered he with agitation. “Indeed I do,” answered I
with gaiety, “and had I known his nephew, we would have effectually
cured him of match-making by our joint labours. I am only angry that I
have had so little share in his present defeat.” The conversation next
turned on Miss Flint’s vexation and grief, of which we both erroneously
judged as it will appear hereafter.

In the morning, the incomprehensible Lady Maclairn appeared with a face
as pale as death, and with solemnity of manner, though with great
composure, she thus addressed me. “It is with much satisfaction, my
dear Miss Cowley, that I am able to recall to my memory my perfect
submission to your request and Sir Murdoch’s wishes. I have not
importuned you on the subject of my son’s pretensions. I rejoiced
at the prohibition, which pleased me as much as yourself. I was not
a stranger to my brother’s ambitious and sanguine prospects for
his nephew; but it was not so clear to me that Philip would always
remain docile to his projects. The late event has convinced me that
I judged rightly. And all I have now to wish is, that my son’s mode
of effecting his happiness may turn out better than the schemes of
his uncle.” “Never doubt it, madam,” said I eagerly; “at any rate he
will be happy for a season, and that is more than his uncle could make
him. But what says Miss Flint to this love match?” “She has shown her
affection on this occasion,” replied her Ladyship. “My brother, by
his violent invectives, has raised an antagonist where he expected an
auxiliary. She is more offended by Mr. Flamall’s resentment than by
her brother’s imprudence, and only laments his not having confided to
her the secret of his heart. She foresees that Oliver Flint’s kindness
and generosity will give him claims unfriendly to her wishes; and she
deplores the loss of her favourite, as fatal to her hopes. I have,
as usual, suppressed my feelings on this subject. I was never judged
competent to the concerns of this child’s establishment in the world.
I bless God that he has escaped the pernicious consequences of being
made of too much importance. If he be happy, I shall be satisfied.” She
drew her son’s letter from her pocket: it was like most of those which
are written on such occasions. The old man’s pleased me better; it is
addressed to Miss Flint, and exhibits a cheerful mind and a benevolent
heart. He begs her good offices to reconcile Lady Maclairn’s to the
marriage, and adds that Philip, by his timidity and secrecy, had lost
one child which might have been saved, and with him, that was his
greatest fault; for that he had got a wife who pleased him, and every
other friend, except Mr. Flamall; “but I shall take care,” adds he, “to
settle that gentleman’s future controul over my children. You would be
as fond of the little wife as we are, my dear Lucretia,” continues the
good man, “if you knew her; she is a pretty, amiable creature, and has
won my heart already. I trust I shall live to share the happiness to
which I have been useful. Philip is a worthy lad, and he is my peculiar
care: have no fears for him, for he is able to walk alone, we want no
_tutors_. So you may tell Mr. Flamall, if you please: and Philip’s
mother may rest satisfied that his conduct is such as reflects no
dishonour on his character. I could say more, but it is needless. We
are all happy at present, thanks to Providence!”

I observed that Mr. Oliver Flint’s letter was a satisfactory one.
“Certainly,” replied she, “as far as it goes; but there is yet secrecy
in the business, and with me concealment portends danger.” She was
summoned to Miss Flint, who is still much indisposed. I am going to
ramble with the Baronet.

                          (_In continuation._)

--Last night after supper Lady Maclairn again brought forward her
son’s marriage, “I could have wished,” said she, turning to me, “that
Philip had been more explicit in regard to his engagements with his
uncle. I cannot but think he was very wrong in permitting my brother,
for an instant, to entertain the hopes he did; and however these hopes
stood removed from every chance of succeeding, yet I am certain that
Mr. Flamall will be painfully affected by a concealment, which he will
judge an indelible disgrace on Philip’s honour. He certainly ought to
have prevented his uncle’s entertaining the prospects he has done.” “I
will have no judgment passed on _my lover_,” replied I, with unaffected
gaiety; “all stratagems are lawful under unusurped power; and till I
can discover a better reason for my censure than his keeping his own
secrets, I shall esteem Mr. Philip Flint.” “I have, however, often
reflected,” said Sir Murdoch, “that in these secret engagements, there
is one danger which is rarely insisted on. We can expatiate on the
evils of what are justly called imprudent marriages, and inconsiderate
connexions; but we seldom think of the deviations from the road of
truth which they necessarily force the unwary to tread. The plots and
contrivances, the duplicity and deceit, which ordinarily enter into
a youthful intrigue, are in my opinion more serious evils, than the
difficulties so commonly annexed to a _love match_, as such clandestine
engagements are called. The native innocence and rectitude of the mind
is broken into; deceit is become familiar, and has been found useful
to the purpose of the passions; and it ought not to surprise any one,
that a young man, or a young woman, who has attained the desired object
by the road of contrivance and imposition, should continue to profit
by their acquaintance with them, whenever it suits their views or
inclinations.”

Never shall I forget the countenance of Lady Maclairn! She had her
eyes fixed, and her brows elevated; her breath was short, and her
colour forsook her, but as it appeared in spots on her bosom. God knows
whether I judged right, but I hesitated not a moment. I rose abruptly,
and brushing her neck with my hand, I said, “It is not a spider.” She
made no reply, but drank some water from the glass before her. Malcolm,
praising my courage, and gently reproving his mother’s dread of so
harmless an insect, insisted on her drinking some wine. She complied,
and in a tone of ill-affected gaiety drank to her _deliverer_: and I am
persuaded, Lucy, that for the moment _I was her deliverer_. Mrs. Allen
observed her extreme distress as well as myself, and our reasonings
are endless. We know not the heart of Lady Maclairn! Receive the
affectionate farewell of mine which you do know, in all its weaknesses
and wanderings.

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.


                             LETTER XXXIII.

                 _From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

So so! Ethusiasm has her votaries, I find, even at Heathcot! Let me
see: you say in your last, “my father entirely agrees with you, my dear
Rachel, that Miss Howard is nor an object for the libertine’s rude
gaze, nor for the assaults of an unfeeling world.” “You have not been
more generous than discriminating, &c.” Mr. Sedley, too; well, what
does Mr. Sedley think of this girl? Why, that “the casket is worthy of
the pure gem it incloses;” and then comes the _sober_ praise of Lucy
Hardcastle, “Mary Howard is nature’s master-piece.” I am satisfied,
and leave you to decide on my talents for hyperbole. Did I not tell
you that I was describing _something_ more worthy of my pen than
beauty?--but I will spare you.

I suppose Eliza, sends you the parish news. Has she informed Mary of
the direful effects which the death of Mrs. Snughead, and the recent
advice of the good health and expected arrival of her son and heir
have produced on her _inconsolable_ husband? In spite of his _strait
lacings_ the gout found its way to his stomach, and he has had a very
narrow escape. He has been advised to go to Bath; and we have got a
curate, who will correct me in my late idle habit of breaking the
Sabbath; for he is, I am told, a very ingenious and worthy young man.

Mrs. Warner in a walk with Mrs. Allen has unburdened her mind, and
in her own words “she is out of all patience” to see her lady making
herself miserable _for nothing_. “Her spirits were low enough before,
for she had been well humbled, about Miss Mary,” continued Warner,
“and now she is quite broken hearted, poor soul! This marriage, Mrs.
Allen, will be the first nail in my poor lady’s coffin.” “Why should
you think so?” observed Mrs. Allen. “His brother is pleased with the
lady he has chosen, and all will be well.” “This is what I tell her,
Madam,” replied the honest woman, “and besides that, I have ventured to
say, that Mr. Flamall will not dare to tutor the young gentleman, now
he is married and master of himself, as one may say, as he did here,
and my lady acknowledged that was a comfort to her, although she could
not see him. There is the rub, Madam; she doats upon this young man,
and between ourselves it is a great pity; for notwithstanding he is a
very fine looking young gentleman, and a sweet tempered one to boot,
yet there are, as I say, those as good, who want her money more than
he does; for she tells me, he will have every shilling of Mr. Oliver’s
fortune, and that he has already given him a fine plantation, and I
know not how many poor negroes. A good deed for them, poor souls! for
Mr. Philip is a tender-hearted man.” “It was, however, wrong to enter
into an engagement of this sort, without consulting his friends,”
observed Mrs. Allen; “and still worse, not to confess his marriage
before he quitted his family.” “To be sure it was,” answered she, “but
if you knew the temper of his uncle, it would not surprise you. He
contrived to be master here, though every one feared and hated him.”
“Not Miss Flint,” said Mrs. Allen, smiling: “I have been told he was
a favourite with her.” “So have I an hundred times,” replied Warner;
“but her love was worn out, before I came to the hall, and that is
nine years ago. No, no: it was always clear to me how he managed to
keep his footing here. Whenever any dispute arose, and there was no
lack of them, he used to threaten to take away Philip from the hall
and carry him to America or France; and my Lady knowing he could do
as he pleased with his poor dejected sister, was always afraid that
he would take from her this darling and comfort of her life. I am no
fool, Madam; and I can assure you that the world has been much mistaken
in regard to Miss Flint’s liking Mr. Flamall. She loves nothing, nor
any one on earth but her brother Philip. This very morning she cried
as though her heart was breaking; and said, all was lost to her. ‘Why,
my dear Madam,’ said I, ‘you grieve more than his mother does; she
hopes to see him again, and why should you despair?’ She shook her
head and said, ‘you know not, Warner, what I suffer.’ Poor soul! I do
know; but her fretting will never cure her grievance; and after all;
you will acknowledge, Madam, that her complaint does not shorten life.
To be sure, the unlucky blow she received when getting to her room, in
the confusion which followed Miss Howard’s fainting, has not mended
matters; but time and patience may; and if she would be governed by
me, and leave off that pernicious rum and water, she might get better;
but between ourselves she yields more and more to the habit, and that
only inflames the wound, and she suffers what would kill a horse.” “She
is happy at least in having so faithful a domestic as yourself near
her,” observed Mrs. Allen. “I believe she thinks so,” answered the good
creature, “for although she is an odd woman, and commonly thought a
very bad tempered one, I have found her generous to me. She has been
a disappointed woman too that is certain; but I soon discovered that
she knew who did their duty; and as I faithfully performed mine in the
hope of being approved by a master, who knows no distinctions with his
servants. I have neither feared her nor flattered her; my character
will always support me; for I never lived but at the hall and with one
other family, where I am sure of favour whenever I ask it. Sixteen
years spent with lady Grenville will get me a place any hour of the
day, though she is in her grave.” Warner yielded to her gratitude and
affection, and the conversation, finished with the character of this
lady. Adieu my friend! my sister! judge of my affection by that which
thou cherishest for thy

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.




                               CHAP. II.


                             LETTER XXXIV.

                      _From the same to the same._

Believe me, my dear friend, the slight indisposition which that Chit
Alien has magnified into a dangerous fever, was shorter in duration
than the alarm she so incautiously produced at Heathcot. It is true
that, in order to please Lady Maclairn and to satisfy my nurse, I
submitted to the penance of keeping my bed for two days and have for
some days since, been pent up in my own apartment. It does youth and
vigour no harm, to have from time to time such gentle lessons as the
one I have been taught, of the fallacy and fragility of life; but with
the cordials of kindness and attention which I have received, the
only remaining doubt is whether I shall think of it to any purpose.
Sir Murdoch, my first physician at present, or rather my only one, is
accused of being like too many of his medical brethren, unwilling to
pronounce the patient well, from his relish of his fee. But this is
pure malice; and a scandal fabricated by Mrs. Heartley, out of revenge;
because he preferred sharing with me a new book, to dining with her;
alleging also, that as she had allured my nurse from her charge, it
behoved him to watch me. You will do wisely, my dear Lucy, to consider
the danger of this tremendous fever, during which Mrs. Allen leaves me
to amuse herself. But these romantic girls! they so dearly love the
pathetic, that they are never to be trusted with a plain tale. Now I,
being a mere matter of fact correspondent; and who, in two lines, had I
been permitted, would have told you that I had got a severe cold; now
as frankly avow, that I have had a fever-fit, to the full as _pathetic_
as any which Allen’s imagination pictured to you. But as it happens to
be one of that sort which is contagious, I beg you to be prepared for
a quick pulse, and an aching head, on perusing the enclosed narration.
I have paid the tribute; and have calmed my spirits, by writing to my
Horace. Adieu, _pour le présent_.

                          (_In Continuation_)

When Mrs. Allen left me, for her walk and her day’s holiday, Sir
Murdoch took his seat opposite to me. I was making some artificial
flowers for Lady Maclairn’s vases. The baronet was amused by seeing
me, as he said “rival Flora;” and we chatted some little time over the
work. At length his silence to a question of mine diverted my attention
from my employment, and looking at him, I found he was fallen into one
of his absent fits, and as usual, had his eyes fixed on me, with that
expression of sadness so peculiarly touching. “Come, my good friend,”
said I with cheerfulness, “do not suppose I shall permit you to be
idle; either take up the book, or wind this skain of silk for me.” He
smiled and took the silk. “Take heed you do not entangle it,” said I,
assisting for a moment in the operation, “it is wofully ruffled.” “It
resembles more closely,” replied he calmly, and proceeding cautiously
in his task, “the web of my thoughts which you interrupted.” But I had
found the clue, that had made all smooth within, and with patience I
shall succeed in _this_ business.

“I was thinking, my dear Miss Cowley,” continued he, “when you called
me to order, of those means which Providence employs for its gracious
purposes of mercy and deliverance, to beings like ourselves, who
in the imperfect state in which we are placed, with all the reason
of which so many boast, neither can provide for our own good, nor
prevent a future evil: I was tracing the chain of events which in
their consequences were appointed to heal my wounded mind, and with
these considerations, entered the sense of my own short-sightedness,
and opposition to the intended remedy; my repugnance to Mr. Flamall’s
offers of placing you here; the dread of seeing you; and the painful
struggles I had in conquering my aversion to the journey to town. As
these circumstances arose to my memory, I experienced the truth and
vexation they had caused me; and I doubt not my countenance indicated
to you that I was disturbed. But what will you think when I tell you,
that the first view of you was to me accompanied with an anguish of
soul unutterable, and which it makes me faint even to think of? Yet,
my dear Miss Cowley, you were the angel of mercy sent to heal me, you
spoke, you smiled, I heard your voice, the storm of conflicting sorrows
was hushed, my soul was entranced in bliss; for I imagined that I saw
before me my sainted Matilda. This lady was my early love, my affianced
wife, the pride, the glory of my race! the object with which my life,
my honour, and my affection were inseparably connected! Listen to
me,” added he with solemnity, observing that I was disturbed, “your
influence over me has not been effected by your attractive beauty:
neither your understanding, your native cheerfulness, nor your tender
compassion, would have reached my torpid heart and extinguished
sensations. It was your resemblance to his portrait, Miss Cowley, that
burst asunder the chains which had weighed me down, and that spoke
peace to my harassed spirit.” He drew from his bosom the miniature
picture of a young lady; and presenting it to me added, that his wife
had been surprised by my striking likeness to it. The painting was
enamelled and highly finished; and the face was, to speak frankly,
lovely. “I am disqualified for a judge,” said I, examining it; “were
it less beautiful, I might allow my vanity indulgence, and honestly
confess, that, I think it does resemble a miniature of me, drawn when
last I was in London, for a friend; but this lady was a much fairer
woman than I am.” “Not as she appeared when I knew her,” answered he,
replacing the picture; “health and exercise had given such tints to
her complexion as no colours I could employ were able to reach. How
many times have I had reason to regret the attainment which gave to my
aching eyes this faint memorial of her charms! Every time I surveyed
this picture was a moment placed to the account of misery, till I saw
you: but now it is my consolation to compare its features with yours.
I know what you think, but in pity to my infirmity suffer me to enjoy
the delusion, which lulls me to repose. You have no parents living. Let
me call you _daughter_. Such, had heaven permitted our union, would
have been Matilda’s child; such, the image of herself, might she have
bequeathed me, had”--He could not proceed; but bursting into tears he
covered his face. “Call me by any title that pleases you,” said I;
“none that you will give me can express more reverence and esteem than
I have for you. But to render your daughter happy, you must be less
susceptible to impressions so unfriendly to your health and comforts.”
“They have ceased to be afflictive,” answered he; “for I can now say
with Job, ‘My sorrows came in upon me as a wide breaking in of waters;
in the desolation they rolled themselves upon me; but my deliverer
was at my right hand to save me.’ His arm of mercy has been stretched
out for me also, and ‘I will praise him whilst I have my being.’ But
let me tell _my child_ her _father’s_ story,” added he pensively
smiling.--“Another time,” replied I, “will be better for us both.” “Do
you think so?” answered he with a sigh, “then it shall be so; but I
should like you to know the man before you, and whom you permit to call
you _daughter_. It would relieve my mind to give you a portion of its
burden.” I could not refuse this appeal, and he proceeded.


                    HISTORY OF THE MACLAIRN FAMILY.

“My father,” said Sir Murdoch, “was one of those men who could not
abandon their unfortunate monarch in the year 1715, and he was one also
of that faithful band who saw their own ruin in the fall of the Stuart
line.

“He fled to France, after every hope was lost, and there he entered
into a regiment chiefly composed of men like himself, and whose loyalty
and courage have well recompensed the country which then sheltered and
fed them. With the rank of captain, and an unsullied name, he soon
after married a young lady, whose fortune was similar to his own. Her
father was major in the same corps; but unable to bear the reverse of
fortune, or borne down by the fatigues he had encountered in the royal
cause, he died, and left his daughter to a Maclairn”--Sir Murdoch rose,
and paced the room--“I was the only fruit of this marriage,” resumed
he; “my mother I do not remember, for I was only three years old when
my father lost this prop of his earthly comforts; but he taught me to
revere her name.

“During the contest for dominion, to which I have already alluded, my
uncle, Sir Alexander Maclairn, had with more prudence than _honour_,
according to the opinion of the adherents to the unhappy Charles,
remained for a time inactive, and at length declared himself openly
the friend of the established government; but neither his zeal nor his
services were further recompensed than by leaving him to the peaceable
enjoyment of the wreck of the once prosperous fortune of his ancestors;
namely, a castle falling to decay, and the remnant of the estate
burdened with a heavy mortgage.

“Time had given stability to the British monarch; and my uncle,
desirous of seeing a brother whom he loved and secretly reverenced,
employed such means as were necessary to restore my father to his
native rocks with security. This intelligence was communicated to him,
when I had just reached my nineteenth year, and Sir Alexander, with
every argument that affection could suggest, finished his intreaties by
reminding my father of his age and infirmities; and the duty they were
mutually bound to perform before death closed their eyes. ‘All that
remains of our name,’ added he, ‘is in our children. My Matilda shall
never lose the title of Maclairn; from her cradle she has been taught
to love her cousin, and to your Murdoch do I look for a renovation of
that race which it is your duty to perpetuate. Remember that these
children are the last hope of an ancient and honourable house, which
even in the obscurity of a sunken fortune will retain its place in
the annals of true glory; for its sons were brave and its daughters
virtuous.’ He blessed Providence for its interposition, which had
opened his eyes to the folly and madness which the prince’s adherents
had fallen into, in their attempts to reinstate the proscribed Stuarts;
‘and I now bless heaven,’ added he, ‘that by my moderation I have
preserved an asylum for you and a home for our children.’

“My father, disgusted with a foreign service, and languishing to
behold his native country, eagerly embraced my uncle’s offers. He had
long before this event determined that my path in life should not be
that of a soldier, and he had with extreme caution repressed in me
his own military spirit. I was educated by a Scotchman who had once
been a minister of that Master whose religion is _peace_; my leisure
hours were filled up by studies of retired ease and tranquillity; and
painting and music were familiar to me.

“We were received by my uncle with unaffected joy; and welcomed by a
few faithful adherents to our family with those genuine demonstrations
of good will and attachment so congenial to the noble and uncorrupted
Highlanders. On beholding my cousin Matilda, I blushed as deeply from
the consciousness of what had passed in my mind in relation to her,
as from surprise on beholding this ‘rustic’ cousin embellished with
all the graces of youth, beauty, and artless manners; and when with
ingenuous simplicity she offered me her glowing cheek, her eyes beaming
with joy and kindness, I felt that I was unworthy of her goodness. A
few months were given to the domestic comforts of my uncle and father,
and apparently for the purpose of rivetting my chains. My assiduities
met with no check; and ‘_our children_’ was the common epithet my
uncle employed in speaking of us. A more explicit avowal of his wishes
followed; and in this conversation Sir Alexander candidly acknowledged
that he was under pecuniary difficulties, and unable to establish me in
life without some exertions on my part. My father, without knowing the
pressure of his brother’s difficulties in their full extent, not only
saw the expediency, but the utility of my being employed, and he sent
me to Aberdeen to study the civil law. During a year, which was thus
passed without profit to me but as it led me to a further knowledge
of the mathematics, my uncle had gained on my father to listen to
his darling project as well as my own; and being offered for me an
ensigncy in a regiment destined for Minorca, he gained his point, and
I escaped from a pursuit I detested, that of the law. An additional
debt was cheerfully incurred on the Maclairn’s impoverished acres. My
separation from Matilda was softened to me by her father’s last words:
‘Have ever before you this recompense,’ said he, placing at the same
time Matilda’s hand in mine; ‘she will be always a _Maclairn_. Do you
so conduct yourself as to return to us worthy of the name.’ You will
imagine, that my martial spirit was sunk when I received her embrace,
and my poor father’s blessing: I will not be tedious. During my three
years’ station at Minorca, I rose to the rank of lieutenant, and
lost my father. From that period the cloud of adversity became more
portentous. I was frustrated in my expectations of returning home, and
receiving the reward I had so arduously strove to merit. But my uncle’s
ambition had been roused by the partiality of my friends, and he
contrived to promote me at the expence of my happiness. I exchanged my
post and regiment for one at Gibraltar, in which I ranked as captain.
This disappointment of my hopes deeply affected my spirits, and
Matilda had apparently shared with me in this trial of our patience.
Her letters were more tender than cheerful, and she commonly finished
by reminding me of her determined faith and unutterable affection.
Gracious God! my trust in thy power was not more solid than my faith in
Matilda’s truth!

“In the last letter she wrote me, and which is engraven on my memory,
she finished _thus_:--‘It soothes my depressed spirits, to call thee my
wedded lord, and to sign myself thy wife. Are we not one, my Maclairn,
in the sight of that Being who has witnessed our vows of truth, of
honourable love? Are we not one, though seas and lands part us? Yes,
and though worlds should interpose to divide us, we shall meet and be
united as kindred spirits, as _one_, in the blessed state of perfect
happiness, of permanent felicity. There at least will thy Matilda
meet thee, and there will her Maclairn be comforted for his present
disappointments.’

“Alas! Miss Cowley, the cloud had burst on my devoted head at the very
moment I was unconsciously weeping over this letter, as the precious
proof of my security; though it was also as painful a proof of the
state of Matilda’s spirits. The indolence and pusillanimity of Sir
Alexander Maclairn had always been leading traits in his character;
these, with other circumstances, had placed him in the power of
_a man_, who hated him, merely because his grandfather had served
Sir Alexander’s in a menial station. Industry had made this man’s
successors wealthy; and my uncle had, in his difficulties, applied to
their more fortunate heir than himself, for money so repeatedly, that
he was little more than the ostensible proprietor of his inheritance.
His wary and greedy creditor had changed his tone; and frequent hints
of the necessity of foreclosing the mortgage, unless my uncle could
be more punctual in paying his stipulated interest, were, from time
to time, thrown out with increasing seriousness and harshness. In a
dilemma of this kind, the laird of Maclairn Castle received a visit
from his importunate neighbour, who introduced with much ceremony his
only child, a young man, who had lived chiefly in the South with a
rich tradesman, his uncle. Hospitality, as much as policy, induced my
uncle to welcome the stranger; and the young man repeated his visit.
The sight of my beauteous Matilda effected more; he became enamoured,
and made his father his confidant. Secure of the estate, he now aspired
to the daughter of _a Maclairn_, and without loss of time he proposed
an alliance, which at once, as he observed, would settle all accounts
between himself and Sir Alexander; his son not desiring a shilling
with his daughter; and he added, that he would cancel every mortgage
and bond on the day of their marriage. The weak old man listened to
this infamous proposal; and Matilda received her father’s commands
to be favourable to her generous suitor. I will not detail to you
the persecutions which resulted from her firm refusal. The lover’s
father, irritated by her _obstinacy_, as he termed her _fortitude_,
gave Sir Alexander to understand that he saw through the collusion, and
that his daughter was taught her part by himself, in order to evade a
connexion which his pride could not brook. Menaces followed; and he
quitted the house, swearing that Sir Alexander should be roofless in
a month. Intimidated by a threat which he well knew this man could
effect, he became desperate in the means of avoiding it. The day of
marriage was fixed, and Matilda was summoned from her prison chamber,
to hear her fate from her father. She expostulated; he was deaf: she
reminded him of his engagements with me; he sternly answered that she
should not be a beggar; nor would he live to want bread; and bade her
begone. ‘Bless me before I go,’ said she, meekly kneeling, ‘send to me
repose with a father’s love.’ The wretched parent, a stranger to the
calmness of despair when at its climax, and viewing her tearless eye
and collected features through the medium of his own wishes, raised her
with transports of joy from her suppliant posture, and pouring out his
fervent benedictions on her, he advised her to return to her apartment
and compose her mind for the reception of her future husband and his
father, who would, in the evening, convince her of the value they set
on the alliance. She replied that she preferred a walk in the garden,
and withdrew.”--Sir Murdoch paused; he fixed his eyes on my face; they
seemed covered with a dreadful film; he breathed short, and trembled as
in an ague fit.--“For heaven’s sake,” exclaimed I, terrified, “let me
give you something; you are ill.”--He heard me not.--“Yes,” said he,
with a suppressed and tremulous voice, “she withdrew! and whither?--to
the arms of mercy! Yes, she withdrew from opposition, from cruelty, to
the bosom of her Redeemer! There was none to succour! none to help!
When discovered, her vermilion cheek was pale! her eyes were closed!
her beautiful tresses were mixed with the dank and filthy weeds of the
stagnated pool! But her pure and unsullied soul had escaped pollution!”

“My dear Sir Murdoch,” said I, “you distress me; for pity’s sake, say
no more. Let me call Lady Maclairn, indeed you grieve me, I cannot bear
it.” “Then how should I?” answered he; “yet I have survived her!”--He
wiped away the tears which relieved him, and with more composure added,
“be not alarmed, I am myself, and patient. My uncle,” continued he,
“lived only three weeks after this event. The destined bridegroom left
the Highlands, and soon after died in his passage to the West Indies.
His father was, I believe, consoled by adding Maclairn Castle and its
impoverished demesnes to his possessions. I had, on quitting Scotland,
taken with me as a domestic, my Matilda’s foster brother. His sister,
something older than himself, had been her favourite attendant; and
the poor girl in the hour of this distress committed to Wallace the
care of preparing me for this intelligence; advising him to chuse one
of my friends for an office which she foresaw he would be unequal
to. It appeared that the angel had preconcerted her design, before
she attended her father’s summons; she had affixed to my picture a
scrap of paper, and placed them in Jenny’s prayer book. This precious
evidence of her love and truth was inclosed in Jenny’s letter to her
brother; and contained these words: ‘I die, a Maclairn; and Maclairn’s
affianced, faithful Matilda.’ The poor fellow, unable to stand the
shock himself, rushed from the house with this fatal letter in his
hand; and under such perturbation of mind that he had neither taken
his hat, nor perceived that this slip of paper had escaped him. He
sought my most intimate friend; and with agonies of grief implored
his aid. In this interval of time, I, finding the summons of my bell
unanswered, repaired to the room which Wallace occupied, and finding
on his table the implements of writing, which I wanted, I sat down to
write a card. Judging that he was not far remote, from seeing his hat;
I moved it for my convenience. The note appeared! I will spare you,
my child. Let it suffice, my friend and Wallace found me senseless. A
raging fever succeeded. To this were opposed the cares of my friends,
and a constitution never abused; but I was reduced to the state of an
idiot; and as such, unconsciously embarked for England with my faithful
Wallace, as unfit for the service, and from the hopes entertained of
the change of climate and sea-air. He conducted me to his father’s
cottage; it was rich in nothing but fidelity and humanity; but in
these, great Giver of all good! how liberal had been thy donation! Here
the wretched Maclairn was received; and recovered his strength of
body, and the faculty of knowing his misery. I sold my commission, paid
my debts; and without a thought beyond my Matilda’s grave, I laboured
with my hosts for the bread we shared. Wallace, with patient love and
unexampled attachment, had watched over my _despair_, my _feebleness_,
my now _settled melancholy_. At length, he hazarded to speak of the
recent rupture with our American colonies, and with a soldier’s spirit
he infused into my heart the wish of dying like one. I had still
two or three hundred pounds left, and determined in my design, and
apparently governed by his arguments to shake off the indolence which
was destroying my life and my honour, I took the road he pointed out.
On reaching London, Wallace soon established his claims to favour; and
he embarked for America as serjeant with the first troops destined to
subdue the malcontents of that country. My friends, advised me to wait
for the result of their efforts in my favour, not thinking that I could
with propriety serve in a subordinate rank to the one I had filled
and quitted without disgrace. I consented; and took up my temporary
residence in a lodging at Kensington-gravel-pits.”




                               CHAP. III.


                              LETTER XXXV.

“In this house I first met my Harriet. Her attractions were of a kind
to engage my attention; for, like myself, she appeared to be the
child of sorrow; and it was not difficult to discover that she was of
a different order of beings from those who were with her. Her meek
and pensive form, her tenderness to her infant, her courteous and
unaffected manners when chance threw me in her way, soon produced their
effects, and I insensibly forgot my usual train of thoughts in watching
the hour for her appearing in our little garden with her nursling. She
became interested for a man who, at this period, was again the prey of
grief. I had intelligence of the death of my friend Wallace, who fell
as honourably as he had lived. Her pity, her gentle soothings, drew
from my overcharged bosom the whole tale of my woes. She wept, Miss
Cowley; and told me that she also had known the pangs of _severed love_
and _blasted hope_. Thus were our hearts cemented!

“For a time our union was opposed by her brother. I was poor; and in
avowing my poverty Mr. Flamall perceived that I was proud. Miss Flint
employed her influence in favour of Harriet’s wishes; and on giving up
my solicitations at the war office, our marriage took place without
further opposition. My wife mentioned to me a promise she had made
to Miss Flint, in consequence of her good offices with Mr. Flamall;
and expatiating on her sister’s, (as she styled her daughter in law,)
fondness for her infant brother, she timidly proposed to me the
plan of residing with Miss Flint at Tarefield Hall. I saw the mother
in this arrangement; and I admitted the plea. Harriet was pleased,
and Miss Flint was contented. On arriving here I found that every
attention had been paid for securing my domestic comforts. Apartments
were prepared for our exclusive use; and to do justice to Miss Flint,
her conduct was at this period both discreet and generous. But my
character was determined. I had found tranquillity: I had gained a
heart on which to repose: my wife was my asylum from care; but I had
no relish for joy: society was distasteful to me, and the common
amusements of life were irksome and fatiguing. My Harriet, the kind
and guardian angel that heaven had bestowed on me, convinced me that
we were formed for each other. My tastes were hers, my comforts hers,
and retirement was necessary to her happiness. I saw with contentment
Miss Flint’s increasing attachment to the little Philip: she was
continually engaged in the nursery with him; and there appeared a
perfectly good understanding established in our family. But this
season of tranquillity was not permitted to be permanent. The birth of
Malcolm, an event which had opened once more my mind to the sensations
of joy, was marked for a source of petty discontents, and officious
intrusions. Mr. Flamall’s visits to the Hall became more frequent, and
his stay longer. Lucretia, as my gentle Harriet told me with a languid
smile, was jealous of the little stranger, and feared that she should
love him. For a time this passed, but abstracted as I was in myself,
and disposed as I had always been, to reserve with Mr. Flamall, I
discovered that his presence was the signal for Harriet’s depressed
spirits and Miss Flint’s peevishness. Struck from time to time by the
insolent authority he held in the family, and the power he exercised
over a woman impatient of the slightest contradiction from others, I
was led to conclusions which could alone solve the difficulty; and
I foresaw that the time was not remote when Miss Flint would have a
tyrant legally authorized to be the despot at Tarefield. I mentioned my
opinion to my wife; she acknowledged that she believed Lucretia loved
her brother, but that she still loved her independence better; and the
struggle, added she, has been for so long a time so equally maintained,
that I think her temper and his own have gained nothing in the contest.
He has, however, succeeded in gaining her confidence, by his zeal and
knowledge in her business, and his partiality for her darling boy has
confirmed in her a respect for his talents.

“Satisfied at length, that my temper would not conform to Mr. Flamall’s
growing influence, I determined on my measures of prudence; and
mentioned to my wife my wish of residing in France, and particularly
at Nismes, on account of the air, and from motives of economy. She
cheerfully acceded to the proposal, and from that time became my pupil
in the language of the country, rapidly recovering her school knowledge
of it, and with improvement. But when my intention was declared to Miss
Flint, my wife had to sustain a difficult part: prayers, reproaches,
sullenness, and tears were employed to divert her from her compliance
with my wishes and plan. She was firm, and steadily urged, that my
health and spirits were objects which she could not, nor would not
attempt to impede. Mr. Flamall was summoned from town, to assist in
subduing Harriet’s resolution. She referred him to me, and with all
that poor and contemptible _cunning_ which he calls _address_, he
began his attack. He wondered what could have led me to the design of
quitting a situation so convenient to my finances, and so congenial to
my love of retirement. I answered with my usual reserve, that I had
maturely deliberated on my plan, and should adhere to it. ‘You have
been _teased_ into it,’ answered he, ‘by Harriet’s silly complaints of
the temper of Miss Flint. I think she has been wrong, for she has known
her long enough not to mind the submissions she exacts from every one
in her way.’ ‘Lady Maclairn has been hitherto silent with me on this
point,’ answered I; ‘but I thank you for having given me an additional
motive for leaving Tarefield. My wife shall not submit to the caprice
or tyranny of any one whilst I can prevent her degradation.’ He
coloured. ‘I perceive none in her conduct,’ replied he, ‘that is not
enforced by her duty, as the mother of a child who has no father at
hand to protect him. If she complies with the inequalities of this
woman’s temper, she will be well paid for her trouble; and I do not
see how she can reconcile herself to her duty to her son Philip, by
sacrificing his future expectations for an uncertain experiment. If
she leave Philip with Miss Flint, her weak fondness will be his ruin;
if she remove him, it is ten to one but that in a few months his place
in her heart will be filled up by a new favourite; and she will hate
him with the same fervour with which she at present conceives that his
society is requisite to the preservation of her life.’ ‘He must take
his chance, in this predicament,’ replied I; ‘and of two evils his
mother will chuse the _least_. He will be rendered virtuous, I trust,
by our cares, and he will escape the humiliating conditions annexed to
dependence and expectations. I have no doubt of his mother’s choice,
nor will Miss Flint’s fortune tempt her to leave her child to another’s
care.’ He made no reply, and we parted. From this ineffectual trial
of his eloquence, Mr. Flamall seemed convinced that I was not to be
managed: he spoke no more on the subject. I had in the mean time, as
I believed, silenced many of Miss Flint’s fears. I had engaged to
return in three years on a visit to Tarefield; and soothed her with
the prospect of Philip’s improvement, promising to be his tutor. She
seemed to consider our departure as inevitable; and to experience the
necessity of submitting with a good grace to a privation which she
could not prevent. The first week in October was fixed for our leaving
Tarefield; and September was given to our necessary preparations, and
Lucretia’s consolation.”

Sir Murdoch paused for some moments: at length resuming his narrative,
he said, “I am not quite certain, that what I have further to say
is strictly conformable with my own notions of honour, or with that
justice which is prescribed by our religion. My mind is prejudiced;
my suspicions rest on conjectural ground; and you must listen to what
follows with caution and candour. Believe, if it be possible, that
my infirmity of mind has raised up the hideous spectre I am about
to present to your eyes, and call it by any name but Flamall’s”--He
spoke with emotion, and wiped the faint dew from his forehead. “One
evening in the early part of September,” continued Sir Murdoch, “we
were summoned from the avenue by the servant, who said that supper was
served, and Mr. Flamall waiting for our return. I had, in conformity
with Harriet’s wishes, given more of my time than usual to Miss Flint,
who had appeared sensible of my consideration. She pressed me to sup
with her, and with good nature added, ‘you will find your favourite
ragout, which I ordered expressly for you.’ I made no objections; and
we entered the dining-room. Flamall was sitting at the spread table,
reading a newspaper. ‘I thought,’ said he, throwing it aside, ‘that
I was doomed to sup solus; all has been waiting here these twenty
minutes, and must now be cold.’ ‘Whose fault was that?’ replied Miss
Flint, taking her station. ‘If you had not given _your orders_, the
cook would have waited _for mine_.’ ‘I was half famished,’ answered
he, ‘and a hungry man is not observant of ceremony.’ During this
observation he helped himself to the ragout of mushrooms, which stood
at his hand, and with the eagerness of a keen appetite tasted them;
when abruptly retiring to the side-board he regorged what he had taken,
rinsed his mouth several times, and then swore, that one dish at least
was hot enough for the devil himself. Knowing his aversion to spice,
and particularly to Cayenne pepper, I was not disposed to condemn the
cook, or to reject the mushrooms on his evidence; I therefore exchanged
dishes with him, and helped myself to the reprobated mushrooms, and
finding them seasoned to my palate, I ate some. He observed me, and
remarked that he was astonished to see me relish so infernal a cookery.
‘They are rather overdone,’ said I, crossing my knife and fork, and
asking for beer; ‘but I have not yet done with them.’ The awkwardness
of the servant, or my haste, so managed the business, that the glass of
beer fell, inundated my plate, and was shivered in a number of pieces
among the mushrooms. Flamall cursed the servant; and my wife said she
was glad of the disappointment I had received; for that she had been
told, that in the great number of mushrooms apparently alike, there was
only one sort wholesome. Order, however, was restored, and the spirit
of contradiction gave place to more cheerful conversation.

“In the night I was suddenly seized with a violent pain and a severe
nausea, which was somewhat relieved by warm water; languor and
stupefaction succeeded to this effort of nature, and when the physician
saw me, he pronounced my life doubtful, and called the malady a _putrid
fever_. I was tempted to declare _my opinion of the disease_ for I had
heard _his_; but my wife was at my pillow. I soon became unconscious
of my condition; _memory closed its records_.

“I will not attempt to describe to you, the sensations which assailed
me, when I first recollected my wife. A sense of my own danger and of
her protection were at once so blended that I could not for a moment
support her absence. I was still persuaded that I had been poisoned;
but my imagination had given a new form to Flamall. I thought it was
a fiend invisible to all eyes but mine, and who watched to destroy my
wife and child. His voice was for ever ringing in my ears--‘They die
if you discover me!’ But let me quit a subject which unmans me, and
afflicts you. Well might I have said, ‘my kinsfolks have failed, and my
familiar friends have forgotten me; they that dwell in mine house, and
my maids, count me a stranger. I called my servant, and he gave me no
answer.’ One being only filled up this void, and that was _my Harriet_!
Soothed by her gentleness, supported by her presence, my apartment
was my world; and the horrors which had encompassed me gave place to
passive quietness and transient pleasure, for my son Malcolm amused me.
My recovery was slow and gradual; but in proportion as my reason gained
strength, and my health was renewed, I experienced the painful sense
of a mind conscious of its lost energies; and I considered myself as a
subject for unfeeling curiosity, rather than for respect or usefulness.
I shuddered with dread at the thoughts of being seen, and _for a time,
no persuasion_ could allure me into the garden. When, at length, I had
in some degree recovered from this despondency, I listened with more
docility to my wife’s tender entreaties, and by degrees the garden
became the boundary of my voluntary prison. Mr. Flamall’s proposal of
placing you here produced another change in my mind, for it roused in
me a sense of injuries, and a resentment which bespoke a mind once more
alive to its original character. I _will_ leave England, said I to
Malcolm, with an energy which astonished him. I will have no concerns
with Mr. Flamall. His very name is abhorrent to my ears. _He is a
villain!_ I checked myself; and Malcolm, to my surprise, said with
calmness, ‘I have long known him as one. But if _Maclairn_ can prevent
the mischief he is now meditating, will he not exert his prerogative?
My father is made for the agent of Providence in the cause of the
oppressed.’ He proceeded to inform me of the circumstances relative to
you, which had reached him by means of a young friend. The result of
this conversation you know. I was resolved to receive you, to guard you
from a less eligible situation, and in a word to shelter innocence, as
securely as I could, from the machinations of a man, who I have reason
to believe to be as cruel as he is artful and designing. Deprived
as you are, my dear young lady,” continued the worthy creature, “of
those pleasures which youth demands, and of the society of your early
friends, yet, believe me, you are not without a guardian here: my arm,
were it necessary, should protect you; and in a just cause, it would
yet be found a _Maclairn’s_.” His dark blue eyes were again fixed on my
face, but with what expression!--“Not even my Harriet’s claims,” added
he, “would restrain my vengeance, were my Matilda’s image insulted.”

“I neither fear Mr. Flamall’s power, nor have I submitted to his
authority,” replied I, “in choosing to withdraw from my friend Mr.
Hardcastle’s house.” My heart was on my lips, Lucy, and I briefly
related to him my motives. “But,” continued I, “little did I expect to
find a parent in any abode appointed by such a miscreant as Flamall.
I joyfully accept of the endearing title you offer: call me your
child, your daughter: your affection shall be returned in acts of
duty and reverence.” “And when you forsake us,” said he, relapsing
into pensiveness, “what are we to do?” “To rejoice in my happiness,”
answered I, “to solace your declining years with your Malcolm’s
children and mine; to live an evidence of that truth which promises
peace to the virtuous man, both _here_ and _hereafter_.”--“It is her
blessed spirit which speaks,” said he.--“I will not permit you, my dear
father,” answered I, “to indulge in this enthusiasm; let us call a new
subject.” “I will obey you,” replied he, “after one question. Tell me,
has it not been a matter of surprise to you, as well as of curiosity,
to see my wife so much influenced and attached to Miss Flint?” “Yes,”
replied I with firmness; “but your story has solved the enigma; Lady
Maclairn knows that her brother has been, and may be still dear to this
woman, and the sister’s humanity wishes to repair the mischief which
the brother’s infidelity has made.” He looked pleased. “It may be so,”
observed he, “for I know her principles.” His wife at this instant
entered, and with assumed gaiety I told her, that I had been making my
confession to Sir Murdoch, in return for his adopting me as a daughter.
She smiled, and answered that she hoped I was also disposed to receive
her as a mother. I gave her my hand, but added, “Will you be indulgent?
Will you, like my father, permit me to love the man whom my heart and
my understanding have prefered? On no other condition will I promise
to be your _dutiful daughter_.” “Receive the blessing on any terms, my
dear Harriet,” said the baronet, pressing our hands in his; “she has
already shed peace into my bosom, and hope and comfort into yours.”
Lady Maclairn made no other reply, than that of hiding her face in my
bosom, and weeping.

Again, Lucy, do I repeat for the thousandth time, that _all is not
genuine in this woman’s conduct_. There is a _something_ which
pervades and obstructs the display of those feelings which nature
has bestowed on her, as intended blessings to herself and others,
and with which she appears perpetually to struggle. At one moment
her heart seems to be on her very lips with me; at another, she is
silent, and as though intimidated by my presence. Sometimes I fancy
my frankness is obtrusive, and my manners too unceremonious. I become
more attentive, and she appears serious and more pensive, and anxiously
inquires whether I am displeased with her. My answer dissipates the
apprehension; cheerfulness returns, till some unguarded expression,
some casual incident, again impedes my access to her heart. I think,
Lucy, that she would not be a sufferer were she to trust me: I am
certain that my compassion is now the most active of my feelings. She
imagines, perhaps, that I think her a sharer in her brother’s plots and
contrivances; but she is mistaken, for I know that she has detested
him from the hour he proposed sending her husband to a mad-house; and
I am assured, that she has not the most remote suspicion of his having
in any way been accessary to Sir Murdoch’s illness; for she has more
than once told me, that his complaint came on as gradually as it has
disappeared, and originated in the catastrophe of his cousin’s death.
I must finish this subject. Mrs. Allen assures you that Miss Cowley is
well, and that her nightly dreams are not disturbed by _scarlet fevers_.

Heaven bless you, and all I love at Heathcot!

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.


                             LETTER XXXVI.

                      _From the same to the same._

As you are become reasonable, Lucy, I will tell you that Doctor Douglas
is still of opinion, that I am better in the house than I should be
by another buffeting from the north wind, to which he principally
ascribes my late indisposition. My saline draughts, however, have now
given place to orange jelly, which, as it pleases the _pet_, Mrs.
Allen makes according to her recipe. She left me this morning to
replenish her store, and Mrs. Warner’s little parlour being convenient
for the purpose, the cookery was done there; the kind hearted Mrs.
Warner aiding and assisting. “I wish,” said she, “I could persuade my
lady to exchange her taste for rum and water, for this pleasant and
refreshing jelly; I am sure it would be better for her: she is in a
constant fever; and what with her poor leg, and her fretting, she is
hourly sinking.” Mrs. Allen expressed her concern. “You would indeed
pity her,” replied Warner, “if you knew all: she is, at times, the most
miserable creature in the world; and between ourselves, I think she is
losing her senses. That was _a warning voice_, Mrs. Allen, that reached
her from the poor captain, the last time he was in this house, or I
am much mistaken. I have heard that Miss Flint was very unkind to her
sister, Mrs. Howard, and the captain roused her _sleeping conscience_.
I have lived with her nine years, and I can safely say that she is a
changed woman in less than nine weeks. She has of late taken it into
her head to send me to bed before her, and I hear her for hours after
walking about her room. Within the last fortnight she has been writing
all day, and rummaging in her cabinet for letters, which she burns
by dozens: then again, her temper madam, is now quite altered; for I
do assure you she is as patient as a lamb! and if you could but see
her knee, you would never forget it. I am sure it makes me tremble to
see how she suffers.” “Why do you not persuade her to have more able
advice than her apothecary’s?” observed Mrs. Allen. “Bless you, my dear
madam!” replied she, “Lady Maclairn has almost on her bended knees
begged her to consult Doctor Douglas, with whom she is so pleased; but
she will not consent. She says, ‘Do not urge me; _you know, Harriet,
that no doctor can cure me_. I must bear with patience this visitation
of the Almighty,’ and then she weeps for hours.”

You know Mrs Allen, and you will not be surprised to hear that she has
seen the miserable invalid this morning; whom she found much more
changed than even Warner’s report had led her to expect. To-morrow
I am to dine with the Heartleys: my doctor is the promoter of this
enlargement, and will be here to see me properly equipped for the
coach. I mean to be docile, for I expected this morning that Mrs.
Patty, our maid, would have laid violent hands on me, for daring to
cross the hall without clogs and my shawl. Be cheerful, my Lucy. I have
to write to our Horace: and remember when you write from Heathcot, the
words of the poet: “Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.”
Not a word of my _dreadful scarlet fever_, He might fancy fiction were
truth, and that your Rachel Cowley had really been in danger of death,
and of thus cheating him _of a wife to rule_.

                       Your’s, as truly as _his_,

                                                              R. COWLEY.

P. S. The unavoidable delay of my friend’s dispatches permits me to
add to the bulk of my letter. Leaving to the lovers of the pathetic
and sublime at the abbey to describe my “secret interesting languor,”
and “fascinating” pale face, I shall simply tell you, that what with a
hearty dinner on Mrs. Wilson’s boiled fowls, and as hearty a welcome,
they sent me home with a different complexion, and as blythe as a bird.

On entering the parlour, we found Lady Maclairn alone; and for once
counterfeiting failed, for her eyes were swoln with weeping. Sir
Murdoch with tender alarm asked, “What had happened to distress
her.” “Wherefore do you ask that question, sir?” demanded Malcolm,
with emotion. “Is it not always from one and the same cause that my
mother stands indebted for her trials of patience?” “If you mean poor
Lucretia,” answered she with mildness, “you wrong her, at least on
this occasion, for I have scarcely seen her to-day: she was engaged
in writing. But what will you say, when I tell you that I have to
thank _Miss Cowley_ for my red eyes?” She smiled affectionately on
me, and added that I had left the new play of the _Stranger_ in her
way, “and if such be Kotsebue’s influence on the passions,” observed
she, “in a foreign garb, what must be the effect he produces in his
own language! I have been deeply interested in the piece.” “I lose my
patience continually,” replied I, “when I think of the hours of comfort
and amusement you give up to the silly resentment of an unreasonable
woman. Why do you not cease being a _stranger_ to your neighbours?
Mrs. Heartley is formed for your friend.” “I am never so happy, as
_at home_,” replied she, interrupting me. “I have my blessings under
this roof, habit has endeared it to me; and at present, Heaven be
praised! it is my own fault if I be not happy.” She fondly leaned on
her husband’s shoulder as she said this. Malcolm placing himself
in the vacant space on the other side on the sofa, observed, with
seriousness, that contentment, at least, was in her reach; for that Mr.
Wilson had secured the refusal of the _Wereland Farm;_ and could either
purchase the estate, or have it on a long lease. “I am rejoiced to hear
you are likely to succeed,” replied she, “for from your description
of its beauties it must be an enviable spot.” “To me it would be a
_paradise_ under any description,” replied the son, “could I promise
myself to see you and my father inmates with me there. A cottage with
mud walls and independence is all I wish.” “You are right, my dear
Malcolm,” answered she, with dignity. “But do not imagine your mother
is a slave beneath this roof. You give to the little vexations of my
life, much more importance than I do. Poor Lucretia may, it is true,
sometimes appear to you capricious and imposing, and thus disturb
the serenity you wish me; but I am weak whenever this happens, for I
know she loves me; and whilst she lives I shall never have a wish to
quit Tarefield.” “Would to God, then, she were dead!” said Malcolm.
“You would be more charitable,” answered she, mildly, “did you better
understand her present condition.” “Perhaps I might,” replied he, “and
wish her reformation, could I believe the Ethiopian could change his
skin.” “There needs no miracle to effect a reformation of our tempers,
Malcolm,” said she gravely; “the attempt is arduous, the path is
difficult which leads to repentance; but it is not inaccessible; and if
you knew the present difficulties of this poor woman, labouring under
sickness and dejection of mind, you would not wish that the only friend
she has _on earth_ should quit her.” Malcolm was silenced; and if such
be the motives of Lady Maclairn’s conduct _I_ ought to be silenced.

At supper Mrs. Allen joined us; she had prevailed on the invalid to
call in Doctor Douglass, who to-morrow is to meet her former physician,
_a Doctor Tufton_. Her account of Miss Flint softened the good Baronet;
but I perceived that Malcolm’s prejudices were unconquered. Mrs. Allen
tells me this woman is dreadfully ill; and suffers excruciating pain
from the tumour on her knee. Like Malcolm my hour of conversion is not
yet arrived; and if pain and sickness are necessary to her salvation,
why should I grieve? Yet one does not like to hear of remedies that are
worse than horse-whipping. Good night, my dear girl! Allen is weary,
and I am on my good behaviour still; for Douglass is offended by my
late hours; and swears he will write to Mr. Hardcastle and prevent
your letters, “tempting me to evil.” Tell Mary every one here loves
her, and that her sister boasts of her. You will add whatever will
content you to the name of

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

The reader is now to be informed that Miss Cowley’s pen was for more
than a month suspended by a visit which Miss Hardcastle and Miss Howard
made at the Abbey. The termination of Miss Cowley’s minority, as
settled by law, put her into possession of her grandmother’s fortune;
and counsellor Steadman was induced, partly with a view to that
business, and partly to consult his fair client in respect to a letter
written by Mr. Flamall on the subject of his nephew’s secret marriage,
to pay her a short visit. The young ladies were therefore conducted
by him to Mr. Wilson’s; and their escort home was the counsellor’s
friend, whose house at Bishop’s Auckland was his abode during his stay.

It appears that Mr. Flamall acknowledged that the restrictive clauses
in Mr. Cowley’s will relative to his daughter’s marrying M. Philip
Flint were rendered null and void by the impossibility of her acceding
to the conditions; but he insisted on his right to the exercise of his
office not only as this related to the management of her property, but
also to her choice of a husband. With many law arguments he proved that
Miss Cowley could not marry without his consent till she had attained
her twenty-fifth year, without incurring the disability declared in
her father’s will for her unconditional possession of his property.
“You, Sir,” continues he, “will, as a professional man, see, that,
were I more disposed than I am to forego a trust committed to me by a
friend whom I still revere, the law would oblige me to do my duty.
Were it not so, believe me I would cheerfully relinquish an office
which neither suits my health nor gratifies my feelings. I am not
ignorant of Miss Cowley’s unjust suspicions of my _honour_, nor of the
prejudicies she has infused into the minds of her friends. My conduct
shall be a full refutation of the charges she has brought against me;
charges which originated from the disappointment of her romantic views;
and from too implicit a confidence in those to whose care she had been
incautiously trusted.” He next entered into the detail of his nephew’s
ingratitude, &c. but as the reader is prepared for this subject and,
it may be, disposed in favour of youthful indiscretion, rather than
to sympathise in Mr. Flamal’s mortifications, I shall pass over this
part of the letter, which concludes with mentioning his intention of
conducting the two young Cowleys to England in the following spring,
in order to place them in a more suitable situation, than with their
mother, at Mr. Dalrymple’s.

Miss Cowley’s friends still adhered to their first opinion, and Mr.
Flamall was suffered to remain in his post without other marks of
distrust than such as the counsellor’s vigilance and the attention of
Miss Cowley’s friend, Mr. Oliver Flint, gave to his mode of conduct.
But Mr. Flamall wanted not for acuteness; and, foiled in his ambition,
he thought it prudent to secure a safe retreat. Fortunately for
himself, as well as for Miss Cowley’s interest, he found for once,
that “honesty was the best policy:” that by employing his talents
and his diligence for the benefit of the estates he might succeed in
gaining a good report, and the continuance of an employment which was
advantageous and respectable.

Sir Murdoch during this term of jubilee, as it might be called at
Tarefield, found other faces to admire as well as Miss Cowley’s. His
contentment rose to cheerfulness, and in the enjoyment of a society
whose attention and solicitude were given to please and amuse him, he
so entirely gained the advantage over his habits of retirement and his
dejection of mind, that in Miss Cowley’s words, “she had ceased to love
him, for he had the nerves and activity of a fox-hunter.” Miss Flint’s
declining health and spirits were the two ostensible apologies for Lady
Maclairn’s taking no part in these hours of cheerfulness and social
ease. She succeeded in her request that Miss Hardcastle would divide
her time between the Abbey and the Hall; and Lucy, with a candour
and gentleness so peculiarly her own, was not only charmed with her,
but with unceasing labour endeavoured to remove from her friend the
prejudices she entertained to her disadvantage. Mrs. Allen, ever on
the side of charity, took up Miss Hardcastle’s arguments; and Miss
Cowley, with her natural frankness, acknowledged that her being Mr.
Flamall’s sister might have biassed her judgment. Some steps were taken
to produce a reconciliation between the captain and Miss Flint: these
were made without his knowledge, for Miss Flint refused to see her
niece; and Lady Maclairn judged it improper to urge her request; as it
appeared the subject distressed her, and increased her melancholy.

The departure of the young ladies in the beginning of June, again
leaves me to my allotted task; and my readers to the gratification of
their curiosity.


                             LETTER XXXVII.

                 _From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

Be comforted, my dear girl. We are trying at the Abbey to forget you,
and to be contented with _every-day_ blessings. Mr. Hardcastle and
Mr. Sedley are now enjoying their holidays. And I hope that Mary’s
April face is exchanged for one which their kind greetings will render
cheerful. As you may both of you have some compunction hanging about
you, for having disturbed the tranquillity of Tarefield, I will inform
you, that fortune, liking Sir Murdoch’s holiday face better than that
of _Malvolio_, which, in the days of my folly, I wickedly gave him,
has by one of those freaks so common in her administration, produced a
letter, which has dissipated the gloom your absence caused, and he has
been laughing with me at the contents. Here followeth a copy for your
edification.


                            LETTER XXXVIII.

                  _To Lady Maclairn, from Mrs. Serge._

                                                   Putney, June the 9th.

“My dear cousin.”

This letter will surprise you I dare say; and, it may be, puzzle you,
unless you remember your giddy Lydia Hatchway; but old love with me
is not forgot, though so many years have passed since we last met.
However, I doubt not but as Mrs. Serge, you will still acknowledge
your former friend; and trusting to this hope, I sat down to inform
you of my intentions to renew the hintercourse so long interrupted by
various hevents. The bad state of health of my eldest girl have, for
a long time, been a great affliction to Mr. Serge as well as myself.
We have tried Bath, and consulted several doctors without gaining any
advantage. We are now advised by a very clever young man, whom my Jerry
meets frequently at his horacle’s, a Counsellor Steadman’s, to trust
to her youth and change of air; and it is determined that this summer
shall be given to journeying. Thank God, my Jerry is a hindependent
man, having given up business, with a very _heasy_ fortune, so we
have no cares about _hexpences_; but we have been for a time quite
undetermined in regard to the road we should take. I was for the
_tower_ of Norfolk; but I have been out-voted. My daughter Nora, who
has just left her school in ---- square, talkes much of the beauties
of _Vales_, and have bought a set of prints to shew us; but I am not
willing to leave England, and with a sick person it vould be very
improper to go to a place vhere the people do not understand English;
so Vales is out of the question. But Nora talks much, at present, of
some lakes in your part of the world, which it seems, are _wisited_
by every person of taste; and although I never heard of them before,
I am much inclined to indulge her with a sight of them, as I can, at
the same time, gratify my wish of seeing your ladyship. My husband
highly approve of this plan; but fear that you will not relish so many
_hintruders_, even for a night or two; but I tell him I am certain
you will welcome us as _hold_ friends if you can make it convenient
to lodge us. We shall travell slow, on account of Caroline and our
horses; and rest with you a day or two. You may expect to see us, bag
and baggage, about the end of this month; but I shall hope to hear from
you before we finally determine on our journey, and in case our wisit
suit you, will give you notice of our happroach before you see us. With
compliments to Sir Murdoch and Mr. Maclairn,

                                I remain
                  Your affectionate cousin and friend,

                                                            LYDIA SERGE.

_P.S._ We shall bring a maid with us. Counsellor Steadman assure my
Jerry that you will not find it difficult to provide for our horses.
We shall have six with us, besides the servants’, that run _hout_: my
husband is only afraid, that you will think we are taking a freedom
that may give not only trouble but offence; but I laugh at his
scruples; for you well know, I expect no ceremony, nor practice none
with those I love.

I have really, my dear Lucy, exerted my utmost skill, in copying Mrs.
Serge’s epistle _verbatim_; but I was never more convinced of the
truth contained in the wise man’s observation, “Train up a child in
the way he should go,” says the son of Sirach, “and when he is old he
will not depart from it.” My fingers and talents have been so long
cramped by my first spelling book, that I much doubt whether I have
done justice to Mrs. Serge’s orthography; but when she arrives I will
study her vocabulary, in order to prove to Mary that she has still to
learn a language which she may need without losing sight of British
land. With streaming eyes, for laughter has its tears, I “_himplored_”
Lady Maclairn to “_hadmit_” these guests. She did more than smile; for
laughing in her turn, she asked Sir Murdoch whether he was disposed
to indulge his daughter with the opportunity of acquiring a language,
which, with my gaiety, and its novelty, would render me irresistible.
He answered cheerfully that he had only one fear; and that was, lest
such an addition to her cares should be fatiguing to herself, and, it
might be, unpleasant to Miss Flint. “I have no apprehensions,” replied
she mildly: “as to Lucretia’s consent,” her features reassuming their
usual pensiveness, and that suspicion succeeding, which it has been
yours and Mrs. Allen’s labour to convince me proceeds from timidity
and delicate nerves; “I have no doubts of my sister Lucretia’s perfect
acquiescence,” added she; “and I confess it would gratify me to acquit
myself of a part of that debt of gratitude which I owe to this lady’s
aunt, who by her attentions and tender care of me, probably, saved
my life: her father and mother also were extremely kind to me when I
was with them, and, as was supposed, far gone in a decline.” “Then
lose no time, my Harriet,” answered the baronet, “in acquainting
her, that we shall receive them as friends; and that we will do all
we can do for the accommodation of _friends_.” She looked pleased,
but hesitated. “I have yet one point to settle before I determine,”
observed she. “Mr. Serge is a plain honest man; but he is little
acquainted with the usages of the world. His wife, I presume, has
not gained much improvement of mind since I knew her: although in a
prosperous situation of fortune, we may, I think, conclude that her
society has not been select. You will find these people quite remote
from yourself; they will be troublesome to you, and if my cousin Lydia
likes Tarefield, she may delay her visit to the lakes rather longer
than you will relish: I am certain they will not amuse you.” Sir
Murdoch eagerly set aside this objection. All is now _en train_ for
Mrs. Serge’s reception; for Lady Maclairn has sent off her answer, and
cordial acceptance of the visit; and preparations are now making for
their arrival.

_In continuation._--For once, at least, in my life I will do justice
to Lady Maclairn’s address. She has been to consult me on the means
her fertile genius has adopted to _trick_ Sir Murdoch into another
apartment. Our plot has succeeded, and we are now busy in making
such arrangements for him, as will, it is hoped, soon reconcile him
to the loss of his detestable grated windows, and which will tend
to obliterate from his mind the saddening ideas associated with his
prison. This apartment is now to be destined to the strangers’ use,
and they will have but one staircase to explore to their several
rooms. I have also been prepared to form my estimate of the pleasure
I may expect from our visitors. She spoke of Mrs. Serge’s parents.
Captain Hatchway was the master of a ship, and his family resided at
Y--m--th. His sister, Mrs. Priscilla Hatchway, had been the early
friend of Lady Maclairn’s mother, and was her first cousin. “I have
not seen Mrs. Serge, for many years,” added her ladyship. “She was
then a thoughtless, giddy girl, but perfectly innocent and good
natured. When she lost her good father, I have reason to believe she
had little whereon to depend for her future maintenance: her mother
had no talents for economy, and her daughter’s union with Mr. Serge
was a circumstance of great utility to her, as well as of security to
her lively and pretty daughter. Mr. Serge was rich when he married,
and since that time has been very fortunate, by an accession of wealth
which he little expected. He is a worthy honest man; and as she says,
a _hexcellent_ husband, though more than twenty years her senior; but
you may imagine that neither his education nor his pursuits in life
can have any similarity with Sir Mordoch’s. He has been ‘Mr. Serge the
rich taylor’ till within these three or four years, when I heard that
he had dropped this designation, for ‘Mr. Serge the _contractor_;’
now, it appears, he is ‘Mr. Serge the _gentleman_;’ and it is only
to be feared, that his lady will find more difficulty in sustaining
this part, than any which she has hitherto performed. She will have
gained little, if the simplicity of her character has been infringed
by her commerce with fashion and luxury; for her spirits, when I knew
her, were extremely volatile.” I was left: the workmen summoning her
ladyship, who is at present very busy in Sir Murdoch’s deserted prison.
New hangings, new windows, &c. are to change its aspect. Sir Murdoch,
either discomfited by seeing the alterations which have taken place in
his fortress, or vexed that his wife has converted her dressing-room
to his convenience, has been with me in his turn; and with some signs
of spleen, he observed, that Harriet would have matters settled in her
own way; for she never regarded what was due to herself. “I could
have done very well without my apartment for a week,” added he, “and
without dispossessing her of a room she likes; and I suppose these
good people will not stay longer than a few days; for I think they
will soon be tired of us.” “I hope not,” answered I, “for I expect
much amusement from them.” “A few hours will lessen your enjoyment,”
replied he gravely, “of any amusement which makes no appeal to your
taste and understanding: you will not find in novelty an equivalent
for ignorance and vulgarity. As for the husband of our cousin, I am
prepared to find in him one of those characters which more peculiarly
disgust me; for unless he has more modesty and common sense than the
generality of that class of men who are elevated by wealth to stations
which neither their birth nor attainments in knowledge can make easy to
them, he will soon weary me. I understand he has already dropped the
_taylor_ for the _contractor_; and, without doubt, fancies himself
qualified to rank with any of his superiors.” I saw that the blood
royal of Malcolm King of Scotland, or at least of the Highlanders,
was not exhausted by flowing through the veins of Sir Murdoch and his
progenitors for so many centuries. It mounted to his face; and I should
have smiled saucily, had I not recollected the pure reservoir it filled
in the baronet’s bosom. I can pardon this childish vanity, Lucy, when I
see it qualified by an honest pride; and if by a consciousness of the
eminence of our ancestors, in the annals of time, which blazon forth
their glory and virtue, we be emulated to follow in the same track,
it is well. But in Sir Murdoch I regard with lenity even a little
pride of heart for the _shadow_ of greatness; any thing which gives
to him _self-consequence_, and _self-confidence_ is useful to him, as
tending to repress the painful recollection of those hours, when by
his malady, he was levelled lower than the dust; and under which the
boasted prerogatives of man, and all the adventitious circumstances of
his place in this world, are sunk in darkness! A little vanity will not
hurt my patient; and it is the pleasure of my life here, to see that
I can make him laugh at my follies, and forget his own infirmities.
Farewell!

                           Yours, faithfully,

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.

P. S. The Heartleys, with their beaux left us yesterday. Poor Malcolm
wishes the Serges had taken the unknown route to “Vales.” “But man
is born to trouble.” He could not leave his father to the burden
of Mr. Serge. Heaven preserve you! We are well; and the domestic
arrangements necessary for our expected visitors have been useful to
Lady Maclairn--_She thinks less._


                             LETTER XXXIX.

                 _From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

                                                           July the 1st.

“To journalise, to send the whole and full length pictures of the
Serges,” such are my Lucy’s commands. “To be faithful in detailing
the conversation of Mrs. Serge,” _Voilà_ Mary, who adds, that “a new
language is so delightful when from her dear Miss Cowley’s mouth or
pen!” Next comes Mr. Hardcastle: your father, Lucy, can bribe, can
cajole. True to his sex, he still knows the direct road to a woman’s
heart. But it may be that you, who are on some points an obstinate
unbeliever, may demand _proofs_ of his _savoir faire_ with your
simple-hearted Rachel. I will transcribe his little and _well-sealed_
note for your conviction. “My dear _child_, I send you a model, by
which you are in future to make up your letters for Heathcot. The
gentleman, who brought me the dispatches from Lisbon which I now
forward to you, has filled my heart with joy and hope. _Your brother
Horace_ was the subject of his conversation for an hour; and we must
love him, my child, for he is beloved wherever he is known. When my
kind visitor quitted me, I proceeded to examine the parcel he had left;
which, from its rotundity, I judged to be a Portugal onion. It remains
for you to investigate the truth of my supposition; for on examination,
I found only the first “_peeling_” was destined for _Heathcot_. You
will therefore be graciously disposed to indemnify us for the unequal
partition of Horace’s gift; and send us the _shreds_, _trimmings_,
and even the _pack-thread_ which you will glean from the respectable
society of Mr. Serge’s family. I love my girl in her sportive humour;
and never think of her without losing a portion of my own!”

With my heart on my lips, and the Portugal onion in my bosom, can you
blame me if I should transgress your law of charity, Lucy? I will be as
good as I can; but thus tempted to folly, if I sin thank my betrayer,
and do not chide me.

Yesterday we were all prepared for our guests’ appearance at the dining
hour. I kept my station at the dressing-room window, being too happy to
be good company below stairs. Suppose you place yourselves by my side.
But no: that idea would have spoiled me for an observer of all beyond
the walls of the room whereas I was on the _alert_. First then, drew up
a handsome plain coach, with nothing beyond Mr. Serge’s modest cypher
on its highly finished pannels: it was drawn by four beautiful bright
bay horses, driven by two postillions in plain dark green livery
jackets. This equipage was followed by an elegant and low phaeton; the
horses making the set, as I presume, being exactly like the others.
Two out-riders, well mounted, completed the cavalcade. So much for the
_Taylor_’s first approach, which wanted only glare and ostentation to
rival a _Nabob_’s. Mr. Serge slowly and cautiously alighted, “round
as the shield of my fathers.” (Sir Murdoch sees not my profanation
of Ossian’s sublimity). He was soberly dressed in a complete suit of
dark brown broad-cloth, a _wig_--(you know my veneration for wigs,)
which, had it been properly distributed, would have supplied crops for
a regiment of spruce journeymen, and brainless coxcombs. A large silk
handkerchief tied loosely round his neck; plain and homely features,
with a healthy cheek and treble chin. In defiance of all given rules,
Mr. Serge’s leg and foot are admirably neat and well formed; and
though neither decorated with silk stockings nor fashionable buckles,
more than rivals _Mr. Snughead_’s.

His greetings with the baronet were unconstrained and hasty; for he
instantly advanced to the phaeton, in which rode the poor Caroline
the picture of youth subdued by sickness; and nearly exhausted by
fatigue and weak spirits. She called upon me for compassion, and I
forgot your orders, whilst contemplating her languid countenance. The
father, unmindful of all but her, was preparing to assist her, when
Malcolm saying something to her, took her in his arms and carried her
into the drawing-room, Mr. Serge following him. Next appeared Mrs.
Serge in a light green habit; her fair and round face heightened to
the milk-maid’s hue by the closeness of the carriage: a profusion of
ringlets, well filled with brown powder, but which had maliciously
quitted the station assigned it, and then lodged on all the _prominent_
parts of Mrs. Serge’s person, leaving the golden locks deprived of
their glossy brightness, though not their colour: an embroidered
waistcoat, lappelled, and more open at the bosom than even fashion
of late has sanctioned: this deficiency was supplied by lace and
cambrick; gold earrings and necklace, a riding hat and feathers; and
in a hand, garnished with rings, and as white as snow, she carried a
parasol. Her voice loud; her utterance flippant, and her salutation
familiar and loquacious. Next, lightly sprang from the carriage the
beautiful Leonora, the youngest daughter, her dark brown locks hanging
in disorder over the face of a wood nymph; large and intelligent
dark eyes, and a cheek vying in colour with the autumnal peach: the
lightness of a sylph and the grace of fashionable ease. The loud laugh
which reached me from Mrs. Serge did not prevent me seeing _Miss
Lydia_ emerge from her concealment. She very deliberately gave to Sir
Murdoch a little black terrier to hold, and with a piece of cake in
her hand, as deliberately secured her footing on terra-firma; but she
was slip-shod, and caution was necessary. In size she comes very near
to her mother, and she would be as pretty, were she not too pale. The
golden locks are with Miss Lydia softened down to flaxen-coloured,
which, with very light blue eyes, give an expression of heaviness to
her countenance, perfectly conformable to her fat, and square person.
Next and last came a smart abigail, and Miss Lydia hastily seizing her
arm, followed the steps of Sir Murdoch and the ladies into the house.

I remained in my apartment, till summoned by Malcolm to his mother.
I learned, that Miss Serge had nearly fainted before she reached the
drawing-room, that she had retired to her own room, but was recovered.
My introduction to the strangers followed, and I took my seat. The
dustiness of the roads, and apologies for Mrs. Serge’s being in such
a “pickle,” succeeded to the compliments of my entrance; “but as
_Villet_ was busy about Caroline, she was compelled to _haccept_ of her
ladyship’s _hindulgence_, and remain as she was: but I think, child,”
added she, turning to Miss Nora, “you might make yourself a little
more tidy; I dare say Miss Cowley would lend you _a comb_.” My offers
of service were prevented by the young lady’s saying pertly, that she
trusted also to Lady Maclairn’s good-nature for an excuse, not knowing
the secret of being _tiddy_, without an entire change of dress. The
broad stare at me from time to time, the weary, careless attention to
what was addressed to herself, at once spoke the _girl of fashion_. I
took out my netting box, and the young lady, after curiously examining
some books on a side table, withdrew into the bow window and read. Do
you wish me to speak as loud and fast as Mrs. Serge? recollect that I
have her dialect to acquire, and that I have not a speaking trumpet at
command, but I will do my best. To the detail of her daughter’s long
illness, who had taken all “_mander_ of shings,” and tried a _hocean_
of physic, succeeded “_hold_” stories of her father and mother, in
which her filial tenderness unaffectedly appeared, and to which Lady
Maclairn gave a lively interest by adding her testimony to their worth.
“My dear mother had an excellent constitution, and the best spirits in
the world,” observed Mrs. Serge: “even _ater_ she was a _vidow_, she
could tire out two or three partners in a night’s dancing; but, dear
soul! she trusted too much to her strength, and refusing to change her
clothes after being wet to the skin in a _water frolic_, she never held
up her head.” Tears fell copiously from Mrs. Serge’s eyes in this
part of the conversation, but in a few minutes the cloud gave place
to a hearty laugh, on recollecting Mr. Flamall’s cheating her with a
painted “vindow at the castle at _Vindsor_, so _naturally done_ that
no soul alive would have taken it for a painted _vone_.” Questions and
wonderments succeeded, that so handsome a man had not made his _fortin_
by marrying; she was sure it had been his own fault. Lady Maclairn soon
changed this topic by asking her how she liked Bath. “Why on the whole
_wery vell_,” replied she, “but it is not to be compared with _Lunnun_:
the rooms are certainly _wery_ grand, but it is _halways_ the same
thing. I like to see a play, or Sadler’s Wells much better; and as for
the Criscent, and the Circus, in some _vinds_, you would think yourself
in Y----th Downs in a _northheaster_; but one see _swarms_ of fine
folks come from the hupper part of the town, to bask in the sun on the
South Parade, where we had our lodgings.” Willing to hear the sound
of the beauty’s voice, and as willing to spare the further distension
of her rosebud mouth, I asked her whether the season for Bath had been
full. “Much as usual,” replied she; “there were many people of rank
and fashion, but we had few opportunities of meeting with them. Good
society depends on a proper introduction.” She threw on her mother
a glance, which I could not misunderstand. “As for _hintroduction_,
Nora,” observed the good Mrs. Serge, “I found that _wery_ heasy; you
have only to shew your purse, and you may have a card party when you
please. I could have been acquainted with several ladies of quality,
if I would have played the new fashioned way at loo, but,” continued
she, addressing herself to Lady Maclairn, “I was soon sick of _pam_
when he was in _good company_, as they call themselves. I was not
cunning enough for your Lady Gudgeons; nor you, child, for her saucy
daughters.” Miss Nora had not time to reply to her share of the last
observation. The mother continued--“Who do you think I saw at Bath,
finer than our princesses? But you will never guess! Don’t you remember
the pretty little girl who used to sing to you at my aunt Prissy’s? I
mean the Knacker’s daughter. She is now the wife of a very rich man,
and is quite the fashion. I took an opportunity of reminding her of
old friends and former times; she drew up, forsooth! and _wery_ coldly
observed that I had a _wery_ good memory! She had been so long in the
world, that she had forgotten me, till I announced my name. I detest
pride, my lady, so I was resolved to be even with her. ‘Dear me!’
said I, ‘I wonder how people can forget early friends. I have often
thought of you and the scrape you got into, by breaking three or four
“quarrels” in Mrs. Doughty’s parlour window. My dear mother often used
to laugh at the fright you were in, when she pacified the old lady, by
paying the damage you had done, and saving you from being put in the
cellar.’ She looked,” added the speaker, laughing heartily, “as though
she would have preferred Mrs. Doughty’s cellar to my conversation. But
I have no notion of a little prosperity turning one’s head, ’tis a poor
return to make for God’s goodness.”

Miss Nora, during this discourse, had relapsed into silence, and was
endeavouring to find amusement by poring over some music books she had
taken up. “You play, no doubt,” observed I; “and I have a harp, and a
good piano-forte in my apartment.” She smiled bewitchingly. “A _little_
on both these instruments,” answered she, “but I am out of practice,
for I am no Orpheus, and cannot give to stocks and stones the power of
feeling the charms of music.” A summons to the dining-room prevented
my reply. We there found the gentlemen and Miss Lydia, who, “_malgré
elle_,” soon completed the family party. “How is Miss Serge?” asked
Lady Maclairn, in a tone of tenderness so peculiarly her endowment; “I
hope she has slept, otherwise I should not be able to pardon myself for
not being with her.” “Poor thing!” replied the father, “she was better
with me, for she is so flurried, and so fearful of being troublesome
here, that it has made her very poorly indeed.” “We will soon make
her well, my good sir,” replied the baronet, “if she has no malady
more serious than this: my Harriet will soon convince her that she
is at home.” “Thank ye, Sir Murdoch,” answered the agitated father.
“I have no doubts on the subject, and I told my dear girl I was sure
you were not of the number of those who think a sick guest a burden.
God forbid it should be so! for such must needs have hard hearts! But
Willet tells us,” continued he, addressing his daughter Lydia, “that
your sister was frightened, and disturbed last night: why did you not
call me up? You know it is what I desire you to do always, when she
does not settle.” “Lord, papa!” replied Miss Lydia, “it was nothing
but a drunken man in the next chamber who was _obstroperous_. I told
her twenty times that our door was bolted. He might have _fit_ with
the other _feller_ till sunrise, they would not have kept me from
sleeping if Caroline had been quiet.” “Mr. Serge has fully accounted
for your sister’s indisposition to-day,” observed Lady Maclairn
mildly; “you have good health, my dear young lady, and do not know how
soon the weak are fluttered; but a night of undisturbed repose will
remedy, I trust, this little alarm.” Poor Lydia blushed, but did not
answer. “I expect to establish my credit as a Lady Bountiful, before
you leave me,” continued Lady Maclairn, with assumed cheerfulness,
turning to Mrs. Serge; “I have not forgotten your aunt Priscilla’s
recipes, which saved me from a decline, nor the kindness with which
she administered them: it would be to me a blessing to imitate her in
her tender cares.” Mr. Serge crossed his knife and fork, and fixed his
tearful eyes on Lady Maclairn’s face, whilst his lady cordially thanked
her, and added, “But you must try also to persuade my husband to think
his girl not so bad as he fancies, for he not only _damp_ her spirits
but ours.” “So he _do_ mamma,” said Miss Lydia, breaking through the
stupid vacuity of her countenance with a vivacity that surprised me.
“Caroline can’t be so veak as papa _think_, or she could not have
gone so much in the phaeton, when she knew I hated to ride ‘stuffed’
up in the coach.” “Hold your tongue, child!” said the father gravely;
“you know the phaeton was ordered for your sister’s _use_, not your
_whims_.” She was silenced and looked sullen. Pitying the poor girl at
my side, who had shown unequivocal marks of _feeling_, as well as of
_impatience_, I proposed to her to withdraw into my apartment, and Miss
Leonora followed me with alacrity. She immediately went to the harp,
and with a touch convinced me that she was no mean proficient on the
instrument, any more than in singing, though she pleaded being out of
practice, since she had left her school. Sir Murdoch, attracted by our
voices from the garden, craved admittance for himself and Mr. Serge,
pleading that the other ladies had left him to visit the invalid. Mr.
Serge with much apparent curiosity examined the room and me by turns;
and at length he said, “Pray, young lady, what is the name of the
boarding-school where you were trained?” I replied that I had never
been in any school, having had the good fortune of living with a lady
who instructed me herself. “There is nothing like it,” said he, nodding
his head sagaciously. “_My Caroline_ was educated at home by a good
aunt, and though she cannot draw, nor play, as you and Nora do, yet
she is a very sensible and good young woman, and I think you will like
her.” I told him, I had postponed my own gratification, lest my visit
should be troublesome, till she had somewhat recovered from the effects
of her journey. “Ah, poor thing!” said he with emotion, “there is the
rub! she is too good for this world! But you will say, when you know
her, that you never saw a more patient sufferer!”

In a word, it appears to me, that poor Mr. Serge can talk of nothing
but his daughter: that his lady can do any thing better than command
her tongue: that Miss Lydia is an automaton, useful to fetch and carry;
and that the beauty is neither in her element here, nor contented any
where. So much for my first four-and-twenty hours knowledge of this
illustrious family.

Good Night!


                               LETTER XL.

                      _From the same to the same._

I suppose I shall have no intelligence of our friends at Hartley-pool,
more direct than what Mary sends me from Heathcot. Malcolm is not in
spirits, he confesses that he never had a more difficult lesson to
practise, than the one at present assigned him, which is to amuse
Mr. Serge at Tarefield, instead of guarding the Hesperian fruit at
Heartley-pool. He told me this morning with a very solemn countenance,
that he heard Alice’s beauty had gained her the first post of honour,
and that she was much admired. I laughed him out of his folly; but
it may not be amiss for Mary to give Alice a hint not to look _too
handsome_ at Heartley-pool.

Miss Serge’s increased indisposition has prevented my visiting her
till this morning; Doctor Douglass was consulted, and he has happily
succeeded in relieving the pain she suffered. On congratulating
her mother, she replied, “to be sure, it is a comfort to see her
_heasy_: but, dear me! the thing is to see it last.” And with this
observation she seemed to have dismissed the subject of her daughter’s
indisposition, and she talked only of the _lakes_, and her surprise
that she had lived so many years in the world without having heard of
them till within a few months.

The fond father, in the mean time, now looks up to the doctor with
the most sanguine hopes; and is as completely domesticated here as if
he had been born at the Hall. Malcolm is the delight of his eyes, and
Mr. and Mrs. Wilson are, in his own words, “extraordinary people.”
We contrive by their aid to amuse him many hours in the day; and the
good baronet has not been interrupted in his pursuits: he appears to
enjoy the enlargement of the circle, particularly in the evening. Last
night, after supper, Mr. Serge could talk of nothing but his day’s
amusement. He had been with his friends and guides to see Wereland
Place, a farm in speculation, as you know, for Malcolm. “It is very
odd,” observed he, “that when I lived in London and kept tight to the
_board_, as I may say, I used to think of the pleasure, I should enjoy
in the country; but when there, I was always weary of walking about
before sunset. Now I think this was because I had nothing to do but
to walk about, and that it was idleness, not the country, of which I
was tired. Pray how old is Mr. Wilson?” Malcolm thought he was turned
of fifty. “Surprising!” observed Mr. Serge; “what a colour, and what
activity! There is nothing like the life of a farmer! I have given Mr.
Wilson a hint to-day that I should like to purchase something in this
neighbourhood. I should not cavil at any price, that would fix me upon
you, my young friend, as an apprentice in the farming business. I see
clearly that in order to enjoy the country, a man must have country
business on his hands: you would, I dare say, help a young beginner
to know oats from barley.” He shook Malcolm’s hand with cordiality,
and added in a low voice something at which he laughed heartily, and
which produced a crimson blush in Malcolm’s face. “How would Mrs. Serge
and the young ladies like to give up the fashionable world, for the
business of the dairy and the retirement of the country?” asked he.
“Dear me!” answered Mrs. Serge, “I _ham_ so used to Mr. Serge’s _vays_
that he know I only laugh at his _vims_. I am sure he is tired to death
at Putney, if he stay with us a week at a time! He would make a fine
hand of it, to live in this part of the world, where _vone_ do not see
a soul by the week together!” “Are there any noblemen’s seats near you,
Mr. Maclairn?” asked Miss Leonora, checking her mother’s loquacity.
“Not many,” was the answer. “So much the better,” replied Mr. Serge, “I
never courted their custom nor their acquaintance: let every man keep
his station and place, and ‘cut his coat according to his cloth,’ in
more ways than one. I am a man who love proper subordination, though
I hate slavery. An army is badly disciplined, in my mind, when the
commanding officers are ‘hail fellow well met’ with the privates; and
when I see a lord or a duke quit his rank, I understand how matters
are going on. I have not lived in the world for nothing.” “Well but,
papa,” said the lively Miss Nora, seizing in a moment her father’s
allusion, “I suppose there is no sin in a private soldier’s rising
in his regiment if he can do so honourably.” “Certainly not, child,”
answered Mr. Serge. “Why then do you persist in refusing the borough
offered you, and being knighted? Your family might be the better for
good connections, sir, and yourself more useful, than in your present
private station.” “You talk, Nora, like a girl,” answered the placid
father; “but all the world knows, child, though it has not yet reached
you, that the borough and the title, might have been purchased by any
man as well as your father; I neither liked the price, nor the duty;
and I trust, those who had the bargain, will like it better than I did
mine for clothing the army,” added he, turning to Sir Murdoch. “It
requires a better head than I have,” pursued he, “to make contracts
with the present managers. I give you my word they understand very
well how to make a good bargain for the public purse; and I found
their _shears_ cut closer than _mine_, notwithstanding my experience
in the use of them. However, it is all well: I am quit, with knowing
I never spoiled a poor fellow’s clothing of a year, for the sake of
cabbaging a shilling’s worth of the stuff.” He laughed heartily at
this specimen of his wit, and enjoyed ours with delight. These Serges,
Lucy: amuse me, they exhibit to me characters, which, if not singular
in themselves, are new to me. My standard for human nature, and human
conduct, requires some medium: as it stood at Heathcot, it was too much
elevated for the multitude; and in my respect for virtue, you have
often reproached me, for wanting pity for folly. I am persuaded that
you would at present be satisfied with me. I am neither tempted to
laugh, nor to yawn, when Mrs. Serge, in all the simplicity of kindness,
pities my _dull life_, and promises me to exact from Sir Murdoch and
Lady Maclairn a positive engagement to send me to her in the winter
months. “Though Putney is not St. James’s-street,” adds she, “I so
manage, that it is always next door to any public amusements I like:
and as Leonora will expect to see Lunnun next winter, as a young woman,
you may be sure of my not being a ‘_house dove_.’ To say the truth,”
continued she, “I think people gain nothing by giving up the pleasures
of youth, supposing always they are innocent. Who would believe Lady
Maclairn, for example, was not much more than three years older than I;
and when I try to recall her beauty and cheerful temper to my memory as
they struck me when I first knew her, I can hardly believe she is the
Harriet Flamall every body was in love with. To be sure youth _have_
its hour, but cheerfulness will last to all seasons, if people do not
starve it out by indolence. However,” added she, “poor Harriet _have_
had trials I never had; and between ourselves, I have heard my aunt
Priscilla say, that she was early in life doomed to sorrow, from the
death of a young man she loved.” We have had many such conversations
as these in our walks; for I devote my mornings to Lady Maclairn’s
service. Mrs. Serge is delighted with Mrs. Wilson, and no less pleased
with my friends at the cottages, to whom she has been liberal in her
donations. But with all my labours I can perceive that she is heartily
tired of being at Tarefield; and yesterday she consulted me very
gravely on the propriety of requesting that Caroline might remain at
the Hall during her excursion to the lakes. “I have no doubt,” added
she with alacrity and contentment, “of Mr. Serge’s preferring to stay
with Caroline. Lydia shall remain also, to amuse her; and Mr. Maclairn
will not refuse to squire us. The coach will just hold us, and we shall
have a charming _frolic_!” For a moment I felt angry, but the innocence
of heart, which is the companion of this weak head, softened me. I
with all gentleness, therefore, hinted at the appearance of unkindness
and indifference which the proposal of itself would convey to the mind
of her daughter; and withal asserted, that I knew Mr. Maclairn had
engagements, which would prevent his leaving Tarefield for any time.
“That is unlucky,” replied she; “and since matters do not favour our
scheme it may be as well to say nothing about it. I should have liked
to give you _a frolic_; I am sure you have not too much pleasure here;
but trust to me for next winter: you shall see Lunnun, if it cost me a
journey for myself to fetch you. I have not forgot my young days yet,
nor what young folks like.” I could not be angry, Lucy. I _answered_
her _intention_, and thanked her for her kindness, telling her also
very civilly, that I had been frequently months at a time in London
during the winter, but that I had never regretted the absence of London
amusements at Tarefield. She lifted up her hands and eyes, and said I
amazed her. I quitted her during her surprise, saying I was going to
sit with Miss Serge an hour.

_In continuation._--I am just returned from visiting the poor declining
Caroline. She is a modest unaffected young woman, and resembles her
youngest sister. I think her features are still more regular than
hers, and her large black eyes more expressive, from the languor of
sickness that softens down their jetty lustre. I fancy too she is
naturally fairer than Leonora, at least her paleness indicates a
clearer complexion. She is extremely defective in her shape: I do not
recollect having seen a person more crooked; and I cannot help thinking
the dreadful spasms in her stomach have originated in the distortion
of her shape, and from the compression it is doomed to suffer. She
was in her easy chair, and the emblem of neatness: the room in exact
order, and at her hand a book. I congratulated her on her exemption
from pain, and told her that our favourite, Doctor Douglass, was in
danger of being spoiled by our gratitude for having relieved her. She
meekly bowed, and, thanking me, spoke of Lady Maclairn’s kindness,
and the fatigue she had so unfortunately introduced. “I was entirely
governed by my wishes to oblige my parents,” added she, “in hazarding
a journey; being convinced that I can expect no benefit to accrue
to me from leaving Putney. But it amuses my family, and diverts my
dear father’s thoughts from an event which he considers with too much
tenderness and grief. I am pleased by Doctor Douglass’s frankness,”
continued she; “he honestly owns, that he sees no advantage for me in
travelling; and he has contrived to convince my friends that I cannot
be better than _at home_. They do not understand him; _but I do_, Miss
Cowley.” You will suppose my reply. “You read sometimes, I see,” said
I, taking up the volume on the table: it was the Economy of Human Life.
“My little library contains some authors who will not disgrace yours.
I will bring the catalogue.” “Your recommendation of one will suffice,”
answered she, pensively smiling, “for I am not able to read much. My
father reads frequently to me; and if you will favour me with any
periodical work I shall be obliged to you; he is fond of works of that
sort.” I promised to send the “Mirror” to her room, she not having read
it; and I quitted her in a proper frame of mind to visit Miss Flint.
She appears to me to be considerably mended in her health, and she was
more cheerful than I have seen her for a long time. I always thought
solitude a good remedy for those who could not enjoy society, or rather
who spoiled it. She was chatty, and of course I was not ill humoured.
She asked me many questions relative to our guests; and particularly
whether the “table was abundant and handsome.” “I hope it is so,” added
she; “for I was explicit with Harriet on that point. Her friends’
entertainment I shall consider as my concern; under this roof it ought
to be so.” “I only wish you could contrive to share in your hospitality
below stairs,” observed I, “I am certain it might be effected without
pain to you, or trouble to the servants, more than one five minutes
would accomplish.” She shook her head, and said she was fearful of
breaking into the regimen which the doctor had prescribed, and from
which she trusted for some relief; and that since Mrs. Allen had so
kindly devoted her time to her, she had all the comfort her situation
needed. “However,” added she, “I should be vexed if these good people
fancied I shunned them from pride; and I think I am equal to receiving
them as tea-visitors; will you propose it to them, when you think the
gentlemen will be absent.” “Let it be this evening then,” replied I
with gaiety: “you will find that company will not lessen your hopes
from an abstemious diet.” She consented, and I left her to announce my
commission.

_In continuation.--Wednesday morning._ We assembled yesterday in Miss
Flint’s stale apartment: even the poor Caroline was of the party. The
first _coup d’œil_ convinced me that Miss Flint had not quite done with
this vain world: all was in state; and the heiress of Tarefield, in
a fine muslin wrapping gown trimmed with lace, received us with much
ceremony, but with no want of kindness. Lady Maclairn officiated at
the tea-table; and Mrs. Serge, whose attention had been much engaged
with the various decorations of the room, now suddenly surveying the
ponderous _silver_ tea-board and tea-kettle, _wondered_, according to
custom, that her ladyship did not exchange that heavy old fashioned
plate for what was tasty and “_helegant_.” Miss Flint, with a spice
of her ancient asperity, observed, that it had been long in the Flint
family, and she preferred it to more modern. “I beg your pardon,”
replied the unconscious offender, “I did not know it belonged to
you, madam; but I cannot unsay what I have said. I know some folks
think old-fashioned plate honourable to themselves, as it proves
their family’s opulence; but for my part, it is not my notion that
honour depend upon any such things. I lately sold a silver bowl which
held three gallons, that had been my great-grandfather’s. You Lady
Maclairn,” added she, laughing, “being of the Hatchway family: you
will, perhaps, blame me; for it was an _onourable_ bowl, as I can
affirm. It was a present from the ship’s _howners_, for his fighting
with a privateer and sinking her: the whole story was engraved on the
_rim_, with the names of the ‘_howners_,’ and of the ship my great
grandfather saved from the enemy.” “I certainly should have preserved
it,” replied Lady Maclairn, “as an evidence so honourable to the
captain’s bravery, and his employers’ gratitude.” “Dear me!” answered
she, “who trouble themselves with things of this sort after they are
past away a little while! It was quite useless to me, so I exchanged
it for a “_hapron_” and some egg-cups, with other trifles.” The saucy
Leonora laughed immoderately. “You ought to say, my dear madam, an
_epargne_.” Without a muscle of my face being moved, “I beg your
pardon,” said I, “but as the word is a French one, a stranger to the
language may excuse the liberty of being corrected in the pronouncing
it. _Epargner_, means to save, or to spare, and this elegant ornament
for a table is not misnamed; for it is commonly filled with trifles
which cost but little to the donor of a feast.” “Thank you, my dear
Miss Cowley,” said she, with perfect good humour, “you have taught me
what I did not know before; and if Nora had employed her knowledge
of the French tongue as well, she would not have disgraced her
_heducation_, by laughing at her mother.” Leonora blushed, and answered
that she had called it an _epargne_ constantly in her hearing, but
thought she might be deemed _impertinent_ to carry her “_critique_”
farther. “Rather say, child,” replied the good-natured mother, “that
you did not wish me to understand _heparner_ was _to save_, lest, like
your Lady Gudgeon, I should grudge you clean gloves, and fill, as she
_do_, my _heparner_ with wax oranges and apples.” It was now her turn
to laugh, and we gave no offence by joining in her mirth. A rubber of
“_Vhisk_” completed the evening; and Miss Flint, graciously thanking
her for her company, saw us depart without any signs of being fatigued
by her exertions.

Next Tuesday we are to go to Durham to pass the day. Mrs. Serge has
wisely given up the project of seeing the lakes; and as something must
be done to please her, Lady Maclairn has promised to accompany her in
this jaunt. If you are not grateful, so much the worse; for not only
_time_, but labour is lost to

                                  Your

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.


                              LETTER XLII.

                      _From the same to the same._

Our good doctor will have a more rich and costly offering from the
grateful Mr. Serge, than any that ostentation or superstition ever
gave to Esculapius, or to any saint in the Roman calendar, if he can
manage to keep his patient as many years as he has done hours from the
cruel invader, pain. Yet I am angry with Douglass’s honesty; he tells
me that this poor girl cannot live long; and that even the medicine we
fancy so efficacious, will soon lose its benign effect. “She knows her
condition,” added he with sympathy, “and has only the wish of seeing
her father more reconciled to the thoughts of losing her; but we must
let him enjoy the present, and trust for the future to that Being who
will support him.”

The day before yesterday, Miss Leonora and myself went to Bishop’s
Auckland for an airing. The dapper Mr. William Willet, Mr. Serge’s
servant, attended us: and I, very successfully, conducted the whisky to
Mrs. Crofts’ door. The good old lady received us with great kindness;
and after making a few purchases, her daughter attended us to the
circulating library, the principal object with Miss Nora. We found
this shop was in the same street with Susan Crofts’, and its rival for
smartness. My companion, who had languished for _books_ at the Hall,
instantly proceeded to make an ample selection. Scores were produced
_that had been read_--a _score at least_ put aside for her use; and I
thought our business finished here, when Miss Leonora accidentally took
up a new novel which “she had been _dying_ to see for a month;” but
the third volume was in circulation: it was hourly expected, however,
and the shopman would send it with the fourth and last. This civility
would not do. The young lady could not wait: she would purchase the
work rather than not have it: she should be quite miserable not to
take it home with her, her curiosity having been excited by seeing it
within her reach. “Has any of your neighbours this book, Mr. Type?”
asked Miss Crofts; “perhaps, by sending, you might get the volume
for the young lady.” “He would endeavour: a gentleman at the Mitre
had hired it the preceding day, and perhaps he had done with it.” He
alertly stepped to the door to cross to the inn, when, as quickly
returning to make way for the envied possessor of the third volume,
he began to urge his request, and the young lady’s wishes for the
complete set of the work. A graceful compliance followed from a very
handsome man of about thirty; and who, addressing me, very gallantly
declared that “he was _inexpressibly flattered_ in contributing in the
smallest degree to _Miss Cowley_’s wishes and pleasure.” _Miss Cowley_,
who saw no necessity for incurring an obligation where the obliger
had so manifest an advantage over her, in regard to his knowledge of
her name, only coldly bowed, and said that not having any peculiar
interest to gratify by his politeness, she would refer him to her
young friend for those thanks due for his indulgence of her curiosity.
“_I_ am indeed, sir,” said Miss Serge, “extremely obliged to you; but
I shall not long detain the work, for I read very quick. _To-morrow
evening_ they will be returned, or the next morning at _furthest_.”
He bowed, and we left the shop, ordering the books to Susan Crofts’.
In our way I asked Susan the name of this civil gentleman who had
been so ready to contribute to “Miss Cowley’s” happiness. “He was a
stranger, lately come to Bishop’s Aukland. He lodged at the Mitre
Inn, she believed, for she had seen him there several times within a
day or two, and she thought him a very handsome man.” “I think he has
a very good person,” replied I. “He thinks so himself, I am certain,”
observed Miss Nora, “by the elaborate pains he takes to display it.”
I made no answer, for I perceived that gratitude had not banished the
young lady’s displeasure, in having been overlooked for the gentleman’s
“Miss Cowley.” Mrs. Crofts in our absence had sent for my frost-bitten
friends from their school, and had set out her cake and wine, whilst
Willet was stowing the cargo of books in the vehicle, and waiting with
it at the door. My greetings with the children detained me some little
time: I did not perceive even that my companion had quitted the parlour
till I rose to depart; but concluded, when I did miss her, that she
was in the shop. I was mistaken, she was not there; but approaching
the door, expecting to find her by the carriage, I saw her coming
from Mr. Type’s with hasty steps. On expressing my surprise at her
absence, she told me that she had fortunately discovered, in taking
out her purse to pay Miss Crofts, that she had left her pocketbook on
the bookseller’s counter, “and judging it the securest method, I went
for it myself,” added she; “luckily I found it, exactly as I supposed,
concealed by the books I had rejected. Only think! That coxcomb was
still in the shop. How fortunate that he did not see it!” I smiled, for
I saw through this little coquetry. “It would not have been pleasant to
me, I do assure you,” pursued she, “to have seen it in his hands; for
one does not write one’s thoughts for every eye. Neither do I believe
it would have pleased Mr. Malcolm to have seen this beau at the Hall
on the pretence of giving _you_ your strayed goods.”--“I do not see
the drift of your inference,” replied I; “for what concern could Mr.
Maclairn have had in a business so exclusively yours? However, I am
glad you have recovered your book, and spared the gentleman the trouble
of a visit to the Hall.”--“We might, notwithstanding, have made such
a visit a diversion for ourselves,” answered she with gaiety; “for,
to speak the truth, I think your lover would not be the worse for a
little jealousy. He is too secure; and wants the hopes and anxieties
of _la belle passion_ to rouse him: You really are as dull as though
brother and sister. I cannot conceive how you contrive to keep up
your cheerfulness at Tarefield: what with your _prudent lover_, and
the sober routine at the Hall, I think you as much to be pitied as I
am.” “Much the same,” answered I, laughing; “for my calamities are as
imaginary as your own. I love the country, and the retirement at the
Hall; and I am attached to its inmates. I am so completely Malcolm
Maclairn’s _sister_ that I am his chief confident, and he reads his
love letters to me. He will soon, I trust, be married to a very
amiable, deserving young lady, to whom he has been attached several
years: she resides with her mother in this neighboured; but she is at
present from home.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed Miss Nora with a pretty
theatrical air, “you make me envy this Phillis! With such a swain as
Mr. Maclairn, and with a mind suitable to her situation in life, and
the society in which she will probably pass all her days, how happy is
her condition when compared with mine!” “Miss Heartley,” replied I,
“has been educated by a mother who has prepared her to act properly in
every society and situation in life. Mrs. Heartley has lived in the
world, and is a superior woman.” “My lot, then,” said she, “is misery
to this young lady’s!” She spoke with emotion. “Do not answer me,”
continued she, “till you have reflected on my reasons for discontent.
With an education which has taught me to blush at ignorance, and to be
offended by vulgarity; accustomed to enjoy with girls of fashion, rank,
and fortune, the advantages and the hopes which have resulted from my
situation with them; I am now doomed to live in a society, in which I
am hourly exposed to give offence and to be offended. Be ingenuous,
my dear Miss Cowley! Tell me, do you think that seven years and more
passed in one of the first schools in town, can have rendered me a fit
inmate for my father’s house, or a suitable companion for my mother’s
acquaintance? I read in your countenance that my appeal has reached
your heart. Can you be surprised that I am disgusted and repining in
parties composed of shopkeepers and their wives, masters of ships, and
genteel people who, in my mother’s dialect, live “right up,” viz. on
their little fortune, and who, fancying they are _gentry_, because they
have no longer the drudgery of opening a shop and standing behind its
counter, affect airs truly ridiculous, and even sickening to me. It
was entirely owing to Caroline’s influence with my father that we came
hither, instead of being dragged down to Y--m--th with a party of my
mother’s “_hold_” friends, Mr. Crimp the coal merchant and his family;
and it was not without some difficulty that we prevailed on my mother
to give up the _tower_ of Norfolk which these her _hold_ friends had
proposed. But I would have died sooner than have submitted! I have met
with mortifications at Bath, which will prevent my having the folly
of ever being seen again in a place of public resort without proper
introduction! This was a fear I never experienced at school, when
looking forwards to my freedom from its confinement. _Miss Serge_,
the contracter’s daughter, was there on a level with the first girls
in the house; nor was there one pupil in it whose masters were more
liberally paid, for my mother chose I should make them presents every
vacation; and she was equally attentive to secure me favour with the
governess and teachers. Amongst the girls to whom I was particularly
attached were the two Miss Gudgeons. Their father Sir Ambrose was dead;
and their mother, Lady Gudgeon, lived too gay a life to think much of
their comforts or wants. Almira Gudgeon confided to me her discontents
and difficulties; and in return she shared my purse. It grieved me
to leave her at school during the holidays; and on my mentioning to
my father and mother those neglected girls, they invited them to
Putney the following vacation. Lady Gudgeon made no objection; and
from that time my friends always accompanied me home. Last midsummer
they were removed from school, and sent down to their mother’s house
in Berkshire. From this place I received poor Almira’s melancholy
letters: though then turned of seventeen, she lived immured at the Dale
with no other company than that of her sister, an old nurse, and the
gardener’s family. The winter approached, and I had the pleasure of
hearing that my beloved Almira and her sister would be _brought out_ at
Bath, as soon as the Birth Day was over. Lady Gudgeon having been with
them for a week, and finding Clara in danger of growing too fat, had
engaged to introduce her with her sister, on condition that she left
off suppers and took more exercise. You may judge of the joy I felt on
gaining my mother’s promise of taking me to Bath; and the still greater
satisfaction I had on finding that Lydia was included in the family
party, instead of being left with me at Mrs. S----’s, as preparatory
to reconciling her to the confinement and instruction she was thought
to want. I had foreseen the ridicule I must have braved; and with a
heart exulting at this escape, and palpitating with expected pleasure,
and the hope of meeting my friends, we reached Bath, and settled
ourselves on the South Parade.

“In a few days after our arrival Lady Gudgeon’s name appeared on
the list of new comers, and my joy was complete. Her ladyship’s
condescension enchanted my mother; and kind hearted as she is, the
Miss Gudgeons constantly received from her hands tickets for the play,
and their mother found a carriage at her command. During the space of
three weeks, or a month, we constantly made one party. I saw my mother
nightly paying for her lessons at Lady Gudgeon’s _vingt-et-une_ table;
but of what importance was a little money to my father? Yet he appeared
every day to like the Gudgeons less and less; and at length forbad
my mother’s playing cards at the Rooms with her ladyship, or going to
her parties at home. On some occasions it is in vain to reason with my
father. My mother submitted, and I was told that my young friends were
silly, giddy girls, who did me no good. I perfectly understood that
my father had judged with precision on Clara Gudgeon’s character; for
I knew she was deceitful and selfish, and she had shown herself to me
in her true colours from the first ball in which I had been noticed
for my dancing. I also was no stranger to her malice from the time her
favourite Captain Fairly became attentive and polite to me. Caroline’s
increasing illness at this juncture prevented our amusements, and
gave an ostensible reason for my mother’s declining Lady Gudgeon’s
invitations. At length Caroline was better; and my mother joined a
family party, who lodged at the next house, and with whom my father
was become very sociable. As I had been engaged to dance with Captain
Fairly at this ball, I was not willing to be disappointed; and knowing
that I should meet the Miss Gudgeons, I meant to join them, when at
the Rooms. My mother had already placed herself at a card-table with
her new acquaintance when Lady Gudgeon entered the room. Following the
example of the young lady, my companion, I kept close by my mother’s
side, waiting for Captain Fairly’s summons. ‘How is this, my dear Mrs.
Serge?’ cried Lady Gudgeon, advancing towards her with a smile; ‘you
here! and a deserter! But you will find your place, when your rubber is
up.’--‘I thank your ladyship,’ replied my unembarrassed mother, ‘but,
to tell you the truth, I do not like your game so well as _vhist_, for
I do not so well understand it.’ A stifled titter from the surrounding
groupe followed this speech. ‘As you please, _Mrs. Serge_,’ answered
her ladyship, moving on without deigning to notice me, or the smile of
contempt from those she passed. She took her post, opened the cards,
and sent for her daughters. They had, I presume, their instructions;
for in passing me they did not see me, and in repassing me I was
saluted with a broad stare and a giggle, which I had seen too often
practised not to comprehend. I was prepared for the neglect I met with
in the dance. The Miss Gudgeons neither spoke nor deigned to turn hands
with me, and whilst their heads were adorned with feathers and turbands
of my giving, their looks of scorn cut me to the soul. Captain Fairly
saw my distress, and their rudeness; and said something to Clara on
her carelessness in the dance. With an insolent laugh she asked him
whether his credit was out with his old taylor, that he so diligently
courted a new one. This was too much for me to bear, and I gave up
dancing for the remainder of the evening. But my mortifications were
not yet finished. After having heard my mother announce that arts were
trumps, seen her mark her _onours_, and win the rubber, although she
had the curse of Scotland every time in her _and_, the party broke up,
and the lady proposed going into the ball room to give her daughter
a caution to dance no more. On entering it I was astonished to see
my good father quietly standing, with his two thumbs hooked under
each arm, and enjoying the sight of the dancers. He expressed his
surprise at finding me idle, and said he had come on purpose to see
me dance, having left Caroline _purely_. Fairly urged me to go down
the dance then commencing, and encouraged by him, I was determined
to show my spirit. In our way we encountered Miss Clara Gudgeon. ‘By
your leave, fair lady,’ cried my father, bustling through the groupe.
‘Bless me!’ said Miss Clara, ‘is it you Mr. Serge? Are you come to see
fashions?’--‘Even so,’ replied he, ‘but if you are of my mind you will
think those at Putney as good as any here, and, for ought I can see,
you footed it away in my parlour with ten couple as merrily as you do
here. But where is Almira? I hope she has her Putney holiday face; for
yours seems as clouded as when your six weeks’ gambols finished with
us.’ ‘I really cannot direct you, sir,’ answered she, retreating; ‘but
if you cannot see _her_, she will undoubtedly soon perceive you.’ A
loud laugh, and a disdainful toss of her head accompanied this speech;
but my father, not conceiving that her intention could be uncivil, went
on searching for Almira, till I told him that they had been offended by
my mother’s not joining her ladyship’s party. He only nodded, and said
it was all very well. From this time the Gudgeons were strangers to us;
and because Captain Fairly chose to be civil they _cut him_. He laughed
at their impertinence; but I had no pleasure at Bath after this, as you
may imagine.”

In my animadversions on Miss Leonora’s little narrative you will not
suspect me of sparing the Gudgeon family; and I added, that neither
the simplicity of her father, nor her mother’s provincial dialect
would stand in her way with the discriminating and the virtuous. “It
is easy to think, and to say this,” replied she with vivacity, “when
we are remote from the regrets and dissatisfactions of living with
those who can neither guide nor improve us: who do not even know when
they wound, nor can comprehend why they offend. If I sing I am asked
whether it be a psalm or song, and they wish for Alley Croaker, God
save the King, or Black-eyed Susan. If I play, it must be Handel’s
Water Piece or the Variations of Nancy Dawson. Oh! you know not the
misery,” added she, bursting into tears, “of being doomed to live
with those who are perpetually disgusting our taste, opposing our
feelings, and contradicting by their habits and modes of life those
which more refinement have rendered necessary and essential to our
comfort! Indeed, Miss Cowley, I speak from bitter experience; and I
sometimes wish that, like Lydia, I had been kept at home, and been
happy in ignorance.” I was struck by her acuteness, and moved by
her distress; and with much seriousness I exhorted her to correct a
sensibility which tended more to cherish a fastidious refinement of
feeling, than a love for what was commendable. “Believe me, my dear
young friend,” added I, “that although not educated as a girl at a
fashionable boarding school, nor in Lady Gudgeon’s societies, your
father’s character has been perfectly understood by me, you will
find in him your pride and boast, by weighing his trifling defects
with his integrity and uprightness of heart.” “I know his worth,”
replied she, weeping, “he must be loved; but what will you say for my
mother?”--“What I really think,” replied I, “and must ever think, till
I find out, that a little knowledge is judged to be an equivalent for
a base mind. I would rather, a thousand times over, be Mrs. Serge’s
child than Lady Gudgeon’s; and I would convince the world by my respect
to such a parent that I was qualified to appreciate what was really
estimable in it; and by my resentment check the idle laugh of those,
more incorrigible in their ignorance than the object they contemned:
for it must be allowed, at least, that Mrs. Serge is not _conceited_.
Your education has been liberal,” continued I; “you have endowments
which your mother has not; and for a plain reason, she had not the
means of acquiring them. Show your parents that their kindness has not
been thrown away; and above all things manifest to others that you are
superior to the ingratitude and meanness of despising your benefactors,
because they happen to be less fashionable than yourself in the cut of
their garment or in their address.”

We now entered the avenue, and Leonora composed her pretty face,
saying, with a deep sigh, that she wanted a true friend! I silently
agreed with her. I leave to Mary the profound reflections which this
little airing has brought forward in my mind; it not being my business
to reason, but to detail. Heathcot and its inhabitants must not engage
me a moment longer; for I am Lady Maclairn’s “right hand.”

                              Yours ever,

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.

P. S. Mrs. Allen sends you her blessing. She is Miss Flint’s _right
hand_, and comforter to boot: but when, and where is it that she fails
in goodness?


                             LETTER XLIII.

                      _From the same to the same._

                                                       Saturday evening.

A deluge of rain has fallen here since last night; of course we have
all been stationary to-day. My spirits rose, however, before dinner
on seeing our doctor enter in his oiled surtout, like a river god,
dispensing his streams every step he made towards us. I escaped a
shower-bath by my flight; and leaving Miss Nora to her heroes and
heroines, I took my netting-box, determining to pass an hour with Miss
Serge. She was pleased, and moreover she was cheerful. In less than
ten minutes we were interrupted by Miss Lydia, who, with blubbered
cheeks, and much anger, threw a muslin robe on the bed; and showing us
a quantity of fine narrow lace, which she held in her hand, said, with
renewed tears, “Is it not a ‘burning shame’ that I am to be always the
drudge to Nora? Why ca’nt she do her own jobs? She can move her fingers
fast enough when she _like_ at her music; a thimble would do them no
more harm than her harp strings. I will tell my father how I am _put
upon_ by her: that I will!” “My dear Lydia,” said the gentle Caroline,
“I will help you. Willet has a great deal to do, or she should take
it: but it is a trifle, and I am certain you would not vex your father
for a trifle.” “You always talk in _that there_ way,” replied Lydia,
wiping her eyes, and visibly softened; “but I promise you, _you_ shall
not have any thing to do with this gown. We had enough of your helping
to prepare Nora’s two dresses a day, at Bath. Such learning say I! She
ought to be ashamed of herself! To see a sick sister work for her, and
one older than herself made her waiting-woman.” She proceeded to the
performance of her allotted task without further delay; and I perceived
that she had dexterity at her needle. “I will read you a pretty story
from the Mirror,” said I, taking up the book, “that will amuse you,
Miss Lydia.” “I am much obliged to you,” replied she; “but if you
will read from this book I shall like it better.” Thus saying, she
drew from her pocket a dirty, mutilated book, intitled “Joe Miller’s
Jests.” Caroline’s black eyes wanted not spirit, when with resentment
and vexation she asked where she had picked up such trash. “Trash!”
repeated Lydia, “I do not know what you mean by trash! It will not
make you cry, as that book _have_ done. I am sure, when we read this,
we laughed till our sides ached.” “_We!_” echoed Caroline, “who do you
mean?” “Why Willet, and Mrs. Patty, and----,” she hesitated,--“and Mr.
William.” “Why will you thus grieve me, Lydia? Why will you thus force
me to grieve your dear father,” said Caroline, “do you not know that
he is displeased when you seek your society in the servants’ hall?
Did William give you that book?” “Lord! no,” answered Miss Lydia with
terror. “I found it in Jacob’s coat pocket, he only read _here_ and
_there_ a bit.” “And did you not blush, Lydia, when you produced a
book purloined from a postillion’s pocket, which a better informed
servant saw was not proper for him to read to females, even of his own
class?” “How should I know that?” replied she. “You know, I suppose,
that you have been forbidden to talk with your father’s postillions, to
frequent the kitchen, or to take the lead in the servants’-hall. Willet
also knows my father’s commands; but enough of this: I shall inform
him they are disobeyed.” Miss Lydia burst into tears, and, imploring
her sister to say nothing of this matter, she faithfully promised to
restore the book to its owner by means of the cook maid, and never to
go near the servants’-hall again. This contest had too much fretted
poor Caroline. I saw that she was again in pain, and pretending to more
industry than I had, I helped Lydia to finish the trimming business;
leaving the invalid to recover her tranquillity. The poor girl amazed
at my condescension, asked whether I did all my own _jobs_; for she
concluded that Miss Cowley had been at a London boarding school,
because she played on the harp.

Tell me in your next that you have had enough of my talents in the
gossiping way. I have only to fear that Horace will suspect my
understanding is in its retrograde motion, for I have not written to
him this last fortnight a letter which would not disgrace a Miss in
her Teens. “Evil communications corrupt good manners.” This is not my
apology: but folly is catching, and you have betrayed me into such an
observance of it, that I yesterday, without reflection, began a speech
with “all _mander_ of persons.” So look to the consequences of my
readiness to assume any form or language, my Lucy prescribes for her

                               Faithful,

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.

_In continuation._--I am inclined to believe that Miss Leonora is
emulous of rivaling her grandmamma, Mrs. Hatchway, in her hairbreadth
escapes by sea and land. Whilst I thought her shut up in her room,
and _devouring_ Monimia, the heroine of a good novel intitled the
Manor-House, she was in the avenue enjoying a shower-bath. In
returning, completely drenched, her mother perceived her from the
window, and as I conceived, unseasonably stopped her in her way to dry
her clothes, by an angry lecture on her folly and heedlessness. “I
am not surprised,” added she, in a sharp tone, “that I cannot keep a
laundry-maid: six or eight white dresses in a week to wash would tire
any one’s patience.”

It is probable the lecture would have concluded with this notable
observation, had not Mrs. Serge unluckily perceived at this instant
the lamentable breach which the brambles had made in the costly deep
lace which trimmed Miss Leonora’s pelisse. “I don’t believe,” exclaimed
she, surveying the mischief, “there is on the face of the whole earth
your _hequal_, Nora! Your hextravagance is enough to discredit a polite
_heducation_! Though your father is a rich man he has something better
to do with his money than to buy you every month a twenty guinea lace.
Here’s a sight! It would provoke a saint! One would think you had
not _common sense_ to walk in the pouring rain, and through _edges_
and ditches with a new thirty-pound _pelisse_.” Miss Nora laughed,
not without contempt. “Never mind,” said she, rudely, snatching the
tattered and wet pelisse from her mother’s hand, “it is only another
evidence that the Serges with all their wealth are too poor for the
purchase of common sense, or good manners:” then, with a curtsey to
Lady Maclairn, she retired to change her dress. Mrs. Serge, with an
heightened colour following her steps. I believe this _brouillerie_
became more serious in their apartment. The young lady did not appear
at the dining table, and Mrs. Serge’s fair face still glowed. “Where
is Nora?” asked the father, adjusting his napkin under his chin. “Does
she dine with Caroline?” “No,” replied the wife, “she is busy drying
the books Sam has brought her from the library, they are as wet as
water can make them, and she has had enough of the rain for one day.”
Her folly was related with some asperity, and the postillion’s drenched
condition described. Mr. Serge wished that neither had taken cold; and
with a placid air took his soup. When the heroine appeared, she was in
perfect good humour; but I perceived that she had been weeping, and
look fatigued; something of a deprecating tone and pensive air soon
produced their effect on the relenting mother, and all was harmony in
the evening. I chanced to ask her what new novels had been sent her
from the library. “I have not examined the parcel,” replied she with
some emotion, “for I have for once discovered that there are certain
frames of mind in which a novel cannot be read with either amusement or
interest: besides,” added she, “I have been teazed with a pain in my
teeth, which will be attributed to my morning ramble, notwithstanding
I have felt it more than a week:” then turning to Malcolm, with more
coquetry than I had ever observed in her manner, she with a sweet smile
asked him to prescribe for her; and directed his attention to a tooth
as the one which she suspected was diseased. I could not preserve my
gravity on seeing the _sang froid_ with which Malcolm examined the most
beautiful mouth nature could form, and the delight which Mr. Serge
manifested at his Nora’s choice of a doctor; who with the solemnity
of an old nurse acquitted the spotless tooth, and ordered some whey on
going to bed.

“It is ten to one,” observed Mrs. Serge with good humour, “whether
even your remedy, _doctor_, will remove her cold in one night: it
will not surprise me that she is laid up for a week.” “Why will you
anticipate disappointment for her?” asked Mr. Serge, “it will be
sufficient when it arrives, and if she cannot see Durham to-morrow,
she must take the punishment of her heedlessness; but I warrant the
tooth will be well with a good night’s sleep.”--“I had settled with
Caroline, before my offence of the morning had made the excursion to
Durham a doubt,” answered Leonora, “to remain with her, thinking my
sister Lydia would be amused by the jaunt; and to be honest, I confess
I have no hope of being quit of a cold that I am sensible is the effect
of my indiscretion.” “Yes,” observed Miss Lydia, “it was settled I
should go last Monday, but you know, Nora, you promised to contrive
that I should ride in the phaeton, and I would rather stay at home than
go in the coach. I am always so deadly sick in a coach, that I hate
them.” “Nonsense!” cried the mother, “that is a new fagary. You never
complained in a close carriage till the phaeton was bought.” “Well, my
love,” observed the placid Mr. Serge, “but as pleasure is the purposed
end of our little journey, why should not Lydia have a share of it
unmixed, and as our dear girls have agreed in this business, we will
manage so as to please Lydia. You will not refuse your assistance, my
dear Malcolm,” added he, smiling: “you shall have the daughter instead
of the father to conduct.” Malcolm accepted of the exchange with good
humour; and all were contented.

I have had so much business of late on my hands that I believe I have
not mentioned the increasing good understanding which subsists between
Malcolm and Mr. Parry, our new curate. He is become a frequent and
welcome visitor here, and an acquisition we all enjoy. Malcolm has, I
suspect, given him a hint that his present duty requires assistance;
and most assuredly he finds in Parry an excellent coadjutor. The
baronet enjoys his conversation, and Mr. Serge is no burden to him. I
foresee we shall not need Parry for to-morrow’s excursion. The rain
is now pouring down in torrents, and it is midnight. May Heaven guard
your pillow, my Lucy, with its accustomed goodness! Mary shall have my
journal of the Durham expedition in due time.

                               Yours, &c.

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.


                              LETTER XLIV.

                      _From the same to the same._

The interruption in my usual punctuality, my dear friend, and which
has alarmed your too tender fears, induces me to write to you without
delay, for the express purpose of assuring you that I am perfectly
well; and that in my failure during a few posts nothing has occurred to
disturb me beyond the concern I have been under for the happiness of
those around me. It is not too much to take for granted that you have
long since perceived in Miss Leonora Serge’s character and opinions
certain indications that will prepare you for the recital of her
premeditated, and by this time _successful_ journey to Gretna-Green.
But as in your code of laws, and modes of instruction Mary will stand
no chance of being an adept in the science of intrigue, duplicity,
and cunning, it may not be useless to place before her an example
so calculated to impress on her mind the delightful gratifications,
enjoyed by the girl of spirit, who prefers running away from the
restraints of parental care, giving up all the decencies of her sex and
condition, and proclaiming to the world that she is void of feeling
and principle, in order to attain the man whom she loves for having
betrayed her to scorn and ruin.

As I predicted in my last letter, the weather prevented our going to
Durham. Miss Nora’s tooth-ach became a sore throat, and a slight fever.
She was of course an invalid, and poor Sam, the postillion, had more
than one drenching commission. Wednesday we had a sun unclouded; and on
Thursday we set out for Durham with a doubtful sky, and an oppressive
heat in the air. Miss Lydia, stuffed into her mother’s pea green riding
dress, took her allotted station in the phaeton with Malcolm, with an
alacrity and contentment of heart that paid her good father for the
sacrifice of his pleasure. Douglas in the curricle with Sir Murdoch,
left us nothing to wish for him. Lady Maclairn, your Rachel, and Mr.
and Mrs. Serge, had Mr. Parry for their beau; and I saw with pleasure
her ladyship cheerfully sustaining her part in this arduous trial of
her strength, in an undertaking so averse to her habits of life. The
sun favoured the out-riders till we reached Durham. The delicate Lady
Maclairn preferring the office of _Caterer_, to a sultry walk, was
fortunately left at the inn to quiet and repose, whilst we sallied
forth to see the public places; but I believe that in reaching them
we saw all that was worthy of notice in the town; and a burst of
thunder, and a black cloud, warned us to return with all speed to the
shelter of our inn. Happily for us, a deluge of rain spared our timid
friends from the terrors of the thunder storm; and ourselves from
the pain of seeing them in hysterics, as well as we from any further
exhibition at Durham. A card-table and chess-board, with a sumptuous
dinner filled up our _pleasurable_ time. But no felicity is permanent!
Even a party of pleasure is liable to vexations. Lydia’s enjoyment of
the dessert was interrupted by an altercation between her father and
herself. He insisted on her returning home in the coach, urging the
dampness of the evening. Miss Lydia contended that the rain had made
the evening fair, and much pleasanter than the morning. Mr. Serge was
firm, and the pouting girl was forced to yield to his authority. It
would have been as well had the young lady been indulged; for it was
proved _demonstratively_, that a close carriage did not agree with Miss
Lydia Serge: and although we did not concur with her in calling Mr.
Serge ‘ill-natured and obstinate,’ we could not but allow, that less
pertinacity on his part would have been _discreet_, and Mrs. Serge’s
lecture on _gluttony_ as well spared for another time and season.

On the carriage’s driving up to the hall-door I was shocked on seeing
Mrs. Allen advancing with precipitation to meet us: she was weeping;
and in evident distress stopped to speak with Malcolm and Mr. Serge;
who in a moment endeavoured to quit the phaeton exclaiming aloud, “She
is dead! my child is dead!” and Malcolm, giving the rains to a servant,
sprang from the carriage and entered the house. Whilst Mrs. Allen in
vain repeated to the poor father, “No, no, my good sir: hear me.”
You will judge that this consternation was not long to be endured.
Malcolm’s absence was but momentary. “They are alarmed within,” said he
aloud; and he added with assumed composure, “Miss Leonora is missing;
she is probably sheltered in the neighbourhood. I am going at _Miss
Serge_’s request to seek her, there having been some blundering as to
the road which Miss Leonora indicated on leaving the house for a walk.”
On saying this, Malcolm leaped into the curricle and disappeared.
“I see how it is,” observed Mr. Serge, panting for breath, “all is
clear! but God is merciful! Let me go to my Caroline, let me see my
comfort, my darling, and then I shall be patient.” Doctor Douglas
prevented him, by arguing the danger of agitating her spirits still
more than they had been, and we conducted the trembling father into
the dining-parlour; Mrs. Allen attending Douglas to Caroline’s room.
Mrs. Serge had, with the astonishment which the scene had produced,
lost, apparently, the use of her tongue and powers of reflection. On
reaching the parlour she burst into tears; and with more of resentment
than despair, observed, that she was only sorry Mr. Maclairn had so
much trouble; for she doubted not but Leonora would be at the Hall as
soon as himself. “This is her penitence!” continued she; “because I was
angry with her for walking in the rain she has stopped at some house,
and is, perhaps, laughing at our fears.” “Before you are too sanguine
in your hopes, Mrs. Serge,” said her husband, with much coldness of
manner, “it may not be amiss to know when she left this house; and
what grounds those whom she has quitted have for their suspicions.”
Mrs. Warner was summoned. Her evidence consisted in the following
particulars. Miss Nora soon after we had left the Hall changed her
dress; for Warner met her in the garden at one o’clock equipped for a
journey, and with some surprise observed that if she meant to take
an airing she would be disappointed, as Mr. Willet was gone with his
sister, for the day, to see the castle, and had taken the only horse
and carriage remaining, which was the little market cart. The young
lady said that she had only thought of a walk in the avenue; but she
believed it would be wiser to stay at home, for there would certainly
be a thunder shower. “She sauntered with me into the vestibule,”
continued Warner, “when seeing your shawl, madam,” addressing Mrs.
Serge, “which you omitted to take with you for Miss Lydia’s use, she
wrapped it round her, and said she would venture a little way, for she
was half dead for want of exercise; and away she tripped, promising not
to lose sight of the cottage on the green, which is not a quarter of a
mile from hence, hinting that she had promised the old woman who lives
there a trifle for her grandchild. I thought no more of the young
lady,” continued Warner, “till the storm came on, when Mrs. Allen came
to see whether she was with Miss Flint or in her own room; saying that
Miss Serge wished for her sister’s company, as she was a coward when
it thundered. We were sadly perplexed, madam. Having no man-servant,
but the gardener and his lad, at hand, and the thunder was dreadful
here: so Mrs. Allen, trusting to Miss Nora’s promise to me, waited a
while, saying she was certain it was better that she should remain
sheltered in the cottage than to venture home in such a tempest. The
rain soon abated, and we sent the gardener with an umbrella to Dame
Bank’s. She had not seen the lady. You may judge of our fright! The
gardner and his son were sent different ways to no purpose. About two
hours since they returned in consequence of news they had picked up at
the Ram. A traveller who had entered the house during the storm had
seen a lady hastening to a chaise and four that stood on the road to
Durham. She was assisted by a gentleman, and rather flew than walked to
the carriage. She had something white on her head and shoulders, and
the gentleman was in scarlet. Whilst they were talking with Hunt and
this stranger, Tom Hunt entered. He had passed the chaise on leaving
Durham, and had seen the lady in white, but not her face: she seemed to
be sleeping on the gentleman’s shoulder. My lady,” added Warner, “is
sadly ruffled and distressed by this disaster; and if Mrs. Allen had
not been with Miss Serge, God knows what would have been the event of a
day so dreadful as this has been! My lady and Mrs. Allen only fear they
have done wrong, in not sending an express to Durham, as soon as the
men returned; but as so much time had been lost, and they hoped you
would not be late on the road, they gave up the thought; and, indeed,
it was impossible to have gained any advantage from pursuing it.” “You
say truly, my good woman,” observed Mr. Serge, with suppressed agony,
“The child who forsakes a parent’s protection cannot be benefited by
being pursued. But repentance will overtake her. No, she is gone, gone
for ever!” added he rising and pacing the room!--Lady Maclairn retired
with Warner. Again the poor old man quitted his seat, and deliberately
taking off his wig, wiped his head and eyes. “Where is the heart, Miss
Cowley,” said he, “that would not bleed to see such a girl as my Nora
thus lost, thus betrayed to folly and wretchedness? Poor creature!”
added he, “how hard is thy fate! A mere babe, as one may say, thus
to be ensnared and deluded! Thus to be the victim of designs, which
a highway robber would scorn, as beneath him. But to the villain who
has robbed me of my child, will I place the pangs I feel; God learnt
from that child the knowledge of my sufferings!” He was silent for
some time, nor did his lady attempt to comfort him: she appeared
stupified by the blow, and I trembled for her safety. On seeing me
apply my salts to relieve her, he again rose and said to her, “I pity
you; but remember how many times I have forewarned you, my dear Lydia,
when at Bath! I told you again and again that you encouraged that
Fairly’s visits too much.” “Captain Fairly!” repeated the wife, putting
aside the salts, with more surprise than sorrow, “what, in the name
of wonder, has led you to think the Captain has any concern in this
good-for-nothing girl’s elopement? I only wish you may find she has
done no worse! I no more believe she is gone off with him than with the
pope. I know more of Captain Fairly than you do; but it is always your
way, Jerry, to blame me. Do you think me such a fool as not to have
seen it, if he had made love to the girl?” “We will not fall out on
that question,” replied Mr. Serge; “we have troubles sufficient for the
hour. All I have to say is _this_, whether it be Captain Fairly, or any
other honourable gentleman of his class, who has robbed me of my child,
he shall find his work as unprofitable as those who, as we say, perform
their work with ‘a hot needle and burnt thread.’ Jeremiah Serge has
not worked early and late to enrich a _rascal_; nor will I countenance
a child who has preferred the protection, of a _rascal_ to that of a
tender, honest father.” He covered his face and wept aloud. Mrs. Serge
was silenced, as well as myself. The dejected father was roused from
this sorrow by the entrance of the doctor, who told him that Caroline
was much easier, and was disposed to sleep. “Blessed be God!” said
he, with an expression of gratitude: “One hope remains. But I will
go to bed,” added he languidly, “for I am strangely disordered, and
only a trouble to my friends.” Tears again streamed from his eyes; and
no one opposed his retreat. We soon followed his example, and sought
that repose which was not to be found at Tarefield-Hall: I traced her
benign footsteps to Heathcot; and there it was that the spirits of your
Rachel Cowley found rest. My dear Mary will expect the sequel of this
wonderful business with more than usual curiosity: she shall not be
disappointed by her affectionate

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.


                              LETTER XLV.

                      _From the same to the same._

                                                                Tuesday.

On Sunday morning we saw nothing of our disconsolate guests. Mr. Serge
was closeted with Sir Murdoch; and Mrs. Serge was too much indisposed
to rise before the dining hour. Before I give you the conversation the
baronet has just been detailing to his wife and myself, I must tell
you, that such is my veneration for Mr. Serge, that I cannot be at
peace with my conscience till I have made “l’amende honorable,” for the
flippancy of my pen in describing him to you on my first seeing him.
A few more such lessons as I have had will correct my presumption in
judging too soon; and when I am again tempted to laugh at a double
chin, or the cut of a man’s face, I will remember Sir Murdoch’s and
Mr. Serge’s. The baronet’s account of the interview between him and
this good creature has so steeled my heart against Miss “Nora,” that I
wish to leave her on her journey; and for once descend to a vulgarism,
and say to you, that if it takes “nine taylors to make a man,” I can
prove without difficulty, that it would take ninety and nine gentlemen
to make such a taylor as Jeremiah Serge. Read, and be incredulous if
you can! The conversation began by the baronet’s arguments of hope and
consolation. “I hope that in time, and with God’s help, I shall be
comforted,” answered Mr. Serge; “but it is not to be expected, that I
who am quite an unlettered man, should be so able to meet misfortunes
as those who know more. I have endeavoured to do my duty, as well as
I was able to perform it; but I fear my ignorance has brought this
calamity on my poor child.” “How can this be,” asked Sir Murdoch,
“have you not lived to render your children happy?” “I thought I had,”
replied he, mournfully, “and perhaps I accuse myself without just
grounds; for I dare say, that be a parent ever so wise and learned, if
his heart is wrung as mine is, he will think of some failure or other
of his own, which may have led to the evil he deplores: however this
may be, I cannot help knowing, that my love of peace, and my ignorance
have brought me to sorrow. I never liked this Captain Fairly, who is
without doubt the betrayer of my poor child; for we found last night a
letter which Nora left for her mother, in my wife’s night cap. I hated
to see this coxcomb perpetually dangling after my wife, and I told her
so; but she cried, and asked me whether she had ever given me cause to
be jealous. I could not say she had, for I believe there never was a
more faithful wife; and moreover, I heard her constantly talking to
this puppy about a sweetheart whom he expected at Bath. Some few days
before we left that place I met with a friend, who knew something of
Fairly’s father. He told me, that he had left this young man a pretty
estate, and some money; but that he had dissipated his fortune, and was
then a gambler and a fortune-hunter. I told Lydia this, but she only
laughed, and said my friend had mistaken the matter; for fortune was
hunting after Fairly, a rich widow being in love with him. However, by
this time, I know _Captain Fairly_,” added he, with resentment, “but
he does not yet know Jeremiah Serge. I will teach him, ignorant as I
am, to know, that the goose is not so easy to pluck as the pigeon. No
man is more easily deceived than I am, Sir Murdoch. How should it be
otherwise? For to this hour, I have never been able to discover that
dishonesty was profitable to a man, even in this world, to say nothing
of a better; but when I am tricked by a knave, his business is done
with me. I am not twice caught in the same gin. But, Lord help me! I
talk as though it was keeping my money that could console me! Alas!
what am I the better for riches! One child who has been the prop of
my _every_ comfort, is sinking into an untimely grave! a second, so
trained as to be useless; and the third, who was my pride and pleasure,
the property of a villain! I must tell you, Sir Murdoch, all the
bitterness of my soul. It has for some time been in my mind, how to
make that wealth which Providence has placed in my hands a blessing
to my children. I never wished to aggrandize myself with alliances
that were above my “cut.” Yet I thought my Leonora would not disgrace
any man. I sometimes talked with my counsellor and best friend, a
_Counsellor Steadman_, on this subject; and I begged of him to look
out for me a son in law, who had honour wherewith to meet my honesty,
and good sense enough to balance an easy fortune with an uncertain
expectation from birth. He sometimes joked at my anxiety; and said my
girl would do for a duchess. But knowing I did not wish for a duke, he
mentioned a young man, who to me stands higher than the whole peerage.
This was your Malcolm, your crown of glory, Sir Murdoch!” The baronet
surprised, attempted to speak. “Hear me out,” continued he, “before you
censure me for looking above me. I knew that you had married my wife’s
relation, and that with your rank, you had the feelings of a man. Your
son had every thing, _but money_; and my child had _with that_, a
father whom no man can reproach. So I determined to visit Tarefield,
and to take my chance. Hospitality and kindness have received me;
and encouraged by them, I ventured to hint my wishes to Mr. Maclairn.
But he did not, or as I now know, he could not listen to me. In our
ride home from Durham I was explicit with him; and like what he is, he
was also explicit with me; and told me, that his hand and his heart
had long been plighted to a young lady in this neighbourhood. I will
say nothing of this disappointment, nor the shock it gave my mind, on
hearing that that very child had abandoned me for whom I would have
travelled barefooted through the world to have provided her with such a
protector as Malcolm Maclairn. I have now told you _all_, except what
will comfort me. Give me your _hand_, Sir Murdoch, for my _heart_. Let
me have a share in your blessing: make me useful to your Malcolm’s
happiness. This is what I ask. It shall not make me proud; but it will
comfort me, and be a blessing to my last hour.” Miss Lydia entered the
room, to say that her sister Caroline wished to see her father; and
wringing Sir Murdoch’s hand he hastily followed Lydia to the sick room.

I will now leave you to your comments, having to write to our ‘crown of
glory.’ _Adieu, pour le present._

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.


                              LETTER XLVI.

                      _From the same to the same._

Ah! flattery!--I see I must go on with my ‘pathetic tale.’ Therefore
I may as well proceed and leave to the flatterers to keep up the
connexion. Doctor Douglass was present at the first interview between
Mr. Serge and Caroline, and even regulated it. A tender embrace, and
an assurance of her being free from pain was all that was permitted;
and the poor father satisfied with this, retreated at the doctor’s
command. Malcolm persuaded him to ride, and they returned not till
the placid features of Mr. Serge could bear our kindness. To-day I
have seen Caroline; having heard from Mrs. Allen that she was easy and
composed.

I was prepared to find her in bed, but not to see her father stretched
by her side on the outside of it, thinking he was with his wife. Oh!
how fervently do I wish that every girl whom folly and heedlessness may
tempt into the same road to ruin which Miss Leonora has taken, could
have witnessed, as I did, the pangs which rend a parent’s bosom for
the desertion of a child! Would to heaven I possessed the invisible
belt of fiction, I would reserve it for the sole purpose of making
such offenders the unseen spectators of the misery they cause! To
judge from the anguish I felt, they would be justly punished! Caroline
was supported by pillows in a sitting posture, her countenance still
wearing the impression of distress, and the languor occasioned by pain
and opiates. Her father was weeping in silence, his face covered. “You
will forgive her,” said the tender pleader, entirely unmindful of my
entrance. “You will, my dear father! Yes, I see you will receive again,
this dear, this poor deluded girl!” “I will, I will,” said he, sobbing,
“I will do any thing, rather than see you grieve, my blessed child!
my only hope.” “Consider her youth, her inexperience, her beauty,”
continued the daughter. “Ah! poor creature!” replied the afflicted
parent, “I do consider them, and my own incapacity also! These have
been her destruction! She is lost, irreparably lost!” “I hope not,”
answered Caroline: “we are all liable to error, my dear father: no age
can secure us always in the right path, without other aids than our own
feeble powers; but we may return to duty, we may recover the ground we
have lost, and if her husband love her, and what must be that man who
could, in his circumstances, fail in affection, all may yet end well.”
“It can never end well;” answered he, relapsing into agony, “I say she
is _undone_, ruined for life! She has united herself to a thief, a base
purloiner of another’s treasure; and for what? why for the pelf, which
is dross to the loser in comparison with a lost child! This rascal is
too base, even for hope. This was no boy’s trick with him: neither her
beauty nor her innocence allured him. She was the casket in which I
kept my money; and had she been the foulest thing in nature, he would
have been contented with his prize, so his purpose of wickedness had
been accomplished. He is a villain! my Caroline; and whether it had
been my wife, or my child, that had opened to him my coffers, it would
have made no difference to him. But God help me, what am I doing!”
added he, checking his vehemence and sorrow. “Grieve no more, my dear
Caroline, all shall be as you direct; only be comforted: this poor girl
shall be pitied, shall be received again into a father’s arms. She
shall not find me unrelenting. She shall be happy if I can make her so,
and that will cheer you.”

I could not remain in the room any longer: I was totally subdued by
the language of nature and affection, and again my heart bitterly
reproached the child who could abandon such a father: who had not, in
his sharpest pangs of sorrow, uttered one menace, and who, hanging over
the sick couch of a dutiful daughter, thought more of her consolation
than of his own injuries. I recalled my wish, however; for had Miss
Leonora been present, she must have died of compunction; and Caroline
has made me charitable. I hope she will live to repent; and repay in
some measure her father’s goodness.

Mrs. Serge did not appear till the tea hour yesterday. She looked pale,
and was for a time silent and sorrowful; but at length she began on the
subject of her inquietude. The fugitive was by turns “an ungrateful
girl,” and “her poor betrayed child;” but what appeared to have made a
deep impression on the mother, was the difficulties to which Miss Nora
would be exposed in the journey for want of clothes and linen. “She
would be such a figure!” and then “for a girl like Nora to be married
in such a low life way! She, that might have married in the face of
the whole world, even a nobleman, with her fortune!” “That opinion of
yours, my dear Lydia,” observed Mr. Serge, somewhat dryly, “has, I
fear, been too often repeated before Mr. Fairly; and it has had its
effect, for it has conquered his dislike _to a brown girl_.”--His
lady coloured crimson deep at this remark.--“There is no accounting
for his behaviour,” answered she; “but if it was money he wanted, I
know that he might have had a widow with thirty thousand pounds in her
pocket by _holding_ up his hand. I must think Nora courted him: his
handsome person might, without any discredit to her’s, or any woman’s
choice, have pleased her: however, she might have done worse, Jerry;
for after all, Captain Fairly is a gentleman, and belongs to people
who can push him forwards in the world: I know he has great relations
in the East Indies.” “Are you not mistaken, Lydia, as to the place in
which this noble captain has friends and connections?” asked Mr. Serge.
“Oh no,” replied she eagerly, “I have heard him speak many times of
a cousin he has at Bombay, who married a nabob, because he would not
marry her himself: so in despair she went to the East Indies, and got
a husband in a fortnight after she arrived.” “I must still think you
are out in your geography,” replied he, “for I must believe he will
never find any friends to acknowledge him, unless at Botany Bay; and
upon condition he transport himself thither, my purse shall be open
to him.” “Lord, Jerry, how cruelly you talk!” answered the weeping
wife; “but I know you so well, that I ought not to mind what you say:
when you see your poor girl on her bended knees before you, you will
forgive and forget.” “I have forgiven her, without seeing her on her
bended knees,” replied he with emotion. “Let her reserve that humility
for her heavenly Father: she has offended him in forgetting her duty
to me; and this grieves me, Lydia, more than you think.” A big tear
rolled down his honest face: then turning to Sir Murdoch and his
lady, he expressed his concern at having given them so much trouble
and vexation; and mentioning his intention of leaving the Hall on
Tuesday morning, provided Doctor Douglas did not oppose the measure.
I omit the reply made to this declaration. “I have not the smallest
doubt,” said he, struggling to suppress his tears. “You are good and
kind-hearted people, and as such, speak as you mean; but my child
wishes to be at Putney, in order to receive and comfort her sister.”
The doctor observed, that Miss Serge’s anxiety to return home would be
more hurtful to her than the journey. It was, therefore, settled, that
our guests should depart at the time they proposed, which is, however,
postponed till Thursday.

My reverence for Mr. Serge has, my dear Lucy, risen within these
few last days to veneration. I have even neglected my bounden duty
to my dear Sir Murdoch, in order to watch Mr. Serge in his solitary
walks in the avenue. We understand each other. He talks to me of his
idol Caroline: asks me a thousand questions about Mr. Hardcastle;
and wonders that he never heard Counsellor Steadman mention so
extraordinary a man! Then he stops, looks in my face, and says with a
sigh, “What would I give to see my Caroline as healthy as you, Miss
Cowley? But she is as good as you are. If you knew the heart of my
child you would love her, and pity me.” The tone with which he calls
Caroline “his child” is so peculiarly tender, and expressive of his
affection for her, that a stranger to him and his family would conclude
that his hopes hung on the life of an _only child_: but in his conduct
to them all he appears to be governed by one leading principle of
affection and indulgence; and the preference he gives to Caroline is
the result of that confidence and esteem which his own unsophisticated
understanding has discovered to be due to her worth and talents.
He calls her sometimes his _Prop_, at another his _Pride_, and his
_Boast_; and this morning with a flood of tears, he told me that I
could never know what were the advantages he had reaped from having had
a child like his Caroline; and he concluded that my father had been
_well educated_, by the wisdom he had shown in regard to me; “whereas,”
added he, “my child has been eyes to the blind, as I may say, in her
parents’ house.”

Farewell! I am going to take an airing with Mr. Serge. Your’s, ever,

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.


                             LETTER XLVII.

                      _From the same to the same._

You are sorry, you say, that the Serges have left Tarefield so soon;
and that also my sweet Mary regrets the loss of the best part of my
romance, the recovery of Miss Serge’s health, and the happiness of the
whole family, by the forgiveness of the imprudent Leonora. But I cannot
gratify Mary. Heaven in its own time will render to Caroline Serge the
meed of suffering virtue. Miss Leonora must first forgive herself,
before her father’s pardon can be a blessing to her; and if she is
ever entitled to his forgiveness, it must be attained by the road of
self-reproach and repentance. I can only wish her well through the
rugged path, and pray that she may not stumble nor faint in it.

You may think me relapsing into hardness of heart. I cannot help it. My
affection for the worthy will have its ascendancy. But I send you the
substance of a conversation between me and Miss Serge, which will at
once account for my uncharitable sentiments in mentioning the fugitive
bride.

Willing to be of some use in the general bustle preparatory to our
friends’ departure, and to which was added the more than common
indisposition of Miss Flint, who has not yet recovered from the
consequences of Miss Nora’s unceremonious departure, I offered my
services to Caroline, who, as being the least exacting, I thought in
danger of being the most forgotten. She was quietly and meekly sitting
in her easy chair, and alone. She received me with satisfaction. I
began to net. The conversation soon turned on her sister, her hopes of
meeting her, and effecting an entire reconciliation, and forgiveness of
her marriage. “I have only one fear to harass my spirits,” added she,
“and my efforts to check my impatience augments this fear. I know that
my life depends on my being placid; and I may render myself useless
to Leonora from my anxiety to serve her.” I praised her goodness. “It
is my duty only that I can perform,” answered she; “and even in my
attempts and hopes, as these relate to my sister, I am governed by a
still superior principle of action. I well know what my dear father’s
sorrow will be, when I am removed. He will need comfort, and Leonora
has only to use her understanding, and to employ her cares assiduously
to be the consoler he will want in the first access of his sorrow: his
God and his own piety will then be his consolation, I trust.” “And I
most fervently hope,” replied I, “that your youth and your patience
will effect your restoration to health. You will live, I trust, to be
a comfort and a blessing to your good father, and all your family. You
may reasonably hope to enjoy many years of comfortable existence in
this world, before you are recalled to the heaven for which you are so
richly prepared.” My warm and earnest manner surprised her, I believe;
for her eyes swam in tears, and she blushed. “I am indebted to a good
and pious aunt, who brought me up,” replied she, “for the patience and
the peace of mind I have enjoyed under a course of trial, which my
youth little expected three years since. How often have I blessed this
relation for her lessons, and for an example that has supported me, and
which will I hope, still support me to the end.”--She checked herself,
and then proceeded.

“This aunt,” continued she, “might with propriety be called my father’s
best friend. Left an orphan, and without the means of life, she
received him when a mere boy; and supported him as her child. On the
death of her husband, who left her rich, she placed my father at the
head of the business, and although not more than forty, rejected for
his sake several overtures of marriage. She superintended his family;
and in the prosperity and tranquillity of my father’s life, he was
in danger of forgetting, that, ‘man was not born to be alone.’ He
was advancing to the season of old batchelorship, when he married my
mother; who is full twenty years younger than himself: she was very
pretty, and good-natured: my aunt, as she has told me, feared, on
hearing of the marriage, that my father’s good genius had forsaken
him; but although a mere household drudge, she had understanding to
discover that a man of my father’s age, with an affluent fortune, and a
thriving industry, was not likely when in love to be ‘_controuled by
advice_.’ The good humour and docility of the young wife soon gained
her good will, and her frank confession, that she knew nothing of
family management, and was unequal to the direction of one so numerous
as my father’s, induced Mrs. Massey, my aunt, to give up her plan of
living in the country. She retained her post of usefulness; and my
mother, delighted by the amusements within her reach, and contented
with the idleness of an indulged child, saw with gratitude, rather
than jealousy, her authority delegated into the hands of one who never
interfered with her pleasures or wishes.”

“I was the first born child, and the first serious vexation, that
my aunt experienced from my father’s marriage. She had hoped to see
my mother a nurse; but she was disappointed. I was sent into the
_country_; even so far as _Bow_; and two years nursing there returned
me to St. Martin’s Lane, half stupified with Godfrey’s cordial, and
ricketty in every joint. Unfortunately my mother, attributing my bad
health and feebleness to natural weakness, rather than to improper
management, pursued the same line of conduct with my sister Lydia, who
was born a more vigorous child; but willing to make some concessions,
she placed her at _East Ham_, a little further distant from London, and
on Epping Forest. Country nursing would, it is probable, have kept its
ground in my mother’s good opinion, from the proof Lydia gave of its
utility, had it not been for an accident, which happened to my mother,
in returning home from visiting her. She was in company with my father,
and they were both robbed by a highwayman, who, not contented with
their watches and purses, was brutal, and so terrified my mother, that
she was in danger of her life, and the consequence was, her losing a
male child by a premature birth. Leonora, at my father’s request, was
reared by a wet nurse at home; and my mother found the nursery in the
attic no interruption to her amusements. About this period, fortune
augmented my father’s abundance: he gained the twenty thousand pound
prize in the state lottery; but this accession of wealth made little
alteration in our modes of life. My mother preferred a _job_ coach to
any other, and observed that she had a country house in every good
inn within an airing from town. Her early habits of life, and her
remoteness from the fashionable world and its follies, had happily
secured to her a relish for enjoyments, which, though more common,
were less ruinous. She was contented in her own sphere of action, and
uncontrouled by my father, who viewing every proof of her kindness and
liberality to others through the medium of his own active benevolence,
was indulgent to the defects of my mother’s mode of being useful. But
a death, or a birth, in any family within her knowledge or reach, was
the signal for her to desert her own. A stranger might at times have
mistaken, in the night, our house for the abode of an accoucheur. Alert
and vigilant, my mother obeyed the first summons; and with exultation
would detail to my aunt the steps she had trodden, or the road she
had passed, in the cares of providing for a funeral, or getting a
wet nurse for an infant. I really believe she has answered at the
font for more children than she can recollect by their baptismal or
sirnames, and has gone more miles to trace the qualifications of a
cook-maid for her friends, than a judge goes on his circuit. In a word,
all was _pleasure_ to my dear mother, that was bustle, hurry, and an
exertion of her constant flow of animal spirits. I fear I have spoken
too unguardedly of my mother’s little foibles,” continued Caroline
with a modest blush, “for believe me, she has many excellent traits
in her character; and even in her mistakes, the goodness of her heart
prevails. But I have been led into this confidence in you, Miss Cowley,
from the peculiar state of my thoughts as these relate to my sister’s
unfortunate marriage. I once or twice saw the man to whom she has so
unguardedly committed her own happiness, and the tranquillity of her
father. I was not pleased with him; for I perceived that he was a
designing man, and had already secured by his attentions my mother’s
good opinion. I now dread his influence as her _son_. The genuine
virtue and simplicity of my father’s mind, with his indulgence and
liberality of temper, will be feeble barriers to oppose to this Captain
Fairly’s seductions, should it be his pleasure to lead my mother into
the snares of dissipation and fashionable life. I have observed, even
from the hour the Miss Gudgeons first accompanied Leonora to Putney,
the facility with which my mother adopted new ideas of her importance,
and new notions in regard to our modes of living. At the last visit
which these girls paid us, she offended one of my father’s most ancient
and respectable friends, by omitting to invite his wife and daughter,
because he was a sadler. Her short residence and acquaintance with
Lady Gudgeon, at Bath, though fortunately terminated, was not without
its bad effects, and I have been concerned to see, from time to time,
since our return to Putney, my dear mother assuming with her neighbours
more of Lady Gudgeon’s manners than they liked; but her cheerfulness
and frankness of temper soon conciliated them, and banished from her
mind her ‘genteel society.’ My father will be made wretched,” continued
the amiable creature, “should this Fairly gain an ascendancy in the
family; for I am convinced he is a worthless man, and void of every
principle.”--She was agitated, and I saw that she with pain suppressed
something. “My mother has been much gratified,” pursued she, “by my
employing my good offices in Leonora’s behalf: that is some comfort to
me, and it is wrong to anticipate evil. Leonora is now his wife, and I
will only think of her future security, not of her present condition.”
She again paused.----“I was reading this morning,” continued she,
“the story of the Homespun family, from ‘the Mirror:’ you will not be
surprised, my dear Miss Cowley, after my little detail, that I could
not help being struck with the analogy I found between this family
and our own. All our mistakes have, as it appears to me, originated
from the want of education; I mean of that education requisite to
the safety of the individual: one suitable to their rank and place
in life. Had my dear father not been raised to such an unexpected
accession of wealth, all had been well. My mother’s activity would
have been confined to the duties of his station, and the care of her
children. Our present dangers would not have found a place in the
abode of competence and contentment: nor would my father’s unambitious
mind and simplicity of character, have been an object of censure or of
ridicule.” I will spare my pen the task of recording my reply to this
appeal. You know my wisdom, and if, like Solomon’s “it be vanity and
vexation of spirit,” it served one good purpose, for it led us into a
less serious conversation on the subject of female education and female
attainments. So leaving to your sagacity to fish out as you can my
profound observations, I will send you Caroline Serge’s opinions upon
these important topics.

“I am no advocate for ignorance,” said she, in reply to an observation
I had made; “but I am persuaded that the same mode of education cannot
be adapted with safety or utility to every girl; and granting all the
advantages which you have enumerated as resulting from a cultivated
understanding and refined taste, I must still be of opinion, that
we should be instructed with a view to the sphere in which we are
destined to move, and to the duties to which we are more peculiarly
appointed. It is not my father’s wealth or connections that could
render Leonora happy under the parental roof. Too much refinement for
our plain manners has made her discontented and ungrateful; and she
will, I fear, be unhappy for life, and a constant source of misery
to her parents. Lydia on the other hand,”--She cast down her eyes,
and with some hesitation, added,--“may be _their disgrace_; for she
has been _too much_ neglected. I have many times blessed God, Miss
Cowley, for the instructions of my youth: they were such as suited my
situation; and they have made me useful to my family, besides having
enforced that patience and resignation to the will of God, which my
trials have needed, and which the most brilliant attainments might have
failed in producing. I have, you see, not considered in this view, the
education of a young person, who, like yourself, has been judiciously
and well instructed; but that tuition which so often appears to me to
neglect, not only what is useful, but what principally constitutes
the only object worth attending to; for unless moral discipline goes
along with the enlargement of the understanding, and the cultivation
of taste, these are nothing; and indeed are often, _more pernicious
than ignorance_. It is true,” added she, smiling, “that my aunt
Massey’s lessons were not calculated to render me either polite or
accomplished; but there is nothing in household wisdom to pervert the
mind, or mislead the imagination. I should have liked to read more
than I did; but she was of opinion that I read enough for a girl; and
with some vanity, boasted of my arithmetic, when Leonora’s talents
were mentioned. My bad health, and the confinement to which it has
subjected me, have made me fond of reading, and it is with satisfaction
that I have seen my father also find amusement from books. He would,
I am persuaded, to please me,” added she, smiling, “have undertaken
to learn Hebrew; but I was contented with his choice of books, and we
have confined ourselves to those we understand. Be not surprised, my
dear Miss Cowley, that I thus plead in favour of unadorned goodness,
and plain sense,” continued she. “My father has shown me, that virtue
needs not the polish of the world, nor the acquirements of the schools,
to make its way to the esteem and reverence of those within the reach
of its attractive powers. You have witnessed my father’s goodness to
his children; and believe me, when I tell you, that his whole life and
conversation has been exactly similar to the ‘Israelites, in whom there
was no guile.’ God will comfort and support him when I am removed! But
I know, too well for my tranquillity, what he will suffer when I _am_
removed, and that thought prevents my being what I ought to be.” She
checked herself, and wiping away a falling tear, proceeded: “I have not
finished my little history,” said she smiling, “but I shall tire you;
yet it is necessary in order for me to bring forward my conclusions,
and to leave with you my confirmed opinion on the subject we have been
engaged in.” You will supply my answer, Lucy.

“My aunt, in the mean time,” continued Caroline, “trained me up to
be, as she said, her ‘right hand,’ and she frequently adverted to her
age and infirmities as another and powerful motive, which led her to
keep me so much in the domestic way. I was reminded continually of
my father’s comforts: of the disorder and confusion of such a family
as ours, if left without a manager; and hints were from time to time
dropped, that my mother had no turn for family affairs, though a good
parent, and a good woman. Lydia’s indulgences grieved her; but she
had too much on her hands, for hourly contests; and my mother was
satisfied, that in her day-school she learned enough for her years, and
that the kitchen was no worse for her play hours, than any other place.
Nora was the idol we all worshipped: she was lively and attractive
beyond even the attractive age of infancy: she was the pride of our
hearts, and the delight of my father’s eyes! Even Mrs. Massey was
unable to resist her fascinating vivacity and sweetness of temper; and
young as I was, I have remarked the pleasure which beamed from her
own comely face, on being told, that the little Leonora was “her very
image.” I had just attained my fifteenth year, when we lost this good
aunt. A will made in my father’s favour whilst he was yet a bachelor,
put him in possession of her whole property, which I have been told
amounted to near thirty thousand pounds.

I have, however, reason for believing that Mrs. Massey had frequently
thought of altering the form of her donation; and securing to us her
fortune after my father’s death: for I remember well hearing her many
times say, that my mother was not fit for business, and might be left
a young widow. From these remarks she would hastily turn, and descant
on the advantages of habits of economy and order; recounting to me the
management by which she had seconded her husband’s industry, and with
what comfort they lived to see their little beginnings of one thousand
pounds accumulate, and their business daily flourishing. “However,
child,” she would add, “your father is in a much more extensive line of
business than his uncle ever was; and as his family is a very different
one from mine, it behoves him to live at more expence; but that is no
reason for being extravagant or careless; and you must never relax in
your duty.” It may be necessary to tell you that my father’s household
was larger than is common with people in his class. He carried on an
extensive commerce in the wholesale line of his trade, and manufactured
his own cloth, in a house of business at or near Wakefield in
Yorkshire. In consequence of these engagements, we had in the family
several young men as assistants and clerks, who dined at our table,
and it was a liberal one. My father had purchased the house at Putney
before the melancholy event of my aunt’s death, meaning to make it the
residence of my mother and his daughters: and in his first depression
of spirits for a loss which no accession of fortune could lessen, he
declared his intention of quitting business, and living there himself.
For a time, however, he found in me, _another Mrs. Massey_, to use his
own partial words of praise; for assisted by an old domestic of my
aunt’s training, I superintended the house in St. Martin’s lane, and my
dear father still found it his abode of comfort. Leonora was at this
period at her school, Lydia, but I need not recapitulate to you her
defects! I mentioned to my father my fears for her; and without any
opposition on my mother’s part, she was permitted to bear me company
in St. Martin’s-lane. But I was too young for a duenna, and too feeble
in health, for endless contests; and warned by the good old woman who
directed in the kitchen, that Lydia was too often wanting to have pens
mended in the counting house, I gave up a charge for which I was so
little qualified. It is nearly three years since my complaint became
formidable. Mr. Tomkins, my father’s associate in business, married;
and I was no longer necessary in St. Martin’s-lane. Country air was
prescribed, and my father, in order to watch over my health, gave
up his commercial concerns and his enjoyment. In every interval of
ease, I have endeavoured to win Lydia to some useful application of
her hours; but neither my appeals to her reason, nor even her vanity,
have been attended with success. Nora’s contempt of her has not been
unobserved, however; and she has returned this, by fostering in her
heart a resentment, which no time will soften; whilst she manifests
to me a good will and affection unbounded, but as they are checked by
her habits of idleness, and predilection for company, in which she
finds herself without restraint. Thus, my dear Miss Cowley, have I
vainly endeavoured to be useful to my sisters. Alas! I have found
that my arguments are no more understood by beauty, accomplishments,
and a _finished_ education, than by vulgar ignorance, and rudeness.
Too much refinement on the one hand, and too little on the other,
having defeated my purpose of seeing them what I desire; the children,
and the happy children, of a parent beyond all praise, for purity of
heart, and the humble and genuine graces of Christianity. And let me
ask you,” added she, with animation, “whether in a world like this, and
for the accommodation of creatures like ourselves, it is not wisdom,
to prefer the lowly but snug cottage, to the sumptuous palace, under
every consideration which our reason may suggest in the choice. If
the gorgeous structure wants a solid _foundation_, and the cottage
a _fence_, I should still seek my safety under the low mud walls,
believing that the higher the edifice is, the greater is the hazard.”

Mrs. Serge’s entrance prevented my reply; and finding she had some
directions to give to the servant who followed her, relative to
Caroline’s clothes, I withdrew. What a loss will this amiable girl
be to her family! It is to be lamented, that heaven recalls her from
a world, in which she would be an example that good sense is worth
something, and more to be coveted than “gold, even than pure gold.”

I did not take leave of her without tears. She has promised to write to
me if her health permit her.

I forgot to inform you of our parting scene below stairs, and shall
preface it, by telling you, that Malcolm now ranks with me amongst my
_worthies_. Never talk to me of your Scipio’s, your Titus’s, and such
“heathenish folks,” as Deborah used to call them in her indignation,
on hearing that they worshipped images, whilst I can produce a mere
village swain true to love; and who expects the object of his flame
every hour to return, and recompense him for a month of sighs and
absence, yet calmly and heroically prepares to devote those hours of
joy to the comfort and assistance of the dejected Mr. Serge on the
road. The poor man, with a heavy heart, mentioned, that they should
find the way much longer to Putney on returning, than when in search
of their kind friends. “You have shewn us,” added he, “that we have
relations, and we shall go home with heavy hearts, counting the miles
which separate us; but I shall never forget Tarefield, nor like Putney
again.” “We part as relations and friends,” answered the worthy
baronet, taking his hand, “as such we have participated in your recent
vexation, my good Mr. Serge; and we are only to be contented by your
promising us another, and a longer visit next summer. Tell Leonora
I shall not forgive her, ’till I see her in her late nest; and her
husband shall pay us for her late desertion, by remaining with us, till
we are weary of him and her.”

“Thank ye! thank ye!” was uttered by a voice which could not proceed,
and which touched me to the very soul. “They wait for us,” observed
Mrs. Serge, “we must part.” Malcolm took Caroline’s hand, and asked her
whether she had courage to try the phaeton for a mile or two “when you
are weary,” added he, smiling, “I will be contented with your father.”
The poor man’s features swelled with his emotions. “The Lord be
merciful to me!” cried he, “but I verily believe you mean to take care
of _us_ on the road.” “Undoubtedly,” answered Malcolm, “and in return I
shall expect you will take care of me at Putney for a week.” “God will
bless you, young man,” answered Mr. Serge, in an under-toned voice, and
with great solemnity. “This is not the first journey of humanity that
will be placed to your account, nor will it be forgotten, that no duty,
beyond that of _good will_, has led you to the performance of this
second act of charity.” Malcolm coloured, and hastened his steps. I am
convinced that Mr. Serge alluded to his following his father to town,
when for me, he left his home in a condition of weakness, which the
son’s tenderness saw and compassionated: I have no doubt of Counsellor
Steadman’s having mentioned to Mr. Serge, the filial conduct of a young
man who so completely won his good opinion, whilst he was with us.

The baronet, thinking it a good opportunity of paying off something
from the score of “favours received,” persuaded me to take an airing
with him after our guests were departed. We drove to Bishop’s-Auckland;
for since Miss Leonora has made us acquainted with Mr. Type’s library,
Sir Murdoch reads novels with the avidity and interest of a miss in
her teens. Something in Miss Type’s manner excited my curiosity. On
inquiring whether all the volumes had been returned which had been
placed to Miss Serge’s account, she replied with a smile in the
affirmative, adding, that she hoped the young lady would in her turn
find the things she had sent with the books as exact. An explanation
followed, and I found that Miss Nora had judged it expedient to use my
name instead of her own, in her contrivance to secure for her journey a
change of linen, and the girl with some confusion of face told me that,
she thought the gentleman at the Mitre had been my lover from what he
had said.

So now leaving my dear Mary to consider at her leisure of the
marvellous and manifold talents necessary to effect the emancipation
of a young lady of sixteen or seventeen, from the galling yoke of
parental prudence, and the insipid security of a parental roof, I
shall conclude this letter; sincerely congratulating her on the little
acquaintance she has with cunning, ingratitude, and a courage which
sets at defiance, even a life of misery, for the gratification of
having for an hour, “her _own mind_.” Not doubting, but Mrs. Fairly
will soon conclude the lesson, by publishing the succeeding volume,
under the title of “The too late Repentance.” Heaven preserve you, my
dear girls, and believe me sincerely your’s,

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.


                             LETTER XLVIII.

                 _From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

I never shall, my dear Lucy, attempt to conceal from you the state
of my spirits. You judged right. I was dejected by the contents of
Horace’s last letter. His account of Lord William’s recent danger, by
the sudden bursting of an abscess on the lungs, and the depression of
mind with which Horace wrote the account of this dreadful alarm, could
not be balanced by the more flattering hopes with which he finishes his
letter. He says, that the patient is relieved, and that the physicians
are of opinion, that his life may be prolonged by this effort of nature.

But thoughts will intrude Lucy. Horace continually over the couch
of a person in Lord William’s situation, is not an image which
cheers my serious hours. I believe that few medical men now refuse
their concurrence in the opinion that consumptions are contagious,
particularly to those who are young. It has been, and must be, a matter
of surprise and regret to me, that Mr. Hardcastle has not participated
with me in these apprehensions; but on _no_ consideration would I wish
him to be alarmed at this moment; being certain, that _none_ would
induce Horace to leave his friend at this juncture. I will therefore
imitate him in his virtue, and I beg you will do the same, and leave
the event to that Providence which has hitherto preserved his health,
and witnessed his perseverance and fortitude in the exercise of his
duty. I frankly confess that I have not been altogether your _Beatrix_,
since the receipt of Horace’s last letters; and the absence of the
Serges, with that of my friends from the Abbey, has left me more
leisure, than has been useful to me; but knowing my remedy, I have
applied to it; and I am at present Sir Murdoch’s pupil for painting
in oils: he encourages me: and I am employed; the Heartleys are,
however, returned, and my spirits are returned with them. Tell Mary
she is to give full credit to Alice’s news of her uncle’s triumphs
at Hartley-pool. He is become a beau, and a young man, and could we
manage to keep him easy in regard to Miss Flint, we should all be
contented with him; but he is too anxious for her to keep long his
good looks, which, to say the truth, are beyond any I expected to see,
for he is absolutely handsome with his _ruddy_ face. Malcolm returned
last night; and you, as we did, will expect Putney news. He saw poor
Leonora only once: she was indisposed when he left his good friends,
but Captain Fairly had several times shown himself to the _modest
rustic_. Malcolm, was by no means pleased with him. He says that,
except a showy person, which may be called a handsome one, he could
not discover a single attraction in this man, which was likely to
captivate a girl of Leonora’s description; for he is cold, formal, and
affected in his manner; and announces the little he has to say with
a pomposity which diverted him, and which it was astonishing could
have escaped Leonora’s ridicule. But he thinks the captain is acting
a new part with these simple people, and he asserts, that, Fairly has
worn the buskin, or at least, has studied for the stage. Malcolm very
discreetly took care to be absent the first day the offending daughter
was received at Putney; but judging that the interview would leave Mr.
Serge dispirited, he returned in the evening before the new married
couple had left the house, which they did, it appears, in order to
their finally quitting the Adelphi-Hotel, for Putney, where Malcolm
left them. “On entering the drawing room,” continued our favourite,
“I found only Mrs. Serge with the captain, and a sort of awkward
introduction followed. The captain appeared impatient for his lady’s
departure, who with her father was with Miss Serge; and expressed in
high-flown terms, his apprehensions lest his dear Leonora should be
completely ill, with a day of such fatigue and trial, for her weak and
delicate spirits. I thought him an awkward hypocrite.” “Oh! do not
fear!” answered the mother, with more tartness of manner than I had
yet perceived; “Nora will bear this day’s fatigue as well as she did
her journey to Scotland; though, to say the truth,” added she, “I do
not think her _complexion_ improved, by travelling post for so many
miles; and unless rest restores her colour, you will be in danger of
renewing your preference of Lydia’s fair skin and hair.” She laughed,
but it was obvious that more was meant by this observation, than I
could understand; the captain, however, probably did; for with a smile
he reminded her, that all stratagems were lawful in love and war. “That
is more than I will allow,” answered she, colouring; “and I must needs
think, that a battle or a wife, so gained, _show_ more _cunning_ than
_courage_; however, let this pass, you have succeeded; and I trust you
will be happy with your ‘Nut-brown Maid.’ The captain spouted some
poetry in reply; and Mrs. Serge with a look of softened resentment
remarked, that he well understood the way to a woman’s heart, and she
had no doubt of his knowing how to keep Nora’s. The door opened, and
Mr. Serge entered the room with his weeping daughter. Malcolm hastily
retreating into the inner apartment, heard her sobs and adieus. The
next day, she took possession of her deserted nest; but was too ill
to join the family at their repasts. Malcolm saw her, however, for
five minutes, when he took his leave of Caroline, who has wonderfully
supported herself during this scene of vexation. He was commissioned to
say all that was cordial and kind on the part of the harrassed Serges;
but they could not write.”

We are, my dear Lucy, becoming _lambs_ at Tarefield Hall: Miss Flint
could not settle for the night, without sending Warner with her
compliments to Mr. Maclairn, with inquiries after his health and
Mr. Serge’s family. Malcolm, whose heart is that of a lamb, also
coloured at this unexpected civility; and he very handsomely sent his
acknowledgments, and Miss Serge’s particular respects to her fellow
sufferer. So true is it, that “soft words turn away wrath,” that I
verily believe Malcolm listened with pity to his mother’s account of
Lucretia’s sinking health and spirit. I, wisely resolving to profit
from this temper of charity, have been in the invalid’s room for more
than an hour this morning. Lady Maclairn is relieved by these measures,
and poor Miss Flint often appears amused by our chat. But it is
incredible with what patience she bears the pain in her knee, which is
excruciating at times, and prevents her sleeping for nights together.
Who could have believed that pain and sickness would have rendered Miss
Flint patient and submissive! As it is a bitter remedy, Lucy, so it
ought to be an efficacious one; and it is our own fault when it proves
useless. Believe me cheerful and well, for indeed I am both; and I am
going to the Abbey this evening to exult with _the happy, and_ to be
happy.

                        Your’s, affectionately,

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.


                              LETTER XLIX.

                      _From the same to the same._

Your confession, my dear Lucy, with my own, shall be placed aside; but
within our reach, in order to be useful when we are again so absurd as
to yield to the despondency of anticipated evils. Your brother is well;
Lord William gaining ground; and we will be cheerful and contented. Mr.
Hardcastle’s letter agrees with mine; and whether the physician’s hopes
be or be not well grounded, we will be thankful, that the interesting
patient is relieved from a portion of his suffering, and Horace from
the immediate pangs of seeing him expire.

I am just returned from inspecting the contents of two large boxes sent
from town, by order of Jeremiah Serge, Esq. “To Sir Murdoch Maclairn,
at Tarefield-Hall.” A short note from his lady specified, that having
recollected that the tea equipage which she had seen at Tarefield was
the property of Miss Flint, she had presumed to hope, that the one
which gratitude had signed with the initials J. L. S. would find favour
at the Hall, and be received by Sir Murdoch and Lady Maclairn, as a
mark of their love, and as a tribute of their sense of the kindnesses
they had met with under their hospitable roof. Caroline’s style was
obvious in this note.

All that fashion and wealth have suggested as an appendage to the tea
table, successively appeared in plain but highly-finished plate. The
other box contained a superb set of Derbyshire china; each piece so
accurately painted with views taken from the romantic scenery with
which that part of England abounds, that I conceive it to be an outrage
on taste to use them, as they would embellish the first cabinet in
Europe. Sir Murdoch, as I fancied, looked more oppressed than delighted
by this munificent proof of Mr. Serge’s gratitude; for surveying the
costly urn, &c. &c. he gravely observed, that _wealth_ had made Mr.
Serge _profuse_, if such were the common returns he made for common
civilities. A small parcel directed to Malcolm diverted his attention
from pursuing this train of thought; for with an elegant gold watch,
and a chain loaded with trinkets, were letters from the family; and the
one addressed to the baronet, which was somewhat in the _onion_ form,
being produced, he retired with his share of the present.

In my next you shall see our joint labours; for we have conquered our
reluctance to receiving the offerings of pure good will and kindness;
or rather these are forgotten in our admiration of a being whose good
will is more gratifying. Mrs. Allen has already begun her share of
copying the letters from Putney. So peace be with you! I am going _to
be good_, and supply her absence in Miss Flint’s room.

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.

_In continuation._--We have agreed, that, as Mrs. Serge wrote so much
in a _hurry_; and that as we are ourselves so much in a hurry to
gratify your curiosity, it may suffice to give the substance of Mrs.
Serges’s letter to her “dear cozin.” She refers her for particulars to
“Jerry;” and is contented with rejoicing, that matters are amicably
settled: not in the least doubting but that Captain Fairly will soon
gain her husband’s good opinion, he being a “wery sensible man.” She is
so engaged in shopping for Nora, that she has hardly an hour she can
call her own; and what with a change of servants, and one thing and
another, she finds herself quite fatigued; but Mrs. Fairly was not
well enough to order her new dresses; and it was necessary they should
be in hand, against her seeing the captain’s friends. This, I think,
is all that is worthy of notice in Mrs. Serge’s epistle, except her
kind compliment to me, in which she assures me that she shall insist on
having the pleasure of seeing me her guest, as soon as Mrs. Fairly is
settled in London; and that with the young bride and Miss Cowley, she
promises herself much pleasure in the winter months; for Nora might be
said to be a stranger in town, as well as Miss Cowley.

Caroline’s short note to Malcolm is written in a style of affection.
She calls him her “_Dear brother_,” and requests him to present to
Miss Heartley the watch, &c. she had sent. “Her acceptance of this
trifle,” adds she, “will convince me, that she admits my claims to
your friendship, and that she will pardon me for using a title, which
Malcolm Maclairn sanctions; and which she frankly confessed, it gave
her pleasure to use, although attended with regrets too selfish for
Miss Heartley’s indulgence.” She concludes with wishing that she had
seen Alice; but adds, “your affection for her at once bespeaks her
worth; and she will deserve the happiness which awaits her.”

The following letter you have entire. Not a syllable of Mr. Serge’s
shall be lost.


                               LETTER L.

                                         Putney, October the 11th, 1790.

“My good Sir Murdoch and Cousin,”

“I send you with my kind love, a small tribute of my gratitude, the
sentiments of which I shall carry with me to my grave, for all your
hospitable cares of us, when with you; and above all, for your pity
and compassion towards my dear sick child. I have only to say on
this subject, that not you, nor any under your roof, will ever live
to repent of your kindness to Caroline; for there never was a young
creature who better deserved the consideration of good people.

“You must take the will for the deed, if we have blundered in regard to
the things we have sent to your worthy lady; but Caroline thought her
mother had judged very properly; and was certain you would be pleased
with any marks of our affection, seeing we are not those, who do one
thing and mean another; and if the fashion of these things should not
happen to suit your fancy, the fault is not my wife’s, for she took a
great deal of pains to get what was tasty, that I must say; and Lydia
would go to the world’s end to serve a friend.

“I have had a meeting with my poor Nora, and my fine spark of a son in
law: it was just as my dear Caroline said it would be. I never felt so
uncomfortable in my life as when I saw my poor girl attempting to speak
to me, and unable to utter a word! I was like a dying man: I could
hardly breathe. What then must she have suffered, Sir Murdoch? Seeing,
she had left _me_ for another’s protection, not I _her_: but women have
a great advantage over us, for tears relieve them; and although I have
shed many, and found them serviceable, yet on this occasion I could
only compare my eyes to dry springs. Well, I sent her to Caroline’s
room, where I knew she would find comfort. So then my gentleman began
to talk of his _love_ and his _honour_; but I stopped him short, and
in so many words told him, that I would not give him a cast off brass
button for his whole stock of either of these articles. ‘A little
honesty, _Mr._ or Captain Fairly,’ added I, ‘would have pleased me
better. I am a plain, and it may be, in your eyes, an ignorant man. I
see no honour in running away with another man’s child, any more than
with his purse; nor any love in cheating a silly young girl of her
principles of duty to her parents, and reducing her to a life of sorrow
and repentance. However, it is no longer time to think of this: what
is done, is done: she must stand the hazard. The business now is, to
make the _best of what is done_. You knowing my calling and station
in the world, and need not fear on that score: Pray tell me, what is
_your_ calling, Sir: What are your prospects and pursuits? I am told,
you have sold your commission, and spent your father’s estate.’ He
looked confounded, said it was unfortunately true, the indiscretions
of youth had dissipated his means, and bad health had obliged him to
quit his regiment. But he trusted, that at thirty years of age, he
had gained experience, and that he might yet live to obliterate from
the world’s recollection, the follies of a youth of sixteen, committed
to his own direction, with a sword by his side, and a feather in his
hat. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘this is what _I call_ honest. Now tell me, what
is become of your estate: your father left it to you, and I should
like to see it reclaimed, and in your hands, to leave it to a son,
who might be made prudent by your experience: I am not a hard-hearted
man, Mr. Fairly, nor are you the first I have assisted, whose fortune
was out at the elbows. This estate I will redeem, provided you are
content to reside on it, and on condition, that I know your debts
to their full extent.’ He assured me that these were trifling; but
confessed that the estate was mortgaged for nearly its full value.
‘No matter,’ returned I, ‘I will not recede from my purpose: I did
not like your trade at Bath: try whether farming will not employ
you more profitably: be kind to your wife, and I will pass over all
offences.’--He thanked me, and again talked of his honour, saying he
was ready to give me any securities I wished, for my daughter’s future
provision. ‘I want none from you,’ answered I, ‘beyond that love and
faith you have given her before your Maker; for the rest, _I shall be
her security_. My daughter, by her imprudent conduct, has made over
_to me_ the care of providing for her children; and they shall not
be beggars, if I can prevent it. A fine tale indeed would it be, to
put on Jeremiah Serge’s grave-stone, that he trusted the property of
hard-earned industry and the future means of supporting his family, to
a girl of sixteen, who threw herself away!’ My gentleman was angry;
but I again stopped him short: ‘You will do well to remember,’ said I,
‘that I am a man who have made my way in the world by a very simple
rule in arithmetic, two and a nought will never make three in my
reckoning: a laced jacket will never supply the want of a good lining.
Do you take heed to merit my kindness, and leave to me the provision
for my daughter. Your good conduct will make me generous. Till I know
more of you I will be just, and every three months Nora shall have one
hundred pounds to pay your baker’s and butcher’s bills. But I warn you,
not to trust to me for being an easy fool to manage. I repeat it, Mr.
Fairly, I am not an ill-natured man, although a very firm one on some
occasions. Seeing but a very little way before me, I see, perhaps,
pretty clearly, what it is my duty _to do_; and when I see _that_,
nothing can turn me from forming it. If you want a little ready cash,
say so, I will supply you, as I would any man in need; and will forget,
if I can, that my money probably pays for the post horses that carried
my child to Gretna Green.’ So I put into his hand an hundred pound
bank-note, which he took with a lower bow than I could have made for
ten times the sum, to a man I had cheated. Our conference finished, by
my saying that I thought my house a more suitable residence for his
young wife, than either a public one, or private lodgings, till his
own was ready; and offering my hand, I told him that it depended on
himself to find a father under its roof. I thought he looked ashamed,
and his hand trembled so, that brought to my mind more forcibly my
blessed Master’s commands, ‘If thy brother sinneth against thee,
seven, and seventy-times-seven, thou shalt forgive him.’ And, after
all, Sir Murdoch, where is the comfort of an unrelenting temper? This
man may turn out a good husband, and repay my forgiveness of him an
hundred-fold by his kindness to my poor heedless girl. He may, if he
will, make a worthy man, and a good father, and be a comfort to me:
at any rate, I have done my duty, and pleased my blessed Caroline.
She told me this very morning, that she was certain I had secured the
approbation of my own conscience, and the favour of God, by my goodness
to Leonora; and that my conduct had given her a joy which this world
had not the power to lessen. Oh! if you could but see, and hear her!
But she is going where only she can be known and glorified!

“I shall not finish this letter to-day, as I must first see Counsellor
Steadman, who will write to you by this conveyance. You will have from
him the business now before us, and I shall expect your answer to be
speedy.”


                                                       October the 12th.

“My friend the Counsellor assures me, that he has so explained my
views and wishes, that you will not be offended, nor be able to
misunderstand my intentions. I shall therefore altogether waive the
subject, and finish my paper with my own cares and troubles; for it
is the only relief I find to disburden my mind of the multitude of
thoughts that oppress me, and I cannot help believing that my gracious
and merciful God, knowing that I should want a friend to support me in
my trials, has opened to me a road in which my ignorance and weakness
would meet with help and kindness.

“Poor Nora has not got up her spirits yet; she looks sadly, and seems
more pained than encouraged by my pity for her. Poor fool! She is like
a young bird, Sir Murdoch, who, in too much haste to try its wing,
has just reached a limed twig in sight of the nest it so heedlessly
quitted; and she now, poor girl, like it, sorrows, and thinks of the
comfort she had with us. My wife says that the Captain is very fond of
her, and if all be gold that glitters, I am to believe that he doats
upon her; but once _bit_ twice _shy_, is the maxim uppermost with me,
when the Captain is concerned. Fine words and scraps of poetry do not
convince me that he loves his wife better than I did mine, in the honey
moon, as it is called; and I am sure my Lydia never shed a tear then,
nor for many and many months after her name was Serge. I told poor
Nora this morning, that it grieved me to see her so dejected, and that
it was time for her to be cheerful, as I had no other intention in my
proceedings, than to show her my unabated affection, and to secure her
comforts. Poor creature! she burst into tears, and said I was killing
her by my kindness! God will, I trust, forgive me, Sir Murdoch, for my
heart smote me at the moment; but I could not help _cursing inwardly_
the rascal who had robbed me of such a child! My dear Caroline is yet
my consolation. She tells me, that Nora will be better soon; and
accounts for her present poor health in a way that cheers me. Fairly
says he loves children; that is a good sign; and I think there cannot
be found a man who does not love his own; so we will hope that he will
settle into a family man and a good husband, and then I may live to
forget my injuries, and to bless his children. God Almighty grant it
may be so! prays fervently your sincere and dejected friend,

                                                        “JEREMIAH SERGE.

“P. S. All here desire their kind love. We wish to hear from you,
and to learn that Miss Flint is mending. God bless you, and your
kind-hearted compassionate lady! You are a happy man, Sir Murdoch! You
have indeed a helpmate! Would to God all wives could be called so.”

       *       *       *       *       *

In order to avoid prolixity, I have suppressed a few of Miss Cowley’s
letters, which were written during the course of a month, as those
contain nothing essentially necessary to the narrative before me;
and are chiefly addressed to Miss Howard, and written in Italian and
French, with a view to making these languages familiar to her. But I am
so much influenced by Miss Cowley’s opinions, that I cannot persuade
myself that I could better oblige my readers, than by recommencing my
allotted work, with the following letters sent to Miss Hardcastle with
her friend’s usual punctuality.


                               Letter LI.

                   _From Miss Serge to Miss Cowley._

                                                         Putney, Dec. 6.

“You have, my dear madam, been so minutely informed of every occurrence
that has taken place here since our return home, that I have with less
reluctance deferred writing to you than the kindness of your request
of hearing from me would otherwise have justified. I hasten, however,
with satisfaction to avail myself of an hour of comparative ease
and tranquillity of mind, to acquit myself, in part, of the debt of
gratitude so justly your due, and, with my poor, but sincere thanks for
all your goodness, to relieve my thoughts by a further communication of
those disquietudes, which still prevent my being _what I ought to be_.

“It will not surprise you to hear, that in my hours of solitude,
my thoughts recur to Lady Maclairn’s affectionate greetings and
tender solicitudes; to Mrs. Allen’s soothing cares; to Miss Cowley’s
encouraging smiles and animating conversations. These thoughts will
intrude; and I cannot yet treat them as intruders. Yet I have my
father: but _that father_ is a source of my deepest sorrow! I see he is
deceiving himself; that he cherishes the most fallacious of hopes: he
thinks me better, because my pains are less acute. He sees not, that
nature, worn out in the unequal struggle, is passively yielding to the
inevitable, though still suspended stroke; and I have not the courage
to tell him, that his Caroline is every hour hastening to her grave.
A fever which eludes his notice, and profuse nightly perspirations,
to which he is a stranger, must soon be terminated. I am neither
deceived, nor alarmed. I have made an acquaintance with my conqueror,
which has stripped him of his terrors, and I find that aspect which
is so appalling and so hideous when viewed from afar, and through the
medium of this world’s pleasures and gratifications, not unfriendly to
the weary sufferer.

“I have weighed and measured my portion of painful existence, with that
of the sinner, who, like ‘the giant,’ runneth his race to destruction;’
and I am thankful. I have entered again and again into that seat of
judgment, which none but the eye of my Maker can pervade: neither
remorse nor fear assail me. I have been _an heedless_ child; but never
_a hardened one_, with my earthly parent; and how has he loved me! and
can I for a moment tremble at the thought of meeting face to face, my
Heavenly Father, my Almighty Friend, who knoweth that I am but dust
before him; and who has yet upheld me with tenderness and love? No,
my dear Miss Cowley: imperfect as my services have been, manifold as
have been my omissions of duty, I cannot forget that I have for my
salvation a God of infinite mercy and goodness; and in hope I shall
calmly resign up my spirit into his hands. I have been led into these
reflections by the considerations of that gracious providence which
has permitted me to see my dear father somewhat relieved from his late
vexations, and which hath allowed to me the means of being useful to my
sister. All has been done that we can do for her comfort. We must leave
the future to her own conduct, and the principles of the man to whom
she has so unguardedly trusted her happiness. I wish to entertain a
favourable opinion of Mr. Fairly; but I am uncandid, or he is unworthy.
He disgusts me by his attentions and flattery to my poor mother, his
fulsome and ridiculous fondness to his wife before my father. With me
he affects a pragmatical gravity and importance, talks of my wonderful
wisdom, patience, and fortitude, ‘till he convinces me, that I am
peevish and irrascible. Poor Lydia is either overlooked or reproved by
him, with an impertinence which my mother and Leonora ought to check.
The consequence is, that she detests him; and has moped in her own room
till she is unwell. She grieves also, poor thing! for Willet’s removal
from the family. This young woman, whom you will recollect was with
us at the Hall, was a favourite with my mother, and in fact Lydia’s
companion and friend: indeed, we all liked her as a useful well-behaved
young person. Willet, however, took offence on finding at our return
hither, a house-keeper installed in office, by Mrs. Tomkins, at my
father’s and mother’s request, during our absence: she was impertinent,
and not chusing to make concessions, or to accept of the station my
mother chose for her, she quitted her good lady and her dear Miss
Lydia for another service. I have been a gainer by this change in
our administration. Willet was too lively to be useful to me; and we
have gained a prize in the good woman whom Mrs. Tomkins recommended
to us. Mrs. Thornton has so pleased my dear father, that he has in
his fond consideration promoted her to a place of more trust than the
housekeeper’s room--she is now my constant attendant; and her daughter
superintends below stairs with great regularity and diligence.

“My mother has been absent from home nearly a fortnight. She
accompanied Mr. Fairly and Nora to his house, near Chelmsford in Essex;
with the intention of seeing that it was a suitable abode for her
daughter. I was much gratified with my sister’s reply on the occasion.
She said she should be happy with any accommodations in the country.
I suspect poor Nora has in the course of a few short weeks discovered
that she has gained but little by exchanging the yoke of her tender
and generous father, for the chains of wedlock, a regimental suit, and
a handsome man. She is not in spirits. Since her departure she has
written twice to my father: her expressions of gratitude, paid him
for his money, and I believe they were dictated by her feelings. She
mentions the house as being all she wishes, but that her too _fond_
and _anxious_ husband thinks it stands in need of repairs, and that
it cannot be made a suitable residence for her for less than _fifteen
hundred pounds_. The money was instantly advanced; and Leonora, in her
second letter informed us, that Mr. Fairly had consented to live at
the farm till the house was ready for them. There was an appearance of
content and triumph in this letter which delighted me. She spoke of her
plans of furnishing it _neatly_: of her garden; and of the happiness
she hoped to find in a cottage orné.

“Yesterday, instead of my mother, whom we expected, arrived a letter
from her, dated from Reveland Park, the seat of a rich nabob, called
Anthony Dangle, Esq. His house borders on Mr. Fairly’s little estate,
and his lady, recently married, was one of Nora’s school companions.
My poor dear mother writes in raptures of the grandeur and style of
Reveland Park: the table, the society, and the politeness of the young
mistress of the mansion, who at eighteen or nineteen, purchased with
her beauty and accomplishments, the state of an Asiatic princess, and a
husband of forty, already a cripple with the dead palsy. Leonora will
be her guest for some time: in the exultation of my mother’s heart she
hopes they will keep her till her own ‘_little box_’ is ready; for Nora
is adored at the Park. Can you blame me, if my anxious and apprehensive
mind recurs to the story of the Homespun family? Alas! no: you are too
judicious not to see the danger of such connections as these, to _my
mother_.”

“This letter, my dear Miss Cowley, will not amuse you, but it will
make its appeal to your good nature: you will think of the invalid who
has beguiled three or four tedious days of their allotted dullness,
in writing it: you will think you see her raising her languid eyes to
heaven, whilst she breathes out a petition for your happiness; and you
will think with kindness of the grateful and obliged

                                                       “CAROLINE SERGE.”

“P. S. I shall say nothing of my _brother_, Malcolm Maclairn. Ah! would
to heaven I had a more legitimate claim to use that title, than even
his kindness has given me. What a difference in Nora’s fate would such
a man have made! It is not possible for me to tell you, how gentle
how humane, his conduct was to us on the road. But he is a good and a
virtuous man; and may the Almighty bless him! My father writes to Sir
Murdoch, or to him, I believe; he desires to have my letter to enclose.
I expect to see my mother in a few days, and Mrs. Tomkins will be with
us to-morrow evening, to pass some time at Putney.”


                              LETTER LII.

                 _To Malcolm Maclairn, from Mr. Serge._

“My dear young Friend,”

“Having received from your good father more compliments than I asked,
and less information than I wanted, relative to the plans in which you
were engaged with Mr. Wilson, when I was at Tarefield, I have taken my
measures in my own way, and with better success; for Wilson and I have
managed the business without compliments or demurs; and you are fairly
_lurched_, if you be a young man too proud to accept of a kindness from
a true friend. Hoping you will see the drift of my meaning, I send you
a draft on my banker for a thousand pounds: it is placed in your name,
and herewith you have his acknowledgment. Get married and settle at
once: have no fears: I will take care of my farm and my farmer. Let
your nest be well lined: I send the bill for that intent; meaning to
take care myself of all without doors. Your answer to this will either
break the thread of our love, or join it till death; for it will either
show me, that you do not know Jeremiah Serge, or that he does not know
Malcolm Maclairn. However, guessing where the “shoe will pinch,” I
will say that when I want my money again I will ask you to pay it. And
in the mean time receive a good interest for it in your good will and
kindness. So may God prosper you, and my money thus employed!

                       “I am your loving friend,

                                                       “JEREMIAH SERGE.”


          [_Miss Cowley’s pen is employed in what follows._]

I was with Lady Maclairn when her son read her this letter. I cannot
describe to you the various changes of her countenance, whilst he was
so doing. Her lips trembled, and with difficulty she asked him whether
Sir Murdoch would be satisfied to see his son established in life by
Mr. Serge. Malcolm answered that his father left him to act as his
own judgment directed: that he had convinced him of the probability
of being able to repay his generous friend, and that it was in fact
a good speculation for Mr. Serge. “But,” added he, “I am not governed
altogether by this consideration in my purpose of accepting Mr. Serge’s
kindness. I am not too proud to receive favours; nor so mean as to
court them. The voluntary offering of an honest and generous heart
shall be received with a frank and honest gratitude, and I may live, my
dear mother, _to give_, as well as _to receive_ benefits. At any rate
I am not worthless, and my benefactor will not have to blush for his
predilection in my favour; for I shall never forget his kindness. And
the prospect! my dear Miss Cowley,” added he, seizing my hand as if it
had been Alice’s, “is it not too alluring for romantic scruples, and
a fastidious pride to combat.” I smiled; and he now eagerly ran over
the advantages which would ultimately accrue from the Wereland Farm:
expatiated on the happiness before him; and in the most unqualified
manner adverting to Miss Flint’s dissolution as a contingency that
would not break his heart, he drew a picture of domestic peace and
comfort, to which his affection gave the most glowing colours. “We
shall then taste the blessings of union and love undisturbed,” said
he. “My Alice will reverence and serve my mother; and we shall see her
smile, and bless our infants.” The poor mother answered only with her
tears. “Why do you weep?” asked he, with tenderness. “It is because I
fear, my dear Malcolm,” replied she, “that this cup of joy will never
reach my lips.” “It is I that ought to have this doubt to check my
present contentment,” answered he seriously, “whilst I see my mother
wasting her health and spirits on----.” She prevented his finishing;
and with a gentle smile asked him, whether he had seen Mr. Wilson.
He replied in the negative, adding that he was then going. “Do not
forget to tell your friends,” said she, “that Lady Maclairn means to
write to Mr. Serge, and to thank him for having rendering her son
happy.” Malcolm kissed her glowing cheek, and withdrew. “Poor fellow!”
said she, the instant the door closed, “how little does he know that
nothing on this side of the grave can make _his mother happy_! I see
your surprise, my dear Miss Cowley,” added she, weeping, “you are
not prepared for the frankness with which I now confess that there
has been _for years_ a canker worm in this bosom, which has not only
destroyed my peace, but which has also tainted my _very face_ by its
baleful influence. You are yet a stranger to the woman before you;
notwithstanding that penetration which has shown you that she is not
what she _wishes to appear_. I have perceived your suspicions; and in
a thousand instances, have marked your but too accurate conclusions.
I have had lately to struggle, not only with my secret sorrows, but
with the acute sense of being suspected _as a deceitful woman_ by
that being to whom I stand indebted for the only comfort of my life:
by my husband’s friend and consoler! Yet, Miss Cowley, my soul is
yearning to convince you that it is honest and sincere. I must explain
to you the causes which have imposed upon me a conduct of duplicity
and deceit. I want a friend, Miss Cowley: yes, I want a friend, in
whose faithful bosom I may with safety place a secret that oppresses
my own, and which must destroy me. I have for some time resolved
to take this step. You will, I think, be disposed to grant me your
compassion, if the narrative I mean to place before you should exclude
me from your friendship and esteem.” She spoke with so much energy and
feeling, that I was confounded, and remained silent. “I distress your
generous mind,” continued she, “but recollect your conduct; recall
the numberless instances in which your candour and goodness have been
exerted to spare the too conscious dissembler. I will only say a few
words more: justice to myself demands them! Had not your firm refusal
of Philip Flint rendered my purpose needless, you would have known
his mother before you had been a week under this roof. I will not say
what were my feelings when I found that this trial of my strength was
spared me! You once invited me to call you _my daughter_,” added she,
renewing her tears. “Good God! could you at that moment have seen my
heart! Could you but have conceived what then passed through my very
soul! You were the child of my husband’s fond and grateful love! You
had saved him! But I was unworthy of you!” I am not made for moments of
this kind, Lucy. I could not speak: but hiding my face in her extended
arms, I sobbed forth my feelings.


_In continuation._--Lady Maclairn has this moment left me. I was shut
up all yesterday in my apartment with a cold in my head, which you
will place to the real cause. Sir Murdoch and Mrs. Allen made some
remonstrances on my insisting that they should keep their engagements
to dine at the Abbey. And you will judge that my time was fully engaged
by the manuscripts I now send you.

Lady Maclairn took her tea with me, and with composure and dignity
of manner, she said, “I see, my dear Miss Cowley, that I have taxed
your sensibility severely. You are now acquainted with the unfortunate
Harriet Flamall, and are now qualified to judge of her hopes and
pretensions to your kindness.” ‘You are an angel,’ exclaimed I, with
honest fervour. ‘Patience and suffering have made you one, even before
your time.’ She mournfully shook her head. “I gratefully welcome the
sentiment which has urged the misapplied epithet,” said she. “I accept
with joy and comfort the friendship which dictated it. _I know Miss
Hardcastle._ Do you, my dear Miss Cowley, prepare her for her knowledge
of _me_. Tell her, that you have received me as a guest worthy of your
pure bosom. Send her the manuscripts, and ask her whether two hearts
will not be needful to shelter mine from the oppression under which
it groans. The dread of having those papers in my possession,” added
she, “has frequently tempted me to destroy them. Yet I wish to leave
some memorial behind me, to witness that my soul abhorred deceit, and
that even under the cruel yoke of it, my principles were firmly those
which rectitude teaches. The peace and honour of my husband and son
were of too much consequence to be hazarded by my impatience under
the dependence to which my own weakness had reduced me. Miss Flint’s
caprices and temper have been to me _petty evils_; and my conformity
to her will has been amply recompensed by the reflection that I have
served as a barrier, although a weak one, to passions that would have
betrayed her more to censure and reproach. She wanted not my brother’s
arguments to mislead her, but she was a stranger to his artifices.
And to whom but myself was it owing that she knew the betrayer of her
integrity and honour? Can you any longer be surprised that I have
yielded up to motives so powerful, that independence, which under every
privation of fortune I should have called _blessedness_ to the life I
have passed under this roof. Oh, you know not, Miss Cowley,” added she,
weeping bitterly, “what I have endured! But what was I, if not useful
in contributing to Sir Murdoch Maclairn’s comfort and happiness! I
had deceived him, and imposition was my _hard_ duty. How often have I
wished that my _death_ could have been as beneficial to him, as a life
miserable, though devoted to his service!”

You will love and reverence this woman, Lucy. I am certain you will.
Sedley will give you this packet. You will understand my caution. I
have written to Mary in French, expressly to prevent her inquiries. Let
me know that the manuscript is safe in your hands, and that you concur
with your perhaps too impetuous,

                                                          RACHEL COWLEY.

P. S. We were reading a beautiful work of Mrs. Inchbald’s, called, “The
Simple Story,” when the vagrants returned. Red eyes and defluxions in
the head are the least of these tributes which this novel merits. Ours
escaped all further inquiry.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Manuscript intended, for Sir Murdoch Maclairn, from his Wife, and
               sent to Miss Hardcastle by Miss Cowley._

The vows of fidelity, of obedience, of love, and gratitude, which the
obscure Harriet Flamall plighted at the altar with you, my Maclairn,
were registered in heaven; and I am prepared to answer undismayed,
the inquiry which will be made relatively to my _performance_ of _my
duties as your wife_. Yes, I am prepared and God and man will acquit
me of having deviated from my duty in the course of _that honourable
character_. But to what tribunal shall I appeal, when called upon to
answer to the charge of deceit, of imposition, of falsehood! Of having
imposed on thy generous confidence, and of having worn a _name_ and a
title to which I had _no right_, and which I have _contaminated_? Is
there not a refuge for the penitent? Has not the Almighty promised to
forgive his contrite erring children; and will Maclairn’s noble mind,
refuse pity and compassion to an offender whom he loves? _He cannot_:
for it is his delight to walk in the path his Maker hath appointed, and
to honour him, by imitating him who is perfect in his goodness. The
history of my life will contain all that I have to urge in extenuation
of my errors. I am induced to place it before you, by the hope, that
it may produce on your mind a conviction, that I was not deliberately,
systematically wicked; and that as having been _deceived_, I am an
object for commiseration, though not justified for _having deceived
others_.


                     HISTORY OF THE FLAMALL FAMILY.

You know but little more of my family and connexions, my dear Maclairn,
than that I was the only daughter of a reputable attorney, who lived
respected in modest affluence; and who died as he had lived, with an
unblemished character. My mother, whose understanding and virtue would
have done honour to any station in life, died when I was in my ninth
year; and in her last illness she requested my father to place me,
after her decease, in the house of the lady who had instructed her; and
with whom she had continued to live on terms of intimacy and mutual
regard. This lady’s seminary had been gradually establishing itself
in the opinion of the public, from the time that my mother had been
one of its pupils; and it was at this period justly considered as one
of the most respectable boarding-schools in London. Friendship for my
mother, added to the governing principles of this excellent woman’s
mind, produced a tenderness for me, which was necessary in the first
instance of my removal from my indulgent father; but I soon found that
in my good governess I had a friend, and my school insensibly became
my home. During this period of my life, I enjoyed every advantage which
my fond father could supply; and his liberality extended to whatever
was judged suitable for girls of large fortunes. It is necessary to
mention Miss Flint’s arrival, as a boarder, during my long residence
in this house; but as I was two or three years younger than herself, I
had formed my little _coterie_; and as I was not particularly attracted
by her manners, we had no further intercourse, than such as resulted
from being under the same roof. With the partiality of my father and
my governess, I happily enjoyed peculiar marks of affection from my
brother, who was some years my senior; and to him I stood indebted for
my instruction in those branches of female accomplishments, which,
as being very expensive from the attendance of capital masters, my
father might have thought unnecessary for a girl in my station; but
my brother judged of my talents so favourably, that no improvement
could be useless to me. I had just gained my sixteenth year, when
my dear father was suddenly removed, and my happiness interrupted.
My governess kept me as a cherished guest till some days after the
funeral, when she gave up her charge to an affectionate brother.
It may not be improper to mention here an event which soon after
deprived me of this inestimable friend. Easy on the side of fortune,
and breaking in health, she gave up her school to another person,
and retired to the west of England, where she had near relations. My
grief for the loss of my father was for some time countenanced by the
dejection of my brother Philip’s spirits, and I discovered it to be my
duty to restrain my tears before him. I even attempted the office of
consoler, and assumed a cheerfulness with him which was remote from
my feelings. One day I particularly endeavoured to lead him to a more
resigned submission to the will of Heaven. He shook his head, and
in a desponding tone, replied, “that he should not need my friendly
admonition, could he forget his sister, but it was for _his Harriet_
that he grieved.” An explanation followed. My father’s death had been
accelerated by the difficulties which pressed upon him: he had just
escaped being insolvent. Philip had incautiously, or rather with the
honest pride of sparing to himself, and me, a disgrace so humiliating,
administered; and the effects had been inadequate to the demands. He
had consulted-his friends: had met with assistance and encouragement;
and had every hope that diligence and economy would in time extricate
him from his difficulties. In the mean time, I was his blessing; and
if I could submit with cheerfulness to superintend his family for
a season, he should be happy, and look forward to my more eligible
situation. He now mentioned his connections, and the chances which
were in his favour: hinting that my father had at least left him the
integrity attached to his name, and a knowledge in his profession which
none could dispute. I was not intimidated by this confidence, but I
reminded him that my education had qualified me for a teacher: and
that with Mrs. D--’s recommendation I had no doubt of being able to
provide for myself. “We have one and the same interest,” replied he,
“to conceal our affairs from Mrs. D--, and from all the world. Whilst
by my exertions I can keep matters as they now stand, I shall not be
suspected of being a necessitous man. You know not the world you live
in, my dear Harriet: we must keep up appearances, in order to surmount
our difficulties. You are young and beautiful, and in time, may marry
well. Till you can make a better exchange for my protection and love,
than by degrading yourself, my last guinea shall be spent to support
you. Have no fears, I will support my sister’s claims to respect: you
shall never serve for _wages_, till those of love fail.” Penetrated
by this goodness and generosity, it will be no matter of surprise to
you, my dear Maclairn, that I trusted to this brother; and repaid his
kindness by the most assiduous attention to his comforts and interest.
For nearly a year I superintended his family with contentment; for
Philip praised without ceasing his housekeeper, and frequently declared
that he would not change me for the richest wife in the kingdom; for
that I had established his credit by my management. I saw three clerks
constantly employed in the office, my brother’s regular attendance,
and every appearance of business as in my father’s time going on. The
new year’s day, I was told, that he was happy; for he could without
inconvenience augment his dear Harriet’s little allowance for clothes;
that he wished to see me always dressed like Harriet Flamall, and the
gentlewoman; though never like a girl on the look-out for a husband,
or a simpleton ready to take up with any offer. I well understood that
my brother was little disposed to favour what are called love-matches,
at which his wit and ridicule were constantly pointed; but as I was
neither exposed to those temptations, nor in any haste to change my
condition, I received these indications of his prudence with gratitude;
perfectly coinciding with him, that love was not the better for being
houseless and unfed; and as I had no wealthy suitors, though some
danglers, I was perfectly contented with being mistress of my brother’s
house, and seeing it his abode of peace. With youthful spirits and
youthful vanity, I exulted in the regularity which presided at his
table, and my heart was gay, when Philip said, “his Harriet was never
taken by surprise, nor unfit to be seen.” Kindness had given me an
interest with his servants, which were two maids, and a foot-boy; and
when my brother led a friend to his table, they good-naturedly forgot,
that they had shared with their mistress the liver and bacon, or tripe,
in order to sup on more costly viands. My brother’s person and address
were much in his favour, and it was not without some agreement on my
part, that our acquaintance “wondered that the handsome and agreeable
Mr. Flamall did not marry.” Some hints given me by our chamber-maid,
who, as I fancied, thought her master “too sober a gentleman,” led me
to suspect, that my brother had formed some connexion which stood in
the way of a more honourable one; and whilst his regular visits into
the country, in one certain direction, strengthened my suspicions, I
could not help doing him justice for the consideration with which I was
guarded from a knowledge of this supposed irregularity in his conduct;
and sensible that his cautions in regard to mine were scrupulously
exact and proper, I prudently left Philip to judge of the propriety of
his own actions; and with unbounded trust believed, that if he erred,
it was because he was human, and could not be altogether perfect, as
I sometimes fondly thought him; whilst with the utmost solicitude
he recommended to me the improvement of my time, and the prudence
necessary for my security.

Under these happy circumstances of life, did I reach my seventeenth
year, when towards the autumn, I was requested to prepare for the
accommodation of a young man, who was to reside with us. Philip
perceived my surprise. “It was not possible for me to avoid receiving
him under my roof,” added he; “his mother pressed the measure on me,
with so much earnestness from her death-bed, that I had not the
resolution to refuse her request; and standing as I do in the relation
of a guardian to the young man, who has not a single connexion or
friend in the world to whom he can turn, except myself, it is the more
incumbent on me to provide for his safety. He is a modest lad; but at
present a mere green-horn. He has been very ill since he has been in
town, and I should not be surprised, if, with his excessive sorrow for
the loss of his only friend, and the effects of his dreadful fever, he
be plunged into a decline. You will be kind to him, my dear Harriet,”
continued he, “for you will pity him. If we can manage to get him well,
he will become my pupil in the office, for he is poor, and must have
some employment. He is sensible of this, and grateful for the education
and little means which Mrs. Duncan has contrived to leave him.”

A sick, consumptive, friendless youth, oppressed with sorrow for a
mother’s death, was a guest not to be placed in any inferior part of
our house: my bed room was visited by the south sun, and had next to
it, a light dressing closet, appropriated for my books and bureau. I
was healthy; and the attic was equally convenient. The poor, dejected
young man should find a home, and a neat retreat: and the books
might help to divert his thoughts. This resolution was adopted. The
following week, Mr. Charles Duncan made his appearance at our dining
table; and on introducing him to me, Philip congratulated him with
kindness on his improved good looks; whilst I, with emotions of pity,
gazed on the finest youth my eyes ever beheld, blasted by sorrow and
sickness. His deep mourning dress, the sober-sadness and dignity of
his person, his collected demeanour and unstudied ease of manners,
surprised me. From time to time, he spoke; his intelligent eyes
were raised; and as the subject adverted to the recent events, his
countenance marked the keenest sensibility, and the most profound
grief. Without any of that aukward timidity, which I had been led to
expect, he with politeness made his apologies for wishing to retire
to his room, alledging that he had made exertions during the morning,
which had fatigued him. Philip with much civility conducted him to his
apartment. I had risen to receive his compliment on leaving the room,
and felt a secret delight in reflecting, that he would find the one
he sought suitable in those accommodations which he had a just title
to expect under any roof. I still remained standing, lost in thoughts
which perplexed me. The extreme caution of my brother in respect to
me, seemed to have yielded to his zeal for a stranger; and I felt
uneasy that I could not think Mr. Duncan a _lad just new to the world_.
“But he is poor and friendless,” thought I, “and my brother trusts
to those disqualifications for my safety.” A deep sigh followed; for
I discovered, that poverty was no shield to my bosom. My brother’s
returning steps roused me from my reverie, and I sat down to the piano
forte, to prevent my agitation from being noticed, and began to play
a lesson which lay open on the music-desk, in the hope of evading any
further conversation, relative to a guest, who I already discovered
had gained too much of my attention. But Philip immediately reassuming
the subject, and thanking me for giving up my room to the stranger,
asked me what I thought of him. “Poor young man,” replied I, “he
looks consumptive and very melancholy. I should not be surprised if
the air of London was found pernicious to health apparently so weak
and declining.” “He must take his chance on that point,” answered my
brother, “and should your prognostics be verified, I do not know
whether I should regret his death. Under the circumstances of an
illegitimate birth and friendless condition, life can afford but a very
scanty portion for his hopes or enjoyments. It appears,” continued
my brother, “that Duncan, as he is called, is one of those unhappy
beings, who are destined to share the iniquity of their mothers. His
probably has worn the cloak of hypocrisy and concealment so long, that
she has forgotten it was borrowed, or that she was the mother of a
child whom she did not dare to acknowledge. I know that the good woman
who has passed for his mother has left him a few hundred pounds, the
savings from an annuity allowed her for this child’s maintenance from
his cradle.” “But you know also his real mother,” observed I with
eagerness. “Indeed I do not,” answered Philip, “nor does Duncan know
her. I have some reasons for believing she lives in a foreign country;
is a woman of birth and fortune; and probably one of those chaste
dames, who thinks ‘the world can never thrive,’ &c. &c. I am sorry,”
continued my brother, “that I was not sooner known to Mrs. Duncan. I
might have gained more insight into this poor young fellow’s history,
and perhaps his mother might have been induced to continue his annuity.
But it was too late to press the business on a dying woman. She only
declared, that she was not the real mother of Charles, commonly called
Duncan; and requested he might be told so. I trusted to her papers
for further information, but nothing satisfactory has appeared; and
for the present, I think it is better to leave him to his regrets for
the loss of his reputed mother, than to the bitter conviction of his
birth and desertion.” I entirely coincided in Philip’s opinion; and
our conference finished by my admiring his goodness and humanity, and
vehemently reprobating the monster who could give up an infant to save
herself from the reproach and shame she alone merited.

Mr. Duncan’s health, for the space of more than a month, gave an
ostensible colour to my attentions. I had pity, for the motive of an
assiduity which, young as I was, my heart whispered was but the assumed
name for love. My brother trusting, as I concluded, to the effects
of his intelligence relative to his ward’s fortune and disgraceful
birth, for the security of a girl of seventeen, whose good sense and
prudence were proverbial with him, left the interesting invalid to
my unremitting cares, till the bloom of youth was restored, and Mr.
Duncan was deemed in a condition to pass some hours in the office,
in pursuance of his declared intention of studying the law. To what
purpose should I detail the progress of a passion mutually excited
under such circumstances as I have already mentioned? Let it suffice,
that my lover was a stranger to the arts of seduction, and myself too
inexperienced for the documents of worldly prudence, and too innocent
for doubts or cautions.

Amongst the number of expedients we had ingeniously contrived, to elude
my brother’s knowledge of our union, till Mr. Duncan was of age, was
one which appeared practicable and safe: my lover suggested it, and
related to me the interest he had with the good woman under whose roof
his mother had died. It appeared to him a providential interference,
that had conducted them to Mrs. Keith’s humane cares; for such was the
name of the person with whom they lodged. “My dear mother,” added Mr.
Duncan, “was indebted to chance for the recommendation of lodgings
in London, when she was a stranger. At Grantham we took up a lady
apparently of some respectability in the neighbourhood of that town,
for she was in a gentleman’s carriage, when she inquired at the inn the
hour at which the stage coach would reach London. She was a handsome,
pleasant, and well bred woman, and good-humouredly communicative. My
mother, in the course of our journey, expressed some regret on not
having written to her only agent in town, to secure lodgings for her,
observing that she did not much enjoy the thoughts of being forced to
sleep in a common inn. The courteous stranger instantly engaged to
conduct us herself to lodgings which she could recommend, adding, that
her uncle, Counsellor Peachley, had recently quitted his apartments,
for a country residence near town, and that by agreement, or rather
favour, the Keiths had permission to let the rooms in his absence, for
their own emolument. But this indulgence was, it appeared, limited;
and the lady’s good offices were requisite to our success. She kindly
performed her promise, and I believe was farther useful to us in the
distressing scenes which followed. My gratitude on leaving this house
for your brother’s, has, I believe, attached Keith and his wife to me.
He serves the office of clerk in this parish church, and might assist
us effectually. Your brother,” added he smiling, “pays his devoirs
regularly every Sunday in the country. You are tempted by a more
popular preacher, to stray from Mr. G----’s flock, and I suspect that
your servants are not scrupulous in the observance of their sabbath.”

I complied with a project from which I had little to fear, well knowing
that my brother’s example had been contagious in his family. Our banns
were published: Keith officiated as father at the altar, and his wife
as my friend and companion, my appearance not contradicting hers. My
husband demanded a certificate of our marriage, and I returned home
with it in my bosom unsuspected.

With a circumspection rarely preserved in a union, where the sum total
of years did not amount to forty, we eluded for a time all suspicion.
My situation became the signal for terror and anxiety to break into
that contentment of heart, which had succeeded to our marriage.

Duncan in vain urged the necessity of his openly declaring his claims
to protect me. I opposed to his arguments my dependence on my brother,
and his minority, which would for some months prevent his free agency.
I pleaded the expected absence of Philip, who constantly left town
in the summer vacation; and sanguinely brought forwards my project
of preserving our secret by means of Mrs. Keith: thus passed the
early months of my pregnancy. But I was unable to counterfeit health.
My brother was alarmed by my cough; and my friends recommended to
me country air. At this eventful period, _Mrs. Hatchway_ with her
daughter, now Mrs. Serge, paid their annual visit to London. Mr.
Hatchway was master of a ship, and his wife and only child, Miss
Lydia, contented with its accommodations, and fond of an element
with which they were too familiar for fear, every summer made this
little voyage; and stationing themselves in Wapping, enjoyed with
unwearied activity the more remote and fashionable pleasures of the
metropolis. They were our relations; and dining in Red-Lion square
from time to time, during their short stay, had been the customary
offering of good-will, and for which they liberally paid, by supplying
us with turkies and red herrings in the winter. Their remembrances
of this kind had been so abundant, that we on our side had enlarged
our civilities; and Philip had for the two preceding visits, treated
them with a sight of Sadler’s Wells, or the Haymarket. On seeing my
pale and emaciated form, they expressed much compassion; and, with
the _utmost generosity_, they declared I should not be hurried to a
crowd, in order to please them. My brother as warmly insisted that
Miss Hatchway should not be disappointed of her amusement; and this
contest finished by the good-natured mother’s _heroically_ saying,
she preferred remaining with me. During the absence of the party, my
ill-health was the subject of her conversation. Change of air and a
voyage were urged: she was certain that sea air would restore me in a
month. She remembered that her mother, before her marriage, was thought
in a decline; and had been cured by residing a few months at Y----h.
I immediately saw the advantages which might result from my quitting
my brother’s house; but I had my husband to consult. This, however, I
happily effected; for my restless cousin recollected a shop near us,
in which she had purchased some article a few days before, and she
wished for more of it. My cough again befriended me; it was near nine
o’clock, and the evening unpleasant, so she sallied forth alone. My
husband blessed heaven for this promised deliverance; he urged me to
accept of the invitation, and declared that he would remove me from
Y----h to Newcastle, and from thence to Leith: for that I should not
return to my brother’s, till my spirits were more equal to meet his
resentment. At supper, the good captain seconded his lady. “He had
long piloted his women.” The cabin was neat; and I had nothing to fear
in the “Charlotte.” My brother counselled me to try the experiment;
and my voyage was determined on. At the expiration of a few days the
ship sailed. Our navigation was prosperous and delightfully pleasant.
I was in no way incommoded; and the good friends with me, exulted
on seeing me keenly devour sea-biscuit. Freed from the dread of my
brother’s inquisitorial eyes, and amused by the novelty of the scene,
my spirits rose to cheerfulness; and I was led to consider my female
friends with some curiosity and amusement. Mrs. Serge, at present,
so strongly resembles her good mother in her person, that it is only
necessary to observe that when young, she was extremely pretty. Nature
had not been less faithful in the lineaments of their minds. Both
enjoyed an exuberance of health and activity; a constant flow of animal
spirits and good humour; to which was annexed an absence of thought
or attention for the morrow. My observations soon led me, however, to
doubt, whether their sum of positive happiness exceeded that of their
fellow mortals. Their constant restlessness; their insatiable cravings
for vanity and pleasure, might be fairly weighed with the cares of
the ambitious, and the labours of the philosopher; and most assuredly
were as fatiguing as the demands of vanity. A “frolic,” to use Mrs.
Hatchway’s term for a jaunt of pleasure, was the supreme good in her
opinion: it was necessary to her existence; and however qualified,
all was a “_frolic_” which put her spirits in motion. Having been wet
to the skin in an open cart; or slept in a barn on straw, or in a bed
with half a dozen companions, only gave zest to the remembrance of the
“fun” occasioned by any disaster. If the pleasure had smoothly rolled
on in post-chaises, and a good dinner, and a good inn received them,
their joy was complete; “for what was money made for, but to be spent?
Those who _worked_ had a right to _spend_.” No grievance tormented
them, but being stationary; nor did they believe there was a malady
which a dance would not cure. To people of this description I could
only plead the weakness of my bodily strength. We were safely landed
at Y----h, the captain proceeding in his voyage to Sunderland. A neat
habitation announced the opulence of my friends in that class to which
they belonged. The first day was passed in settling ourselves, which
was performed with admirable dispatch and order; for Mrs. Hatchway
observed, that, “after a holiday, idleness was ingratitude.” The
next day was given to their neighbours, who were numerous; but I was
indulged, and in my neat little chamber enjoyed the privilege of
writing to my husband. At supper, my cousin told me, she had engaged
me to see a ship launched. “We shall breakfast,” added she, “with the
captain’s wife, who lives on the quay. As soon as the vessel floats,
we shall go on board, and sail in her down the river. You will see
also the fort and the pier; and in the evening we shall return home in
_carts_; they are the fashion here, and the exercise they give, is
strongly recommended to invalids.” I had seen scores of these vehicles
moving in the street, and instantly imagined that a _wheelbarrow_,
although drawn by a horse, would not suit me. I pleaded fatigue, and
without the smallest ill-humour appearing, I was told, that no welcome
was worth a farthing, if folks were not left to judge for themselves:
“so please yourself, my dear Harriet,” added she, “and you will please
me. I hope to see you, before you leave us, as eager to run after a
fiddle, and as fond of a ride in a cart as this girl, who two years
since was as fond of her own room as yourself; but I soon made her
what you see her, as healthy a girl as any in England; and her aunt
will tell you so, when she comes. I have no notion of patch-work, and
darning muslin, which costs so dearly; Lydia was half killed by being
with my sister. You will take care of yourself, my love,” continued
she; “Sarah will be left with you; and I can trust her.”

She was not mistaken; Sarah was assiduous, and my tranquillity
continued uninterrupted till one o’clock, when she informed me, that
Mrs. Priscilla Hatchway, her master’s sister, was in the parlour,
and wished to see me. “There has been some blunder,” added the girl;
“for she is come to dine with my mistress.” Civility compelled me to
leave my retreat. A neat well-dressed woman of forty and upwards, rose
to salute me, and with much good-nature congratulated me on my safe
arrival. For some time I found my guest an intruder; but she insensibly
engaged my attention, by talking of my mother, and flattered my self
love, by observing, that I was her very picture. I learned that Mrs.
Priscilla had fully expected to meet the family party. “I sent my
sister word, yesterday,” continued she smiling, “of my intention; but
a ship-launch was too serious a business for me to interrupt, and they
well know I am not apt to take offence where none is intended.”

After dinner she proposed to me a walk; to this I had no objection; and
she took the road to the fort. The level and fine turf I trod, with
the prospect in view, beguiled the time: for on the left was the main
ocean, and on the right the river, which, at the fort, forms the bar
and the pier, useful for working the vessels from and into the harbour.
We reached the ferry-boat which led to a village on the opposite side
of the river; and we sat down. “I have had my designs in conducting
you hither,” said she; “that,” pointing to a small neat habitation,
“is my house; and you see how easy the road is which separates us.
Have you any objections to our drinking tea there? I will conduct you
home; and if the vagrants are returned, I will sup with them; for it
is a full moon, and the boatman will wait my call.” I acceded to this
arrangement, and we soon reached the house, but with some surprise
found the parlour filled with Mrs. Hatchway’s friends, and she busily
engaged in assisting the maid, to prepare a regale of fruit and tea.
The good Mrs. Priscilla received with momentary gravity her sister’s
greetings and apology. This amounted, to having forgotten, in her
hurry, to send her notice of her engagement, and intention of calling
upon her in her way home. To this succeeded her pleasure of seeing me.
“Nothing ever was more fortunate! for they expected a cart, and I might
ride home.” The company now claimed our attention. This consisted of
several persons, but the principal care of Mrs. Hatchway was directed
to a lady who had been “uncomfortable” on board the ship, being fearful
of the water. I found she was from the country, and with her husband
had a daughter of Miss Lydia’s age. A survey of Mrs. Priscilla’s
parlour pleased me; it was furnished with good prints, and a handsome
book-case; the windows commanded the sea, and a pretty garden hung
from the elevated ground to the river. I expressed my approbation of
her abode; and in the kindest manner she pressed me to try, what she
called, _country_ as well as _sea_ air. I thanked her, and acknowledged
that I thought her situation delightful. “Then sleep here to-night,”
answered she eagerly, “I will show you my little spare nest.” I looked
at Mrs. Hatchway. “Please yourself, and you will please me,” said she
with her usual good-humour. “Do, my dear Miss Flamall, consent to my
aunt’s proposal,” cried Miss Lydia; “for then I shall see Beecles
races.” This settled the business. The strangers were accommodated
with my room at Mrs. Hatchway’s house, and my trunk was sent, for
greater dispatch, that evening; and before my eyes were open the next
morning, my Y----h friends were on the road to Beecles races. They
called in their way at our door, and said their absence would not be
for more than a _week_. On the maid-servant’s delivering this message
at our comfortable breakfast table, Mrs. Priscilla laughed, and said
that her sister’s _weeks_ were not always regulated by the calendar:
she had known some, that had extended to _six_ of the common reckoning
of time, “and should either a wedding, a christening, or a funeral
intervene,” added she, “you may find this “_frolic_” longer than you
wish, unless you love quiet as well as I do.” You will not be surprised
that I wished for nothing but for letters from my Charles, and the
prolongation of my friend’s pleasures.

Duncan was made easy by my account of myself, and my new situation.
I was happy in his assured love, and we mutually agreed to wait with
patience till he could see me at G--ne. A fortnight had nearly
elapsed; when, in the place of an expected letter from my husband,
one arrived from Mrs. Hatchway. Fortune had been favourable. She was
detained in spite of herself. Lydia was to be bride-maid to her young
friend, and having had a letter from her husband, to inform her that
he was going to Leith, she had indulged her friends in their request.
Even this good news did not cheer me. I had missed receiving my cordial
for two posts. The sympathizing Mrs. Priscilla dispatched a person the
next morning to the Y----h post-office, and endeavoured to divert my
attention till the woman’s return. She brought me a letter: it had my
brother’s writing on the address. I turned pale, I suppose; for she
smiled, observing that I might have another, and still more welcome
letter on the morrow. “It is from my brother,” answered I, still
mournfully holding the fatal scroll in my hand. “Well, and you may
have good news from _your brother_,” replied she, rising. “So I will go
and get you some strawberries, whilst you are busy.”

Merciful heaven! From what unknown cause did it arise that I remained
several minutes with this letter unopened in my hand! I recollected
that I had not answered a former one; and that Philip hated writing
letters. Some unknown terror seized my spirits; and I wept. At length
I was mistress of its contents. “An _unpleasant_,” (yes, that was the
word,) “occurrence had engaged his time, and harassed his mind.” _His
ward, Duncan_, had absconded; a charge of a highway-robbery having
been lodged against him at the Bow-street office. He had been summoned
on the occasion to answer to some questions relative to the young
offender; but he was sorry to say that his evidence in his favour
could not set aside the proofs of his guilt. He had, however, acted
prudently in withdrawing from the threatened prosecution. “I have
done all in my power”, added my brother, “to soften his accuser, but
he is a determined man; and says that he cannot recede, in justice to
the community, nor to himself.” Much followed, in which my brother’s
vexation had for its object his own _reputation_, and the mortification
of having it known that he had had connexions with a highway-robber.

I did not faint on reading this dreadful letter: no: I did not
die, when death would have been a blessing! but grasping it with
convulsive force, my whole frame shivering as in an ague fit, I
remained motionless on my chair, conscious of the overwhelming tide of
misery which was bursting on my head. At last impelled by ideas too
dreadful to be recalled, and too vague to be ascertained, I hurried
down stairs. The kitchen was my passage to the garden, and the fire, I
believe attracted me; for I sat down by it, in a great-chair, which
had its station in the chimney-corner, and bending over the hearth, my
nerves relaxing; the horrid paper fell from my hand, and heedless of
my danger, I gazed on the flame it raised. The maid-servant at this
moment entered, and screaming out, that, “my gown would take fire,”
recalled me to recollection. I started, and with a deep drawn sigh,
said “let me die!” When recalled to life, I found myself in my bed. My
worthy friend was watching me: her looks bespoke distress and pity. “Be
comforted,” said she, “you are safe with me. Be composed, and trust to
my care.” Let it suffice, Harriet Flamall was saved from reproach and
shame, and like thousands of her unhappy sex, was doomed to weep the
loss of her infant, and to be thankful it lived not to partake of its
mother’s disgrace. Mrs. Priscilla Hatchway was, however, informed of
my situation; and she advised me to give her my marriage certificate,
which I had worn in my bosom. She enforced the prudence of my keeping
my marriage a secret, till Mr. Duncan appeared. His letters to me had
prepossessed her in his favour. “She did not believe he was capable
of such an outrage as that of which he was accused.” Every hour
she repeated that it was impossible; and that it required with her
more than presumptive proof to condemn any man, much more one whose
sentiments were noble and pure.

I am prolix, my dear Maclairn: I will endeavour to be less so.
Encouraged to hope, soothed to patience by this excellent woman, and,
above all, led to think with her, that I should hear tidings of my
husband from Mrs. Keith, I combated so effectually with my griefs, as
to be able to suppress their appearance; and having seen my friends
return to meet Captain Hatchway, I preferred, for several reasons,
the conveyance of his cabin to any other. We had a tedious passage,
which was highly beneficial to me; for on reaching my home, I was
congratulated on my _good looks_. My brother was on an excursion; and I
profited from his absence.

I went to Mrs. Keith’s house. It was shut up; and “_to be lett_.” Ready
to sink, I entered the opposite shop, and made my inquiries. “Keith
had been taken up on suspicion of forgery. No one could tell what was
become of his wife. Their goods had been seized by the proprietor of
the house, which was very hard, as the Counsellor who lived in the
apartments in the winter months, had bought every thing for his own
use; and had generously permitted them to let the rooms for their
benefit six months in the year.” Some comments were added to this
account: “Mrs. Keith was pitied, and the shopkeeper finished by saying
that it was a pity her husband had so long escaped justice, for he had
been the ruin of many.” A customer entered, and I quitted the shop with
aggravated distress; for I could not avoid associating the guilt of
Keith with my husband’s fate.

Two days having passed under these impressions, had reduced my
strength, and diminished my “good looks.” My brother was shocked at
my appearance, and listening only to my friends, he removed me to
Kensington Gravel Pits, with a solicitude that wounded my feelings.
More than once my secret was on my lips, but my resolution failed: I
had no opportunity for disclosing the painful cause of my sufferings,
and I hoped to die without wringing Philip’s heart. My youth, in the
mean time, resisted the attacks of sorrow: I recovered gradually; and
sensible of the extraordinary expences which my brother had incurred
in consequence of my illness, I urged him to give up the lodgings.
He insisted on keeping them another month, adding, that the air was
evidently salutary to me. I now heard Duncan named for the first time.
My brother received a visit from an acquaintance, and pleading my
inability to admit the visitor into the little parlour, they sat down
on a garden-seat under the window, the sash of which was up, and I
was screened by the blind. “Have you heard from that fool, Duncan?”
asked the guest. My brother answered in the negative. “He was soon
frightened, by what I can understand of his unlucky business,” rejoined
the stranger. “The fellow who appeared against him is too well known to
be able to hurt any man. Every one believes Duncan perfectly innocent.”
“I wish I were one of that number,” replied my brother; “but his going
off, and never writing since, looks suspicious. We traced him to
Harwich, and I have no doubt of his having crossed the sea. He cannot
be insensible to the anxiety I must suffer on this occasion. I cannot
pardon his ingratitude, for he was treated like a brother under my
roof. However, when he can draw for his little fund, I shall see his
name I do not doubt: in a few weeks more I shall hear that he has not
forgotten the little money which he may without peril claim from me.”
The conversation then turned on the visitor’s business, whom my brother
attended a part of his way to town. I was forcibly struck by what I
had heard. Duncan’s cruel desertion of me; his apparent ingratitude
to my brother; the society he had mixed in; his suspected crime, and
neglect of writing, seized upon my heart. I resolved to conceal from my
brother my connection with a reputed robber, and a man who had without
pity left me to suffer the penalty of my weakness and credulity. My
brother’s peace was to be preserved; and I was firm to my purpose.

Again I remonstrated on the expence of the lodgings. “Say not a word
on that subject, my dear Harriet, I intreat you,” answered Philip. “In
preserving you, I am preserving my own comforts. I would spend my last
shilling to see you well and _happy_; but till you have more confidence
in my affection, I must despair.” “What is it you mean?” asked I in
trembling doubt. “Not to alarm, not to distress you,” replied he with
solemnity. “Are you really well enough to return home? Are you equal
to the exertions which your return to society will demand? Can you be
cheerful, and prepared for every accident? Answer these questions. I
mean not to reproach; but _to heal_. I will not,” continued he, taking
my cold hand, “leave you in suspense. I am no stranger to your fatal
engagements with an unprincipled man. Nothing of this indiscretion
can be recalled; but in a discovery of _your marriage_ is involved
_my ruin_ as well as your own. When you are more composed, I will be
more explicit; in the mean time rely on my prudence and love. Weak
and errring as your conduct has been, I will yet trust to your reason
and principles. Let these resolve the question. Are your peace and
happiness, my success and reputation in life, to be sacrificed to a
romantic attachment to a _villain_, whose name is already a reproach to
us, merely because we sheltered him?” He quitted me much agitated, and
unable to witness my agony.

My brother’s lenity was not lost upon me. Grateful for his forbearance,
touched by his arguments, I assiduously endeavoured to appear what
he wished. My occupations were renewed; and my serenity was such,
as imposed on my acquaintance. The poor and wretched wanderer was
regarded, as one whom it was my duty never to name, never to believe
otherwise than guilty of the crime laid to his charge, nor ever to
be acquitted of having abandoned me. Sometimes I recalled to memory
his conversations relative to his early life, and the suspicions he
entertained of his not being Mrs. Duncan’s son. Among the reasons he
assigned for this opinion, was her anxiety to see him _accomplished_,
as well as solidly instructed; her never proposing any plans for his
future provision, and the silence she preserved in respect to his
resources, and her own. I once mentioned to Mr. Duncan my brother’s
account of Mrs. Duncan’s declaration. He was apparently agitated; and
I regretted my too fond loquacity; whilst he endeavoured to console
me for my indiscretion. In the variety of my painful reflections, I
sometimes conjectured that Mr. Duncan had discovered his parents; and
finding his rank and expectations incompatible with his engagements
with me, had withdrawn from the kingdom: that he had even concerted
the story which had been circulated; and trusting to a splendid name
and fortune for favour with the world, had left the name of Duncan
to reproach and infamy; and his wretched wife to sink into the grave.
These ideas prevailed for a season; and were then discarded with
disdain, as unworthy of him and myself. Tenderness, trust, and his fond
and unambitious heart had their turns. Thus fluctuating, I determined
to speak to my brother; he had said, that he would be more _explicit_
with me, when I was in a state to be treated with entire confidence;
and I reminded him of his promise, adding at the same time that I found
the doubts which distracted my mind unfriendly to every purpose of my
reason, and too much for my religious faith; I could not be resigned,
till I was convinced that I should see my husband no more.

“I have expected the application,” answered he, with calmness, “and
I am prepared for it. It is not amiss that you should be informed of
all that is known of this unhappy man. Notwithstanding our friends
carefully avoid a subject, which they well know has given me more
vexation than any occurrence of my life, something may accidentally
drop which will affect you. I have seen that my Harriet has fortitude,
and when you are acquainted with the circumstances which have convinced
me of this wretched man’s guilt, you will the more steadily pursue
that line of conduct which becomes you. I will leave you a few minutes
to yourself,” added he, unlocking his scrutoire, and taking from it
a letter, which he gave me. “Only promise me, that you will not lose
sight of your Philip, in your sorrow for a worthless husband.” He
pressed my hand to his bosom, and left the room. The letter before
me was addressed to Mr. Flamall, in the well-known characters of my
husband. I was still weeping over it, when Philip returned, and without
speaking, placed himself opposite to me with visible anxiety. The
contents of the letter were as follow.


                              LETTER LIII.

                 _From Charles Duncan to Mr. Flamall._

“Sir,

“You will see me no more. My mysterious conduct will be soon fatally
explained to you. Let it suffice here, that I avow myself the husband
of your sister, and that the purpose of my soul was to have seen, once
more, my beloved, ruined wife. But I was not equal to the task of
telling her, that she must forget _Charles Duncan_. Let her not curse
him, gracious heaven! although he is culpable, _even guilty_! Lost
to honour and to happiness, still will he pray for her, and die her
faithful, though wretched

                                                               “DUNCAN.”

“P. S. The twenty guineas you advanced for my journey have been the
means of preserving my miserable existence. You shall hear from me
again when I am more collected, and in a situation less critical. I
implore from you a regard and tenderness for your sister. May the
Almighty fill your heart with compassion for her!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Philip suffered my agony to be relieved by a flood of tears, without
interruption, but not without sympathy. He was visibly moved by my
condition. At length, taking my hand, he said; “I do not know, my dear
Harriet, whether I am acting right by thus indulging your wishes at
the hazard of distressing you; but if I could hope this painful remedy
might, in the end, prove efficacious, by convincing your understanding
and your principles of the folly, as well as the sin, of ruining your
health by regrets which you ought not to indulge for so worthless an
object, I would willingly satisfy your curiosity by detailing every
circumstance of this unhappy affair: being persuaded that you will no
longer judge me too severe in my opinion of this young man, nor scruple
to think yourself bound to believe that he ought no longer to engage
your thoughts, or to have a place in your heart.” “Proceed,” said I,
“let me be convinced that there is not on earth a hope for me!” “This
language is that of a girl,” replied he gravely, “my sister will be
taught by experience to think it so, and the time, I trust, is not
remote, when she will bless heaven for the desertion of a man whom she
now deplores, and she will consider his _flight_ as a blessing, when
contrasted with all the consequences which would and must have followed
his remaining in this country.”

“Long before your excursion to Y----h,” continued my brother, “I
suspected Duncan’s conduct, and also somewhat of your unhappy
partiality in his favour. I consequently observed _him_ more narrowly,
not _you_, my Harriet; for I, with all your friends, believed you
too circumspect and prudent, to be in danger from a a young man in
Charles’s situation of life, however your fancy might have been allured
to like his person. I was not satisfied with his pursuits, nor his
connections; and, above all, with his reserve in respect to these.
I was told that he gambled; and that, not with the inconsideration
of heedless youth, but with the cool intrepidity of a veteran at the
gaming-table; but I could never discover his haunts. More than once
I saw his purse more amply furnished with gold than I could account
for, yet my intelligencer had remarked that he had been of late an
unsuccessful player, and I began to believe from his change of conduct
about this period, that he had, like most unguarded young men, been
drawn in to play by a little good fortune, and then dismissed to his
sad experience for want of more money to lose. He was out of spirits,
rarely from home, and diligent in the office. I resolved, therefore,
to leave him to his own reflections, and the good fruits of repentance
for the errors into which he had been betrayed. Soon after you left
town, I happened to be with him in the clerks’ office when a person
called upon me for the payment of a small bill. A deficiency of silver
led me to ask him to lend me a few shillings; he did so; and again I
was surprised at seeing many guineas in his possession. The man had no
sooner quitted us, than I observed to him, that finding his purse so
well lined, I should not reproach myself for want of punctuality in the
payment of his quarterly supply, nor wonder at his not having reminded
me that it had been due a fortnight.” He coloured; and I added, “One
would think Duncan, you had either stumbled on a concealed treasure,
or found one in your concealed parents.” “I am not a spendthrift,”
replied he haughtily, “and I know I have at least one parent who
will never abandon me, and whose resources are infinite.” We were
interrupted. Two or three days passed: I was reserved, and he sulky;
when he surprised me, by asking my permission to be absent for a week
or ten days. I hesitated. “Am I not to be informed whither, and with
whom you are going?” asked I coldly. He replied, that he was going to
Harwich, where he hoped to hear of those to whom in future he should be
responsible for his actions: that, in the mean time, he should receive
as a favour and indulgence from me, the permission he had requested. My
clerk, Simons, good-naturedly remarked, that Charles had fagged hard
during the absence of the other clerk, and he had a right to a jaunt:
it would do him service; for he did not look well. Impressed by an
idea, that he had heard something of his relations, I gave my consent
to an absence of ten days; and at the same time paid him his quarter’s
arrears of twenty pounds. He promised to write to me from Harwich;
and I left the office to join my friends who had engaged me in a party
to Windsor. Two days elapsed before I returned home. I was prepared to
find Charles absent: and, whilst at the dining-table, I asked casually,
at what time Mr. Duncan had set out on his journey. The servant
replied, that he had left the house the same evening with myself. Mr.
Simons had supped with him at the inn, and had seen him mount his horse
before he left him. “I hope he did not see him tipsy too,” answered
I, smiling; “but by the hour, I should fear that neither the one nor
the other was fit for a journey, either on foot or on horseback.” The
servant said, that Mr. Duncan did not wait for the morning, it being
his intention to ride a stage by moon light. “And how did he manage for
his clothes?” asked I. “His trunk was sent by the coach on Monday,”
replied the lad. “There was something in this account which I did not
like; particularly his removing his things, before he knew I should
consent to his leaving the house. I expressed my surprise to Simons,
who said he was in that plot, for he well knew that I should not be
able to refuse the poor fellow, and he had set his heart upon going on
horseback; so I advised him,” continued he, “to send his portmanteau
by the stage at all hazards, and when he had your leave, I carried him
to a livery stable to look at a horse which I thought would suit him.
It was a fine animal; and the youngster was so well pleased with him,
that he hired him of my friend for the journey; and, young man like,
said, he would ride him to Rumford before he slept: so we adjourned
to a chop-house, where I supped with him, and at ten o’clock I saw
him off; although the moon cheated him, for it was raining hard, and
I thought he was a fool to seek a wet coat instead of a good bed.” I
had perceived in Simons something of that cunning, or to speak more
plainly, knavery, which for many months had rendered me uneasy. He was
a useful man, however, in the office, and I still employed him. I now
thought there appeared a secret intelligence between him and Duncan; I
dissembled, notwithstanding, and dropping the subject, applied to the
business before me. A man shortly after brought a letter to Simons. It
was from Duncan, and the purport of it was, I found, to inform him,
that finding the horse unfit for the journey, he had sent him back,
requesting him to settle the business with his friend, and to tell him
that he had narrowly escaped a broken leg by trusting to his judgment.
Simons swore, according to custom, and followed the messenger. I was
told that he had paid for the horse’s journey to Rumford, and that
Duncan would remember travelling in the dark for some time, having
been thrown from a horse too good for him. Judge of my astonishment
on receiving a summons on the following morning to appear before the
sitting justices. I found it was to be examined relatively to my
_clerk, Charles Duncan_, and to meet a person in the office, who had
positively sworn to his having been stopped on the Rumford road by
Charles Duncan, and robbed of his watch and purse.

I listened with horror to the reading of this gentleman’s deposition.
It was clear and positive in every point that ascertained the
criminality of the action, and the identity of the horse which Duncan
rode. A crape concealed Duncan’s face, and the accuser observed that he
appeared to be a “young adventurer.” Some appearance of lenity in the
manners of the gentleman, who was a man in years, induced me to relate
as much of Duncan’s story as had come to my knowledge; but I pleaded
in vain: a warrant was issued for apprehending him. You may judge, my
dear Harriet, of the state of my mind when, on returning home, instead
of finding Simons in the office, to whom I was anxious to give the
particulars I have related to you, I found a letter from him on his
desk, addressed to myself. It was couched in an insolent style. “He had
not time to settle accounts with me, but thought his long and faithful
services entitled to the consideration of using, for a very special
and pressing occasion, the trifle of cash he had in his hands on my
account.” This was about five-and-twenty pounds. He warns me to try my
influence with Duncan’s prosecutor, as matters carried to extremity
against my sister’s husband, would not tend to my credit. “Shall I
proceed?” added Philip with emotion; “need I describe my sensations!
Your marriage, and the wretches with whom you had confederated to blast
my happiness and reputation, for a time overcame me. But my sister
soon resumed her wonted power in my soul. Providence appears to have
seconded my fond hope of rescuing you from the snares that encompassed
you. Your youth and credulity here found a compassionating friend,
infinitely more able than myself to befriend you. We may rest in the
full conviction of never being molested by Duncan or Simons. Keith has
finished his career in a gaol, to which a suspicion of aiding in a
forgery conducted him. His death was occasioned by a wound in his head,
in consequence of his attempt to escape justice, and his wretched wife
is at this time a nurse at the Lock-Hospital, for which post she is
qualified.

“Such are the people, and such the lover to whom you gave up your fame
and prospects in the world! Be grateful to heaven, my dear girl, for a
deliverance from such connections so little to be expected, and give me
the only recompense I ask for the hours of anxiety you have caused me.
Let me see you under my roof, and with my name sustain the character
which becomes Harriet Flamall, and promise me never to acknowledge your
worthless husband.”

Oppressed by my brother’s kindness, and confounded by his relation of
_facts_, as I conceived, in which Duncan was so dreadfully implicated,
I eagerly engaged to preserve, for his sake, the fatal secret of my
marriage, and to live for his comfort and service. He was satisfied,
and left me to compose my spirits.

From this time it seemed to be tacitly agreed between us, not to name
Charles Duncan, and I exerted my spirits now to a cheerfulness, which,
although assumed, contented my brother; but, alas! what had I gained!
The art of concealment, and the secret of hoarding up my sorrows for
my private hours! My faded form was still attractive, and my brother
one day complimented me on having, by “_sweet pensiveness and winning
modesty_,” captivated a lover worth my notice, mentioning at the same
time the gentleman’s large fortune, independence, and hopes of gaining
my favour. I with firmness assured my brother, that, in relinquishing
the name and character of a married woman, it was my intention to
have ever before me the vows I had plighted in the face of my Maker,
and that as Mr. Duncan’s wife I would live and die. He endeavoured to
reason me out of this “scrupulous folly,” as he called it. “Urge me
not,” replied I, bursting into tears, “lest I offend you by saying
more. I would forego pomp and riches, this world’s favour, and the
accommodations necessary to my existence, for the chance of seeing him
what he once was. I would traverse the globe with him; I would share
in his misery, and partake in his toils without a murmur, could I find
him. With these sentiments to support me in my duty, I shall at once
say to any man who importunes me with offers of marriage, that I am
_Charles Duncan’s wife_.” My brother was displeased. He called me an
“infatuated woman, a romantic fool,” with other epithets, which I shall
omit. I did not resent this harshness, and a year passed without the
subject of a lover being named, or any appearing to put my constancy
to the test. At this period I was surprised by seeing Philip enter the
little closet in which I usually passed my vacant time. My Charles
had augmented its attractions by decorating it with his drawings,
and enlarging the number of the books. I instantly perceived that my
brother had an impressive manner. He sat down beside me, tenderly chid
me for my preference of this closet, and added, that he was afraid I
should want fortitude to meet the intelligence he came to communicate
in a spot so devoted to the purpose of nourishing unavailing grief. I
trembled, and would have spoke--But----




                            END OF VOL. III.


  W. Flint,
    Printer, Old Bailey.




Transcriber’s Note:


This book was written in a period when many words had not become
standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling
variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have
been left unchanged unless indicated below. Dialect, obsolete and
alternative spellings were left unchanged. Misspelled words were not
corrected.

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, in the
reverse order, or partially printed or omitted letters and
punctuation, were corrected. Final stops missing at the end of
sentences and abbreviations were added. Duplicate letters at line
endings or page breaks were removed. Spaces missing between words were
added. There is no LETTER XLI.