CHAP III.

Mr. Hardcastle read the above letter to his attentive hearer: he waited for some moments for her observations on its contents; but finding she remained silent, he said, “My dear child, recollect that you are not obliged to comply with Mr. Flamall’s orders.” “I have never for an instant supposed myself in his power,” answered she calmly. “This account of his connections, however, gives me satisfaction, because it will serve to remove from your mind all fears for my personal safety. It is of no importance to me what are the characters of this Flamall’s relations at present, it is 104sufficient that they appear neither dangerous, nor interested in using me ill; for the rest I am prepared.” “Be also prepared to be just,” replied Mr. Hardcastle. “Mr. Woodley says his information rests on public rumour and public opinion. Your father knew Mr. Philip Flint and Mr. Flamall: suppose, for a minute only, that his will was the result of that knowledge, and that the man he recommends to your notice is one that is worthy of you; without binding yourself to any conditions, you ought to see this young man whenever he arrives, and to listen dispassionately to whatever he has to plead, both for his honour and his pretensions. Consider him only as Oliver Flint’s brother, and as standing remote from Mr. Flamall and the family at Tarefield. His affinity to worthless people, granting it be so, is no proof of his worthlessness; and surely the estimation in which he is held even by your 105father’s report of him, entitles him to a fair hearing whenever he appears at Tarefield.” “I shall, whenever that happens,” replied Miss Cowley, “receive him without resentment or caprice, and soon convince him that my resolution is unalterable.” “And what answer am I to make to this letter?” asked Mr. Hardcastle, producing a renewed application from a young baronet in the neighbourhood. “If you will have the goodness to transmit my answer to Sir George,” replied Miss Cowley, “you will oblige me; it is a brief one: I am an engaged woman; and should not this silence him, he will prove that he is not a gentleman, nor a man of sense.—To what purpose should I conceal from him, or the world,” added she, throwing her arms around Mr. Hardcastle’s neck, “an attachment in which I glory? To what purpose refrain from telling my father, and my friend, that I love Horace Hardcastle? 106He knows that I love him, and have loved him for years.” “My dear child!” said the subdued Mr. Hardcastle, tenderly returning her embrace, “endowed as you are, I would with pride acknowledge you as my daughter were you pennyless; but circumstanced as I am, I dare not listen to your pleadings. I am too old, and too tenacious of a good name, to risk it by a compliance so evidently in favour of my son’s fortune: and you are too young, and too inexperienced, to know whether that compliance would secure to you the happiness it promises. I will imitate you in frankness: regard me as your best friend, not as Horace’s father. Leave to time the discussion of a subject of which you are at present disqualified to judge. Horace, like yourself, is young, I advise you to avoid entering into any engagements with him till more acquaintance with life shall have decided his character and rendered 107you a better judge of his merit. Remember also, that should you persist in cherishing the sentiments you now entertain of this young man, that you cannot give to your friends any apology for your preference more ostensible, than that of placing no temptation in the way of his integrity. It will be the only wealth he can bring to the account of yours; and although many will say it is nothing in the scale they judge by, some will be candid enough to confess, that virtue knows no inequality of condition. But let me say yet a few words more,” added he; “and think you are listening to your mother, to that being who trained you to be what you are.”—He paused for a moment.—“She would tell you, my dear Rachel, that there is no period of a young woman’s life, in which she is less qualified to judge for her own happiness, than the one in which you are at present. You are under an 108influence which renders your judgment weak. Unacquainted with vice, and with all the affections of nature and innocence glowing in your bosom, you give to imagination an office with which it ought never to be trusted; and to the lover it selects the qualities of your own pure heart. For a time, this delusion passes; but what is often the conclusion? Sometimes, a too late conviction that what had been cherished as a supreme good, is a certain ruin; and still as frequently, that what had been called a permanent affection, is discovered to be nothing more than a flight of youthful inclination. I may surprise you by saying, that, without any imputation on your principles, or degradation of your understanding, you may cease to love Horace Hardcastle.” “Never!” exclaimed the impatient Miss Cowley. “We are not the children of folly, nor the slaves of passion! Read that letter 109which I received from your son, and then judge of the basis on which our hopes rest. I have promised Horace to respect his father’s honour, and to preserve his, and I will never write to him till I have your consent.” “I am satisfied,” answered Mr. Hardcastle, hastily rising to quit the room. “Oh hear me!” cried Miss Cowley; detaining him by his clothes: “as a sister, as to my early friend, surely now and then I may be indulged.” “You shall want no information of his safety,” answered the retreating Mr. Hardcastle, interrupting her and instantly retiring. “Inflexible man!” said she, bursting into tears. “Ah, would to Heaven that mother to whom he referred, lived to confute his arguments! She only knew Rachel Cowley—she only knew her Horace.”

Relieved by this effusion of sorrow, her spirit took its natural bias, and 110though disappointed in her wishes of gaining permission to write to her brother Horace, it may be at least conjectured, that the opposition she had been unable to conquer, did the lover no injury; for it is most certain, that she attributed Mr. Hardcastle’s conduct to a pride and scrupulosity far removed from good sense, and deficient in kindness to her.

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