CHAP. IV.

Miss Cowley lost nothing of her firmness in relating the above conversation to her friend Lucy. “I must think Mr. Hardcastle too rigid,” said she, “in prohibiting all correspondence between me and Horace; but I will obey him as my father. I leave you, my dear Lucy, but it is to defeat malice. The honour of Mr. Hardcastle is not less dear to me than my own, and I will prove to the world that I am qualified to judge, and to determine. I have now duties before me that will give solidity to my mind. My father has left two children besides myself, and convinced as I am, that Flamall is a villain, I will omit no 112occasion of detecting his artifices. Sheltered under this roof, I can never do this; but by bending to his authority I may make him tremble. Should I fail in this purpose, I am still secure; for Horace will not want my father’s wealth to make him happy; and when I am of age, it will depend on you to determine whether Mrs. Dawson’s legacy to her grand-daughter is to be a curse.” Poor Lucy, unable to reply, only wept, and saw with bitter regret her friend’s preparations for leaving Heathcot. A letter from Sir Murdock Marlain hastened her departure; and Mrs. Allen and Miss Cowley were escorted to London by Mr. Hardcastle a few days previous to the baronet’s arrival, and took up their temporary abode at Counsellor Steadman’s.

Few of my readers will refuse their sympathy to the dejected and faithful 113guardian during this anxious period. With a father’s apprehensions, Mr. Hardcastle saw youth and beauty torn from his protecting care; and with anguish of soul, did he now contemplate the traits of his pupil’s mind, and the charms of her person; but of this person no more will be said, than applying to Rachel Cowley the poet’s interrogation,

Can Virgil’s verse, can Raphel’s touch impart,

Those finer features of the feeling heart,

Those tend’rer tints, that shun the careless eye,

And in the world’s contagious circle die?

Rogers’s Pleasures of Memory.

Having now brought my readers to the point in which my history may be said to commence, I hasten to place before them a correspondence, which will better serve my purpose than any talents I possess. I shall content myself 114in future with supplying the few breaks I find in the narrative; and leave the reader to judge of my discernment in thinking the unstudied language of truth and nature better than any I could substitute in their place. Miss Cowley shall speak for herself.

LETTER I. From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

Tarefield, June 24th.

The short note which your father has, before this, delivered to you, and which I trust you have destroyed, my dear Lucy, as a proof unworthy to be preserved of your poor Rachel’s little advancement in self-knowledge, shall, if it be possible, be rendered useful to me as a warning against presumption. But although I have been taught by experience 115not to think too highly of my wisdom, yet I mean not, Lucy, to give up the reins to folly. You will have no more despairing rhapsodies from me. The question has been decided, and reason tells me, that in a difficulty which admits of no other alternative but that of either laughing or crying, it is but to take that which will least disagree with my constitution. You have, my dear Lucy, called me many times a twin sister of my favourite Beatrice. Whether you meant to compliment me as having a portion of her wit, or meant to repress in me the superabundance of her spirit and flippancy, remains with you to settle. I am contented with the resemblance, and I will, if I can, preserve a light heart, and her disdain of fools and knaves. I will, however, effect my purpose of breaking through the web of mischief which now entangles me, without wishing “I were a man,” or “eating 116Mr. Flamall’s heart in the market-place;” a more severe punishment will only satiate my vengeance. He shall live to feel the stings of a wounded conscience, and to see me happy.—But again Heathcot rises between me and my heroic intentions! Alas, my Lucy, it will, for a time at least, defeat every purpose of wisdom! I must weep! Its beloved inmates are before me! I see them silently glancing their humid eyes to my vacant place at their peaceful table; and, with looks of sympathy, pitying each other for the absence of their fondled, cherished Rachel. Who will now, my Lucy, defend you in your walks from the terrific cows? Who will now guard you from the wasp’s approach? Who will now explore your path in your evening’s ramble, and secure your timid footsteps from the tremendous frog? Alas! you have no Rachel Cowley to guard and to laugh at you! She is, and well may I 117say, alas! and alas! far remote from these her accustomed and sweet duties! She is too remote, also, to hear the gentle and persuasive admonitions of her Lucy. Who is there here to repress with a smile my too volatile spirits, “to divert my petulance and check my pride?” Where am I now to seek that friend, whose approbation, like the dew from heaven, tempered my rough elements with her own simple and mild virtues? We were formed, Lucy, to be each other’s aid and support. We are made for Heathcot and contentment. Will Mr. Hardcastle persist, think you, in thus defeating, as it appears to me, the designs of Providence? Oh no! nor can he long remain unconvinced that my father was incapable of defrauding his child of those rights of nature which he granted to his slaves. He cannot, Lucy, persist long in prohibiting Horace from writing to me. He must perceive the injustice, as well as 118severity, of his present conduct. Never to write to the companion of my youth, to a brother endeared to me by a thousand and a thousand fond remembrances of pure and unimpassioned affection! Surely this is being too rigid! Such is not Mr. Hardcastle’s mind. He will relent in compassion to himself. In this hope only can I find a relief from my present state of mind. I cannot, Lucy, support my plan of conduct with fortitude whilst I find your father thinks meanly of me; and is it not obvious, that he believes me weak and childish? Why am I not to be confided in? His honour is my own; Horace’s disgrace would be my destruction; and, again I repeat it, I would not now marry your brother were the world your father so much dreads, to solicit me to be his wife. No, Lucy, Horace Hardcastle shall have no accounts to settle with my new guardian! Farewell, I cannot proceed. Mrs. 119Allen’s blessing and your Rachel’s must not be omitted. She is contended with me, and bids me tell you that I am a very good girl. Will not this please you? You smile.

LETTER II. Miss Cowley, in continuation.

Tarefield.

Finding myself somewhat the wiser for a few hours repose, I will profit by the unavoidable delay of my yesterday’s letter to add to its bulk, and to pour into your patient ear a larger portion of those thoughts which I know not what to do with till they are communicated to you. I shall therefore inform you, that I lost no time in giving Sir Murdock Maclairn a specimen of that damsel’s temper whom it had cost him so many wearisome miles to seek. But I will be modest, and tell you also, that I had been spirited up to this 120undertaking by Counsellor Steadman; for as he has no son to beguile me of my heart, and is too old himself to wish for more of it than he has, he was determined, without consulting your father, to see whether I could fight my own battles. Thus prepared, I asked the courteous baronet, before my dear counsellor, when he meant to commence his journey to Tarefield. A solemn bow prefaced his reply.—“He was at my directions on that point.”—“Indeed,” answered I, smiling, “you surprise me! I suspect my new guardian has ill-chosen you for his substitute. I fancy he would not altogether approve of your complaisance to your prisoner.” He fixed his eyes on my face, but was silent. “I mean not to bribe you,” continued I, “for you appear too indulgent to need it; but I do wish to make our journey to Tarefield pleasant; and that cannot be unless we travel as good friends. By a will now 121substantiated as legal, and called my father’s will, Sir Murdock, I am committed to the controul of a man, who, till within, a few months, was a stranger to that parent I deplore, and to whose name and office was affixed a post at Mr. Cowley’s writing-desk. It ought not to surprise you, therefore, if I think it necessary to act with caution under these circumstances. I am an entire stranger to Mr. Flamall’s character and principles; and yet I am ready to accept of your house, Sir Murdock, as an asylum proper for me. But, understand me: motives absolutely remote from Mr. Flamall’s power and authority over me, have induced me to give up a protection under which I have been safe and happy from my infancy. I trust to you voluntarily, for I believe you to be a man of honour. To Mr. Flamall I leave the provision he may judge necessary for his master’s daughter whilst under your roof. If I am to give 122credit to my partial friends, I am not capricious; but I am very jealous of my independence. Lady Maclairn, as well as yourself, Sir Murdock, must be told that I have decidedly and firmly refused the husband provided for me by my father’s will. I expect to be exempted from all importunities on the subject of Mr. Philip Flint. These would not only tend to make my residence with you unpleasant, but also short; for I shall without delay convince Mr. Flamall that Rachel Cowley’s person is not included in his extraordinary trust. I have only to add, that I am ready to set out whenever you please, and shall with cheerfulness attend you to an abode which I promise not to disturb by any discontents.”

Sir Murdock, who had not for an instant taken his eyes off me, started when I ceased speaking, and for several moments 123appeared extremely agitated; his countenance varied with the oppression within, and he paced the room once or twice in profound silence. At length, with collected firmness, he said, I had surprised him. “I am not prepared to answer Miss Cowley’s suspicions of Mr. Flamall,” said he, addressing the counsellor, “but I know that I have had no sinister views in coming hither. I have no designs either on her person or property; nor can I easily conceive that Mr. Flamall has. We were strangers till very lately, to all that regards this young lady. The proposed alliance was transmitted to us, as an argument in favour of the plan now under consideration. It produced the effect Mr. Flamall wished, it conquered our reluctance to receiving under our roof a stranger to our habits of life. These are so retired, that we naturally judged they could not be agreeable to a young lady; and we 124should have persisted in our refusal, had not Mr. Flamall pointed out to us the propriety of the measure he recommended. If Miss Cowley, or Miss Cowley’s friends, be not satisfied with what I have asserted,” added he, spreading his hand on his chest and colouring, “I would not for all the riches in the world have her under my protection; but I have yet to learn, that Sir Murdock Maclairn has been judged a fit agent for dishonour!” His eyes were again turned on me, they instantly softened, and I saw he trembled. “Say no more, my good Sir,” cried I with my usual eagerness, and taking his hand, “I bless Providence for conducting me to you, under the necessity which forces me to quit Heathcot. I will love Lady Maclairn for your sake, and tell her, that I am grateful to you for hearing me with so much patience.” Never shall I forget him, Lucy, when with a countenance expressive of the utmost 125sensibility, he said to Counsellor Steadman with solemnity—“She will be safe as the child of my bosom. She will be guarded by a vigilance equal to your own and Mr. Hardcastle’s. As a deposit sent by Heaven, I will receive her.” Do you know that I was so affected that I wept, and repented of having urged him to this explanation. Mr. Steadman assured him, that he was perfectly satisfied, and the conversation gradually became less interesting. I mentioned with diffidence my friend Mrs. Allen. “My wife will rejoice to find you bring a companion with you,” said he; “she fears that you will think Tarefield very dull. My bad health has produced a love of home in her, as well as myself, that will not easily be overcome.” “Be under no fears on that head,” observed I, smiling, “I am one of those profound philosophers who are never alone.” He smiled in his turn at my vivacity. “You 126will like my wife, Miss Cowley,” said he, “she is the gentlest and the best of women. One so peaceable, that she will not quarrel with you for your barbarity to her son. I am not yet at home,” added he with more cheerfulness, “therefore not yet tongue-tied; but permit me to assure you, that Philip Flint is not undeserving of your good opinion, though he may be too presumptuous in his hopes. I have, however, nothing to do with this affair,” continued he; “having from his cradle strictly adhered to one rule of conduct, namely, that of leaving him to his tender mother’s care, and the direction of his more immediate connections. Happily his education has not been neglected. But I was unequal to the duties of a father, even to my own Malcolm.” His poor head mechanically sunk, and he took, greedily, three or four pinches of Scotch snuff. We finished by settling the hour of our departure; 127for I found he wished to leave London.

My next letter shall place before you more particularly this interesting Sir Murdock Maclairn, the originality of whose person and manners has so powerfully excited my compassion and curiosity, that I cannot but bless fortune for throwing him in my way. He is no common character, Lucy; and the peculiar sadness which from moment to moment pervades his countenance, is to me inexpressibly touching. I should have detested a stupid laughing face for le compagnon du voyage, that conveyed me from my Heathcot; and as the next best thing to being happy oneself, is making others so, I forgot in my endeavours to make Sir Murdock comfortable that every milestone was to me a memento mori. It is yet rather problematical, whether I shall like his lady as well as I 128do him. But I know not how it happens, that I am less disposed to fall in love with my own sex than with the other. I have loved, dearly loved, men old enough for my great-great-grand-father, but rarely have I been attached to old ladies. Must we acknowledge the truth, Lucy? We may as well; the poet has spoken it: “most women have no characters at all.” So farewell, and be sure to love even the follies of your own Rachel Cowley, for they are not borrowed, at least, my dear girl. Supply for me kind words to Sedley.

LETTER III. From the same to the same.

Your father’s wisdom in hurrying you away to Barton-lodge, instead of permitting you to remain at Heathcot, 129like another Niobe, dissolving in tears, is so like him, that it neither surprises me nor Mrs. Allen; and if the cheerful mistress of the most cheerful mansion contentment ever found, cannot comfort you, I shall be angry and chide my Lucy.

You tell me your father smiles, and refers you “to Rachel’s pen” for all that relates to Sir Murdock Maclairn’s first interview in town; “he (Mr. Hardcastle) being too jealous of the baronet’s favour with me, to be impartial.” In reply to Mr. Hardcastle I make him one of my best and most saucy curtesies; and tell him that I understand perfectly the cause of his discretion and humility. He is like many other sinners, willing to compromise matters with conscience, and to tempt others to do that which he dare not do himself, in order to share the 130gratification of wickedness at a less price. How often have we seen him check his mirth and spoil a good story, by saying, “this is folly, neither the weaknesses nor the frailties of our fellow-creatures, my children, are proper subjects for mirth:” and yet he can lay a snare for me. However, I have neither his charity nor benevolent toleration, and think folly fair game. But I have not folly to laugh at, in the subject before me; yet, Lucy, in the dearth of all rational amusement, in a separation from all whom I love, do you think I can want an excuse for my pen, should it offend charity? Self-preservation is a duty no less obligatory than self-government; and as I am cut off from the banquet of wisdom, have I not a right to cater for myself? “Certainly:” and if I can live upon worse fare, and can be contented with what is wholesome, though not delicate, will any one blame me? “No:” well then, this privilege 131being granted, please to understand, that neither my compassion nor good nature are yet starved out; for were that the case, Sir Murdock Maclairn would be the most unsuitable dish for the cravings of my hunger. It is, however, most assuredly true, that this gentleman’s first appearance produced on me not only surprise, but the most powerful incitements to be wicked. Figure to yourself a very tall large-boned man, meagre as “pining atrophy;” high cheek-bones, which still more hollowed his sunk features; a complexion jaundiced by sickness and tinged by Scotch snuff, which he takes in immoderate quantities; a long crane neck, which is tightly bound with a narrow black stock; a few scattered hairs, which still maintain their carroty colour, tyed in a queue; a sunk, though broad chest, and a plaintive voice, in which however are cadences to please the ear whilst attending to an articulation 132slow, and sometimes laboured. Add to this picture, an abstracted manner, and an air of sadness; and you will not be astonished that I should for a few minutes fancy Malvolio present, and that I looked for “his yellow stockings and cross garters.” The eagerness with which he gazed upon me strengthened my imagination, and I did not dare to smile, lest I should hear him say—

“Thou canst not chuse but know who I am:

If thou entertainest my love, let it appear by thy smiling.——

Thy smiles become thee well.”

At this moment my eyes encountered those of Sir Murdock’s, and my heart smote me; for in language more touching than sounds of harmony could impart, they said, “Pity me, for I am the child of sorrow; respect me, for I am acquainted with grief.” I blushed, and forgot Malvolio.

133For several days, however, I could not reconcile myself to the keenness and peculiar attention with which these large blue eyes surveyed me. An expression in them of a famished look (I cannot better define its eagerness) yielded, as he continued to gaze on my face, to a melancholy softness, not unfrequently heightened by a tear; but I found that he was subject to an absence of mind, which it appears has resulted from many years bad health and low spirits. This, with his ceremonious demeanour, and the no inconsiderable degree of his national accent, render him peculiarly singular. Not expecting much amusement on the road with a companion to whom you may speak half a score times before he is sensible you expect an answer, I took care to provide myself with a book; and, by chance, I robbed the counsellor of Macpherson’s Ossian. The united libraries of the ancient and modern world, 134could not have better supplied me with an author calculated to rouse the attention of Sir Murdock. I was tempted to read aloud some passages, and he listened with a feeling that surprised me to the sorrows of Malvina. “Have you never read Ossian?” asked I. “If I have,” replied he, “I have forgotten him during an indisposition that left me nothing but a capacity to feel my own wretchedness.” A deep sigh and the depression of his head silenced me. He soon urged me for more of my book; but I was grieved that I had introduced to his acquaintance a work so powerfully calculated to “awaken fancy, and to touch the heart” of the poor baronet.

I cannot describe to you the enthusiastic bursts of feeling and admiration which followed every sublime passage I selected; and his tears flowed to the pathetic touches of the poet. “I will read 135no more to you,” said I, with good humour and closing the book: “Ossian is, to a mind like yours, a bad writer.” “There is a joy in grief, when peace dwells in the breast of the mourner,” answered he in a plaintive tone. “It may be so,” replied I, “but the mourner ought to remember, ‘that sorrow wastes him.’” “I do not attribute my faintness to grief,” observed Mrs. Allen laughing, “but to downright hunger; and I must beg to stop at the next stage for something more substantial than Ossian.” Sir Murdock instantly began his apology for his omission at the last inn. “I forgot,” said he, “that every one could not like myself fast twenty-four hours without inconvenience. Early habit has made abstemiousness of no account with me,” added he, “I have fasted six-and-thirty hours formerly, without experiencing any considerable diminution of strength.” “Have you never thought 136such a disregard to the wants of nature pernicious?” asked I, surveying with compassion his lank figure. “I had then other cares,” answered he; “my soul, like that of Oithana, was not as careless as the sea which lifts its blue waves to every wind, and rolls beneath the storm.” He fixed his eyes on my face, and spoke no more till we reached our destined post-house. Here Mrs. Allen’s orders were quickly obeyed, and we pressed him to take some refreshment with us; and to judge by the voraciousness of his appetite, he must have exceeded his usual time of fasting. We were, however, too well pleased with the effects of ham and cold chicken on him, as well as on ourselves, to trust to his memory for a repetition of the cordial; and Mrs. Allen undertook the management of us for the remainder of the journey. The replenished baronet became more and more conversible as we 137proceeded. He had even transient gleams of cheerfulness, and finding that I persisted in keeping back the “tales of the times of old,” till he, like other poor mortals, eat three meals a day, he contented himself, and amused us by describing in glowing colours the grand and picturesque scenery he remembered in the western isles of his beloved Scotland; and with evident delight he traced a similarity of manners and customs between his country and ancient Greece, marking with precision the common features of resemblance that had struck him between the heroes of Ossian and Homer. From this learned dissertation he condescended to talk of France, in which country he had passed his youth. He praised my accent, and seemed pleased that I knew the language, speaking with rapture some passages from Racine. “Do you also understand Italian?” asked he. I replied, “As a school-girl.” He 138smiled most graciously—I wish you could see him smile, Lucy! and with a suppressed sigh he said, “It may serve to fill up your time, my dear Miss Cowley, to accept of the assistance of ‘a school-boy’ in this language; there was a time, when it was as familiar to me as my mother tongue, or the French; but my memory has been many years lost to me as a source of pleasure.” A reverie succeeded to this observation, and Mrs. Allen and I insensibly retraced our steps and got to Heathcot-Farm. We talked of Lucy Hardcastle; when, to our surprise, the good baronet interrupted us by observing, that our friends at Heathcot had an advantage of which it was probable they were not aware. “Heathcot,” added he mournfully, “will never recede from your mind whilst you are at Tarefield.—This is my fear: yet still I think you will be pleased with my Harriet. She is as gentle and pure-hearted as your 139dear Lucy. She will be miserable, if she fail in making you comfortable.” You will supply our answer. He continued to talk of his wife, and told us, that to her persuasions he had yielded reluctantly to undertake a journey which had separated him from her more hours, than for many years before he had been minutes: “but she thought,” added he, “that it would be beneficial to my health and spirits; and these are of value to me, because essential to her happiness.” He spoke with animation of her faithful love, and added, “She is now counting the hours till she sees me.”

When arrived within five miles of Durham we left the road, and pursued our way through a flat country, unmarked by any thing cheerful; and reached Tarefield-hall at about eight o’clock in the evening of our third day’s journey. The house, as we approached it, struck me 140as having been originally built in that style of architecture for which we are indebted to William the III. and Dutch taste; but as each successive proprietor conceived his own to be as good, and had money for its indulgence, it exhibits at present samples of all: turrets and chimneys: high roofs and flat ones; latticed bows and Venetian windows, and wings added to wings.

I find, however, many good-sized rooms within; and when we get acquainted with the five staircases, and as many thresholds, we shall, I believe, have seen all that is curious in the manor-house, commonly called Tarefield-hall. I must not, however, omit as its beauty, a noble avenue of elms and horse-chesnuts, the latter in full bloom, and which embellishes the dull scenery around. This avenue is flanked on each side by a rising plantation of some extent, and is 141devoted to modern improvement; the walks are neat and trim, and it is filled with shrubs.

Now mark me, Lucy: here I am at Tarefield; and here does my history finish, unless you are good and tractable. Horace was not even named in your last letter.—This will not do. You had better not provoke me: I have rich materials before me, but I will have my price for them. Take in the mean time the kiss of peace from your

Rachel Cowley.

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