CHAP VI.

LETTER VI. From the same to the same.

Since my last, I have had some conversation with Mr. Malcolm Maclairn, which, as it interested me, will make the subject of my present lucubrations. He returned home last night from an excursion which almost immediately followed my arrival here. I met him this morning in the garden, and he joined me. After civilly apologizing for an absence from home so soon after I was his mother’s guest, he said, his father had not been for many years in a state of health 181which admitted of any interruption by business. “But,” added he, with seriousness, “with what satisfaction do I now devote my time to his ease and comfort, when I compare his present condition with the sufferings of his mind that I have witnessed! This morning he was not only curious to learn the success of my little journey, but conversed with me on the subject of it with precision and interest. In time his long habits of seclusion and indolence will yield to the natural energy of his character, and the activity of his mind. I have cherished this hope, Miss Cowley, from the hour I was capable of reflecting on the nature and operations of my father’s malady. I never could believe he was what he was called, nor that his case was incurable lunacy. The event has justified my opinion. After many years of suffering under the most afflicting hypochondriacal attacks, he was suddenly seized by a 182violent fever, which for many days baffled medicine, and repressed every hope; the crisis was favourable. We were prepared to expect not only extreme weakness in his bodily powers, but also that debility of mind which inseparably belongs to a state of nearly renovated existence. He remained for a time a mere infant; but we perceived that with his increasing strength, his mind was clear from those gloomy images which had so long obscured it. He continued to gain strength; but unfortunately his memory, too faithful for his advantage, represented the scenes which had passed. He became painfully susceptible to a sense of humiliation the most unfriendly to his perfect recovery. No arguments could prevail on him to appear, even before the servants of the family, for a considerable time, lest he should terrify them; and his persuasion was so strong that he was disqualified to appear in society, 183that my dear mother ceased to importune him on the subject. Unsupported, and I may add, friendless as we are on the side of connections, no efforts were made to combat opinions which were more the result of extreme delicacy and habitual indulgence, than of a still disturbed imagination. I was convinced that my father wanted only a stimulus sufficiently powerful to rouse his mind, and to recover his native powers of acting. About this time, we received Mr. Flamall’s letters, with his plan of your becoming an inmate at the hall. My father was extremely averse to the proposal. He affectingly drew a picture of himself, and with tears appealed to his wife to determine whether he was a fit object for the observation of a girl who had no acquaintance with misery, and who would shun him as an object of dread and disgust, or laugh at his eccentricities. Miss Flint’s wishes were answered 184with firmness. ‘He should quit Tarefield.’ I had arguments more potent.—Let it suffice for the present,” continued Malcolm with emotion, “that I know Mr. Flamall; and that my father knows him to be a villain. I urged, and seriously urged, that by his rejection of the proposal Flamall had made, you might fall into less honourable hands; that he might, by an apparent acquiescence circumvent designs, which, as originating in a mind devoid of every principle, must be liable to suspicion. ‘You may not,’ added I, ‘be able altogether to redress the grievances which this young lady will have to endure under the controul of such a guardian; but under your protection she will be secure. Convince Miss Flint, and let Mr. Flamall understand, that you are no longer the ‘idiot,’ ‘the lunatic,’ they have proclaimed. At no period of his life was Sir Murdock Maclairn better qualified to 185become the defender of innocence. My arguments prevailed, and his journey to London to receive you, was determined on. My poor mother’s spirits sunk into terror. She resolved to attend Sir Murdock, and urged with many tears, the danger of his going by himself; but I was resolute. It was indispensibly requisite to renew in my father’s mind a confidence in his own strength, and to permit him experimentally to feel that he was a rational being, and fully competent to the care of himself and of you. He departed alone; and with a solicitude and terror which I will not attempt to describe. I followed his carriage. I had the comfort of finding on the road, that although the singularity of his manners excited curiosity, no one called in question his faculties of action, or suspected he had been deranged. I lodged at the same coffee-house in which he did, and slept in the next room to him. I 186followed his footsteps, and watched his return from Counsellor Steadman’s by means of a young man who was in his office. From this gentleman I also learned, Madam, some particulars relative to your situation at Mr. Hardcastle’s, and, with this information to appreciate justly your character, and that of the friends from whom you were to be separated. I reached the hall not more than two hours before your arrival, with the unpleasant conviction on my spirits, that you would experience under its roof many privations of your accustomed enjoyments. But I also knew, that nothing would be omitted on my mother’s part to render your banishment from your friends as easy and as secure as possible.—This mother,” continued Malcolm, “you must love; for she merits your esteem, and you are just. No language I can employ can describe her conduct as a wife or a mother. Judge then of her gratitude 187to you, for the humane and delicate attention you give to a husband, for whose sake and for whose comfort she has lived! You will no longer be surprised, my dear Madam, by the singularities of Sir Murdock, or at the retirement in which we live.—Observe those grated windows,” continued Malcolm, directing my notice to two in the attics, “in that apartment did my mother, like an angel of peace administer every tender, soothing balm to the desponding and disturbed imagination of her beloved, idolized husband! There it was, Madam, that I perceived from time to time the emanations of a mind which neither sickness nor sorrow could entirely extinguish. There it was, that I saw the spirit of a Maclairn struggling with affliction, and nobly sustaining its claims to the meed of virtue!”—He spoke with an animation which proved his affinity to his father.—“Need I,” pursued he, 188“recommend to Miss Cowley the continuance of those acts of kindness which have already produced the most flattering hopes to my dejected mother’s spirits. She tells me Sir Murdock delights in your society, and that he talks of you as a blessing sent to comfort her, and to heal him.” “God Almighty grant it may prove so!” said I, with fervour. “To be an agent in such a work would make a prison pleasant to me! But I find nothing at Tarefield,” added I, “to put my philosophy to the trial. I am perfectly contented in my banishment, except on one point; and I bespeak your good offices, Mr. Maclairn, to remedy this grievance. Contrive to conquer Miss Flint’s dread of my being an improper associate for her niece. From the precautions that are used, I should have thought those grated windows to have been poor Miss Howard’s boundaries.”—“She is another of my dear mother’s cares,” replied Malcolm 189with eagerness——“But see, Lady Maclairn approaches.” He bowed and turned towards the gate, whilst I quickened my steps to meet her Ladyship. “I come a petitioner,” said she with cheerfulness; “my husband wants to see you, and to have your recommendation of another book. I dread lest he should become too importunate; but only give me a hint, and I will prevent his intruding.” “Let me at once,” answered I, taking her hand, “tell you, in unequivocal language, that my enjoyments at Tarefield are so dependent on Sir Murdock, that I shall have no spirits, but in proportion as I find myself useful to the return of his. From the first day we met, I promised that we should be mutually useful to each other. He shall teach me wisdom, and in requital I will endeavour to cure him of his indolence.” “God will reward you!” said her Ladyship, with emotion.—“The endeavour alone,” answered I, “will be a recompence; 190yet I am on the point of shewing you I can be selfish. I entreat you to assure Miss Flint that I am a very harmless young woman, and that she may with safety permit her niece to be familiar with me.”—“Would to Heaven,” said she, “it was in my power, Miss Cowley, not only to oblige you in this request, but also to convince you of my own opinions, as they relate to this amiable girl! But I can only deplore her aunt’s harshness of temper. I have neither the authority nor the influence necessary to remedy the evil. Lucretia must be left to the bitter experience which will result from her temper; and Miss Howard must be satisfied with knowing, that she is not the only one under this roof who suffers from its caprices. I am this poor girl’s friend, but I cannot lessen the oppression under which she lives, although I abhor it.” The Baronet appeared, and I thought his wife was not displeased by the relief his presence brought her. He gladly accepted 191my invitation to breakfast, and it was no sooner finished than he became so engaged with a book as to resemble a statue.

You say you do not yet know where to find me, should you be favoured with the gift of the renowned Puss and her Boots, and take it into your head to step from Heathcot to Tarefield. Conceiving that, in the fancy of the moment, your imagination had conquered the difficulty of the staircases and thresholds, I will in my turn, fancy you are now in my domicile. My apartment forms the south wing of this irregular building, in which are two specious parlours, which command the east and south, by which means I have the avenue and the garden for my solace. But on discovering that Lady Maclairn had, from indulgence, a more peculiar privilege in the appropriation of these rooms to her own use, I have insisted on their being regarded as hers; 192and I have erected my throne of independence on the second floor, where the rooms are correspondent, only divided into three. It is in the south room you must look for your Rachel Cowley: but you may, if it please you, imagine you are still at home; for all in this sanctum sanctorum is Heathcot. My work-table, the drawings we did together, Horace’s biographical chart—all present to my mind those

“Friends of reason, and my guides of youth,

Whose language breath’d the eloquence of truth;

Whose life beyond preceptive wisdom taught,

The wise in conduct, and the pure in thought.”

To gratify Sir Murdock, who by no means relished my preference of the second floor for my domain, I have placed my books and the piano-forte in one of the parlours, which has wonderfully domesticated us to that room. He is too well bred to intrude on my private hours; but he often induces me to shorten them, for there is a 193pleasure which belongs to sympathy; and when I see the poor baronet’s eyes brighten at my approach, I feel the gaiety which I often assume, settling into contentment. Have I said enough to satisfy your curiosity? Will it not be my own fault if I am dissatisfied with a prison regulated by order and neatness, and inhabited by people who wish to make it pleasant? I promise you, Lucy, that I will be all you wish me to be; but I must have intelligence of our dear wanderer. Neither Tarefield-hall, nor Heathcot itself, would content me, without this indulgence; and, to say the truth, I would rather be the “Wet sea-boy” in Lord William’s yacht, “even when the visitation of the winds takes the billows by the top,” than dwell in a terrestrial paradise. But this is the romance of a girl! and as Solomon, from the next room, is glaring his large eyes on me, I will profit from the admonition they give me, and 194close this letter and my own eyes for the night. Heaven will, in its mercy, receive the petition I offer for all that is dear to Rachel Cowley, for in that confidence do I live.

P. S. Mrs. Allen bids me tell you that she finds Tarefield has a worse report than it deserves. It is haunted only by one unquiet spirit, and that may be said of nine hundred and ninety-nine houses out of a thousand. She has, by her usual address, found the means of quieting this nuisance as it approaches her; for Miss Flint affects to have a great veneration for Mrs. Allen’s judgment, particularly in physic, in which she is or seems to be an adept. I heartily wish she may be converted to Mrs. Allen’s creed, of being “good to all,” it would do more for her weak nerves—could you but see this woman!—than a course of valerian and bark.

195

LETTER VII. From the same to the same.

Obedience in most cases is the best test of love; and as you command me, my Lucy, to continue faithfully to detail all the minutiæ of my domestic comforts, till you are certain I want only you, I will continue to please you. In time you will, I presume, wish for other subjects; and I beg you will point out to me the means of attaining any more important than my present one. What think you of my studying heraldry, for the purpose of amusing you? I should have a good preceptor in Sir Murdock; he frequently descants very learnedly on armorial bearings, and with much philosophical precision traces the influence of “blude,” from the father to the son, for centuries past. According to Sir Murdock’s favourite hypothesis, every cardinal virtue depends on having “gude blude” in our 196veins; but a truce with nonsense. I believe the good people I am with will please me in all essential points. They have already forgotten that I am a stranger. Miss Flint has put aside her damask gown and laced suit, and I saw her this morning walking in the garden, in a dishabille not far removed from dirty negligence. By the way, the baronet now exhibits a new wrapping gown with Morocco slippers; and as we walk before breakfast, he usually continues to take that repast in the parlour with us. This hour is gradually becoming useful to him, and his wife also, for she appears to enjoy it as much as he does. I am now convinced that I have innocently occasioned to Miss Howard the privation of her morning exercise. I caught a glimpse of her to-day in the garden, and instantly availing myself of the opportunity, took a direction which led me to her. When remote from the windows, I at 197once entered upon the subject of my fears, and told her that I had been vexed and disappointed by not seeing her in the avenue. “I must not abridge you of liberty,” added I, “and unless your aunt becomes more reasonable, I shall lose my temper. What can be the humour she gratifies by opposing my wish to enjoy your society?” The poor girl was confused—“You are very kind, Madam,” replied she, “but my situation here does not admit of the honour you wish to confer on me. I have to learn many things, and my time is necessarily engaged by my duties. I have unfortunately been reared with too much tenderness for the station of life to which Providence has destined me, and it is sometimes difficult for me to forget.”—She could not proceed.—“Say rather,” observed I with indignation, “that it is difficult for you to bear, unmoved, a cruelty which disgraces your 198aunt, and will destroy you.”—“Indeed,” answered she, with an alarm which surprised me, “your generous nature and sympathising temper have misled you. My aunt is not cruel: she thinks I want a discipline to fit me for the world and a low condition of fortune. Perhaps she judges right. In the mean time, I would not, on any account, give her room to imagine that I am discontented or ungrateful for the shelter she affords my helpless youth. But I must leave you,” added she, whilst her eyes swam in tears. “I have walked an hour, and my aunt likes to see me exact.” You will believe that this short interview was not the exact preparation I needed for the scene I witnessed at dinner. Her aunt actually sent her from table with the soup and beef, neither of which she had tasted, because she had not done her allotted task. God, I hope, will forgive me for the thought that half choaked 199me, and which would have finally choaked Miss Lucretia, had it been successful. I was so angry with Lady Maclairn, that I believe she perceived it; for nothing escapes her observation. After dinner we were by ourselves; and, in the most unqualified terms, I noticed Miss Flint’s want of humanity and good manners to a girl whom she was bound to treat as a daughter. “I am astonished at your forbearance,” added I; “for these instances of her unfeeling temper put me into a fever.”—“You are mistaken,” answered she with seriousness, “if you suppose I suffer the less for being patient. I am as sensible as you can be of the improper treatment Miss Howard has to support: but I know I am more effectually serving her by being silent, than I could be by opposing her aunt. You know not this woman so well as I do; nor the necessity which forces me to witness her harshness and severity to 200this sweet and innocent girl. I must be passive, Miss Cowley. Yet there is a fault in Mary. She has been taught to dread Miss Flint. She is too much under the impressions given to her mind when with her uncle, to perceive that there is in Lucretia’s temper a jealousy in regard to the affections of those about her. With less timidity, and more apparent contentment, she would remove from her aunt’s mind the suspicion which interposes between her niece and every act of kindness her natural generosity would prompt. She believes Mary detests her.”—“Good Heaven!” cried I, “she must so believe, for her conscience accuses her of deserving to be hated!—But, you say, Mary has been taught to dread this aunt. Are Miss Flint’s tender mercies calculated to rectify her opinions? And would you wish to see a girl at her age practise an address which would contaminate the rectitude of a mind at 201any age, in order to gain favour, and to sleep and eat in peace? I should see this girl trampled upon without pity, were I to see her for one moment smile and lick the hand which oppresses her!”—“Ah, my dear Miss Cowley,” replied the agitated Lady Maclairn, “in this sentiment are contained the genuine feelings of nature, and the language of an untried spirit. May you never know the pressure of those circumstances in life which leave the principle vigorous, and fetter down the power of exerting it!”

Miss Howard entered the room. Her eyes were red with weeping. She brought Miss Flint’s request that we would take our tea in her apartment. In the humour I was in, I would as soon have paid a visit to a felon in Newgate! I sent my negative, and left the room abruptly. You will perceive that your Rachel Cowley had lost sight of wisdom. Tell me not, Lucy, that I am an enthusiast: 202I will maintain, to my dying day, that there is language which hypocrisy can never speak. Lady Maclairn is a Flamall! not one line in her face corresponded with a feeling of mine. I told my tale to Mrs. Allen.—What a contrast! The glow of indignation, the look of pity, with which she listened to my story, made me thankful that a slight cold had kept her in her room at the dining hour.

I had scarcely recovered my sang froid before Lady Maclairn, with a countenance as placid and gentle as the pleased infant’s, entered to chat, and enquire about the rebel tooth which had teazed Mrs. Allen; and, with a calm and easy good humour, she asked my permission for Sir Murdock’s visit. “I am going,” added she, smiling, “to bring Miss Flint into good humour; and if I should be so fortunate as to succeed, Mary shall have a holiday and walk with you.” I 203could only bow: but in spite of nature this woman subdued me; for she checked a sigh that I could not resist, and left me, to send in my guest. Sir Murdock finding I was “at home,” joined me; and, to smooth my own ruffled features, and gratify him, I went to the harp. I have however, prescribed for myself as well as my patient; the penseroso in music having more than once betrayed him into tears and myself into sadness, by sounds which came

——“o’er his ear like the sweet south

That breathes upon a bank of violets.”

Two or three songs of Horace’s are now locked up; and the baronet is contented with being roused to cheerfulness by Scotch ballads.

Let me know in your next letter how many months Rachel Cowley has been at Tarefield. Mrs. Allen’s calendar says 204not more than one—can this be true? Poor Horace! how tedious must be to him the account of time if he computes it as I do! How many precious hours which Providence has given us, have been, and will be still lost to the account of happiness!—A happiness, Lucy, which would not have interfered with a single duty, nor invaded on the rights of a single human being!—Good night!

Well, I will be good, and endeavour to be patient. I will eat, and drink, and sleep, and forget not only my own cares, but cease to feel and be angry at the sight of oppressed innocence. I will grow fat, and say with Miss Flint and her tribe, “What! are not the poor and friendless made for our use?” I will do any thing rather than grieve my Lucy; but you have, my dear girl, your whims and crotchets to correct, as well as I my petulancies and opinions to govern. 205What has given you the notion that I am starved at Tarefield? Please to understand that Miss Flint prides herself on the goodness and abundance of her table; and although she has not yet acquired a relish for a dinner of herbs seasoned by love and peace, she has an excellent appetite for the stalled ox. Consequently, as the song says,

“Each day has the spit and the pot,

With plenty of pudding and pie.”

Therefore be assured, that if to “pine all the day is my lot,” it is not because I am hungry or ill fed. No, no: it is the sovereign will of Miss Lucretia Flint, that there should be no want of any thing at Tarefield but contentment; and as she can live without it, why should not others?

Yesterday morning Mrs. Allen and myself, escorted by the baronet, encountered Malcolm in our ramble before 206breakfast. He was in rustic attire, and had a scythe slung on his shoulder. He joined us with a face glowing with health and exercise; and with the utmost cheerfulness accosting us, he said he had been working two hours in the meadow. “It is not remote,” added he, “and if you love nature’s perfumes, Miss Cowley, I advise you to lengthen your walk. You will find the poets need not the aid of fiction to heighten their description of a hay-field, whatever they may do in describing hay-makers. Were I poetically decorated, I would offer you my arm, but in this trim.”——I interrupted him by bidding him lead the way, and be content without rivaling a birth-night beau.

We soon reached the field, in which were, with a number of people at work, the proprietor, farmer Wilson, a neat comely looking man, and Captain Percival Flint. They advanced to meet us; 207but I perceived an instantaneous change in the baronet’s countenance, and I thought the salutation between the captain and him more ceremonies than cordial. Sir Murdock, however, introduced him to us; and then, with a forced smile, he asked him why he had so long deserted the Hall. The captain said he was sorry he had understood the family to be too much engaged to admit intruders, as it had prevented his visit of congratulation on his return home; and that he had himself been on an excursion for some time since that period. Sir Murdock’s brow cleared, he gave his hand,—“You must be more neighbourly,” said he, “and help us to reconcile the retirement of this village to these ladies.” He bowed, and I began to talk of Miss Howard. I finished my panegyric with an assumed complaint of her idleness, and begged he would come to the hall, were it for no other purpose than to exert his authority 208and oblige her to walk out. “She used to be fond of walking,” replied he pensively; “but the want of a companion of her own age, has, I fear, depressed her spirits and activity.”—“Probably,” answered I; “but only second me and I will engage she shall forget crossstitch and meditation in a month.” He smiled, whilst a deep sigh escaped him. I know your reverence for a black coat, Lucy, and this predilection will not, with you, be disgraced by a prudish prejudice against a red coat. With me a bare suit of regimentals, unspotted by the wearer’s conduct, and unsullied by time and inattention, are credentials I must respect. The neatness of this veteran son of Mars, marked with me the gentleman; and I lost no time in my observations. He is even now too fair for a hero; but the fortune of war has indented a scar over his left eye-brow, which gives manliness, if not dignity, to his countenance; for it 209certainly lessens the effects of a mild expression, and apparent want of health, by no means corresponding with a military man: a wooden leg, however, it must be allowed, does, and the captain’s fame as a soldier has reached the village, where he is regarded with admiration and respect: but his manners are so placid and gentle, that I could not help fancying a cross and a rosary would have converted his portrait into the interesting and war-subdued hermit. So leaving you to finish this sketch, either as an anchorite, or a half-pay captain of marines, I shall continue to inform you of the impression which his past interview with me has left. We were such good friends before we parted that I ventured to tell him, that the sight of a military beau was a phenomenon which had not entered into my calculation of the pleasures to be found at Tarefield, and that his appearance had put my prudence and discretion 210quite off their guard, insomuch, that I dared to make an assignation with him for the evening. “You cannot, as a soldier,” added I, “refuse my challenge; but I warn you I shall bring into the field a second, in the person of Mary Howard.” He laughed, and replied with gaiety and gallantry, that he accepted my terms, although the time had been, when he should have conditioned for others; but that I might depend on his punctuality.

On our return home I mentioned this arrangement to my companions. Sir Murdock, delighted with his morning walk, said he would be of the evening party; but instantly recollecting the difficulty of my engagement, he asked me, by what stratagem I intended to free the poor captive Mary from her cage. I was not quite prepared with an answer to this question; and could only reply, 211that I trusted to fortune and my own ingenuity for success.

The gaiety of the baronet amply indemnified Lady Maclairn for having waited for her breakfast. She was treated with the detail of our walk and with quotations from Thompson’s seasons; and with the contentedness of the hour, and a good appetite, he rallied me on my advances to the captain, telling his wife of the appointed rendezvous, and of my plot to reach Captain Flint’s heart by means of his niece. Would you could see Lady Maclairn in moments like these! Why have I not Ithariel’s spear? For nothing less potent can reach the genuine features of this woman’s mind! This morning, for example, she was ingenuous and unconstrained, her sweet eyes contemplating with delight the cheerfulness of Sir Murdock, when in a moment I saw her countenance change, and her eyes cast downwards, from the effects of these 212words: “My Harriot, you must be of our party; you must intercede for poor Mary.”—“You know it is not in my power,” answered she, with evident distress. Sir Murdock’s gaiety sunk in an instant; but I interposed my influence, and with assumed spirits said, I would trust to no one for the deliverance of Mary but myself; and that I had already formed my plan of action. Do you not think Lady Maclairn is somewhat obliged to her guest for these timely helps? I suspect she feels her obligations of this sort sometimes too sensibly.

But to return from this digression. I need not tell you that from the first hour I entered into this house, I took care to mark with a decided precision, my absolute independence, in respect to Miss Flint’s will and pleasure. In every compliance, in every act, I have shewn her, that I look to Sir Murdock and Lady Maclairn as the regulators of my conduct, 213and as the heads of the house. But I found it was necessary either to declare open war with Miss Lucretia on the occasion before me, or to try her ladyship’s mode of bending to the despot. The lesson was a new one, and I felt an inclination to make an attempt in the art of flattery. So prepared, I met Miss Lucretia at dinner: fortunately she was in a pleasant humour; and giving a gulp to my pride, I praised her skill in carving, and told her the story of poor Mrs. Primrose’s white satin gown, and the unlucky goose-carver’s disgrace, in the best manner. I succeeded; and my next manœuvre was to overlook the poor girl who silently sat beside me, patiently expecting to have her empty plate supplied. My unusual politeness was not lost, for I also talked of Jamaica. Upon this ground, I presume, she called for a glass of rum and water, “half and half,” and drank to all friends there. Even this went 214down my proud stomach in a glass of wine, and I became so agreeable that she invited me and the circle to drink tea in her apartment. Our cheerful acceptance of her invitation was followed by a recollection of her dress, which was not en règle, and she left us to prepare the silver tea-board, and to make her toilet. I was delighted to find Sir Murdock had enjoyed this scene: he told his wife I was a plotter, and bade her beware of my Circean-arts. She smiled, and said I needed no auxiliaries, otherwise she would readily join my standard, seeing it was my design to lead tyranny captive.

On entering Miss Flint’s drawing-room, I perceived that Mary had been permitted to put on her Sunday muslin gown; and to her native charms and holiday suit, her youthful fancy had given the finish by placing some moss-roses in her bosom. She was seated in the remotest of the bow windows, with a huge 215mass of canvass before her, and was plying her needle with all dispatch to get up the lost time. The endless roll of carpeting was now displayed. Miss Cowley could not but praise the design; and she heard that three years would finish the furniture of the room in crossstitch, without one comment that could offend. Can you wonder that Mary was allowed to fetch her bonnet, and to join the walking party after tea? Will you not rather wonder at my success in this new trial of my talents? But between ourselves, I begin to suspect that the art of wheedling, is one of our natural prerogatives. You cannot imagine with what dexterity I employed my untried weapons! It was well they served me; for during the demurs and difficulties Miss Flint opposed to my intreaties, I felt my forbearance was like Acre’s courage, not indeed oozing out at my fingers’ ends, but with every breath I drew; and 216had she not consented when she did, I should have lost my hard-earned laurels. You will not, however, fail in congratulating me on my triumph over myself. But mark me, Lucy, I mean not to twist and turn at the orders of that prudence which is so often practised for wisdom. It is necessary for my purpose that Miss Howard’s friends should know more of me before I can effectually oppose Miss Flint’s will; but when they do understand that Rachel Cowley can no more live under the same roof with an oppressed orphan, than Miss Lucretia shelter one, without feeding her spleen, and qualifying her malice for the bread she bestows, farewell wheedling and coaxing! My road will be plain, and if perchance I encounter any of Miss Lucretia’s frowns in my way, I shall laugh at them.

This poor girl hangs on my spirits. I will reserve for my next letter the account 217of our evening walk. You will lose nothing by my going to bed; for I am weary, and somewhat of your petulant

Rachel Cowley.

LETTER VIII. Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

We found the party in the hay-field augmented by all farmer Wilson’s family, namely, his wife, with a Mrs. and Miss Heartley, their boarders and lodgers, to whom Malcolm introduced us with an eagerness of good-will and pleasure which was flattering to me. The tender greetings between those ladies and Mary, evidently proved that I had communicated more of joy and gladness than I had foreseen, by my interference; and as this was the case, I took my share of the general satisfaction, which appeared like the sky, cloudless. Mrs. Wilson soon restored 218us to order, by leading us to seats under a hay-cock, and began to distribute amongst us a syllabub milked from the cow, with some fruit and cakes. Sir Murdock, who had appeared placid, though silent, suddenly turning to his son, desired him to change seats with him. This request was indulged with alacrity, and he placed his father next Mrs. Heartley. “How often of late,” said the poor baronet, surveying her with a melancholy air, “have I wished to have the opportunity of telling you, that Sir Murdock Maclairn esteems and reverences you for your unremitting kindnesses and consideration for his Malcolm. Yet now I am near you, language fails me; I am oppressed by my feelings. Recollections too painful for me meet this hour of peace and restored happiness.” He took her hand and burst into tears. Mrs. Heartley, with much emotion and confusion, said something of her hopes of 219being still favoured with his good opinion, and of her satisfaction at seeing her worthy neighbour. He caught the last word of her incoherent speech. “Yes,” replied he, “I hope we shall be neighbours as well as friends! My sufferings are terminated. Witness this hour of peace! Witness the mercy which has sent me an angel of consolation!”—He gazed wildly on my face; and sinking his head between his knees and hands, he murmured out “Matilda! sainted, blessed Matilda!” I was alarmed.—“It will be momentary,” said the agitated Malcolm, in a low voice, “be not disturbed!” He was not mistaken, for in a few minutes Sir Murdock’s serenity was restored; and he asked Miss Heartley, in a manner which marked that he had no consciousness of his late disorder, some questions relative to her brother who was in the East-Indies. She replied; and the baronet, with renewed 220cheerfulness and an expressive smile, said, “And what excuse will you make to ‘this dear brother,’ when he knows you have monopolized a heart which he ought to share?” A deep blush was the only answer to this question, which awakened my curiosity. I was however called from further observation by being asked for a song; but willing to make the conversation more general, I alledged that I was too angry to sing; and, with assumed resentment, I reproached the captain’s want of discretion as well as courage in bringing into the field so many witnesses of my weakness, and so many guards against his own. “You wrong your gallant, by your suspicions, Miss Cowley,” answered Mrs. Heartley, with ease and spirit. “But what will he answer to my reproaches? He has been my slave these twenty years and more, and yet had the audacity to conceal this assignation from me. I am indebted to 221my friend Mr. Malcolm for the intelligence of my danger; and I now see it,” added she, laughing; “yet, woman to the last, I will maintain my rights to him against youth and beauty.”—A certain mode of expression, with the correct gaiety and ease of her manners, soon attached me to this lady’s side; and in our walk home she apparently slackened her pace, the more unnoticedly to converse with me.—“You will think me very deficient in the rules of good breeding,” said she, when entering the road to the hall, “on finding that I neglect to pay you my respects at Sir Murdock’s house; but I do not visit the family. My avowed affection and long intimacy with Mrs. Howard, and my still longer acquaintance with Captain Flint, have laid me under indelible disgrace with Miss Flint. Lady Maclairn’s situation, and the circumstances of distress under which she has lived, have 222precluded all approaches to her of a personal kind. You will therefore, I trust, accept of this apology for my not waiting on you and your friend. Yet,” continued she, smiling, “you must not imagine me a woman too obscure for Miss Flint’s notice. In her zeal for her neighbours’ good behaviour, she has thought proper to single me out as an object to be feared and shunned by all modest women. There is, however, a conduct, Miss Cowley, that will refute malice and silence slander, without calling out either resentment or reproach. Mine is such as has done more than was needful for my justification, for it has disappointed an angry woman in her purpose; and my neighbours have always judged me according to that rule of Christian charity, ‘which thinketh no evil.’ They have also gone farther than this precept will justify, for I believe they think I must be good, because Miss Flint hates 223me. Malcolm’s attachment to me and my children has also its share in keeping alive Miss Flint’s animosity. From a child this young man has been regarded, by myself and the family at large with whom I reside, as a cherished and favoured guest. This circumstance has, I much fear, been unfavourable to Miss Howard; it has certainly abridged her in her freedom. She is not permitted to visit her uncle, because he lives under the same roof with me; and she dares not speak to either Alice or myself, when accident throws her in our path, if she has a servant with her. My poor girl murmurs at this refinement in cruelty, and strenuously pleads that I ought to inform Captain Flint of this harsh prohibition; but I forbear, in the hopes that time will relax Miss Lucretia’s heart; and in the interim Mr. Maclairn favours the girls in writing. Miss Howard’s account of Miss Cowley produced the wish to see 224her,” added she smiling. “This we have effected; and I have only now to add, that if in your seclusion from the world you should feel disposed to relieve the dull monotony of your hours by a walk to us, we shall be gratified.—I was formerly acquainted with your friend Counsellor Steadman. When you write to him, ask him whether he has forgotten Henry Heartley, and whether he thinks his widow a proper associate for you.” I expressed my confidence in her worth. She smiled, and thanked me. “But,” added she, “it is necessary you should know the woman who, at my age and with my appearance, cautions you to keep, as a secret, from Miss Flint, even the harmless recreation of this evening. Our meeting Mary would not be allowed to be accidental on her part, and I doubt she is severely treated by her aunt. She conceals from her friend Alice every instance of this kind, but 225Malcolm is not so reserved with us, and we are miserable on her account. The captain hopes to soften his sister’s heart to a sense of justice at least, and has given up the comfort and prop of his life to the fallacious expectation that Miss Flint will love and provide for the future support of this poor orphan. I did not in the first instance oppose his plan of conciliation. His sister offered to take her; and he yielded her up to her promises of being her friend and protector; but if he knew Miss Howard’s situation she would not remain an hour at Tarefield-hall. Poor Mary understands this perfectly; and with an heroism which does her credit, suffers without complaint, rather than return to be a burden on her uncle. I need not recommend to your favour,” continued she, “this innocent and helpless girl. We are told that you pity her, but be cautious in what you say to her uncle. His mind 226has been broken down by sorrow and the injuries of fortune, his feelings are become irritable, and his spirit will not brook further insult. Perhaps this gentle creature may find her aunt has a heart. Time must be allowed her to work a change in so obdurate a mind; it is her wish to make the trial complete; but a year and more has been lost already in the attempt, and I have my doubts of her ever being easy or happy where she is.”—“Mrs. Allen and myself,” observed I, “were much struck by the mode in which this young and amiable creature was treated, even before we had been a day at Tarefield; but Miss Flint soon explained to me her system, and left me nothing for wonder, though sufficient for abhorrence. But, my dear Mrs. Heartley, do me the favour, if it be possible, to explain to me Lady Maclairn’s conduct. I wish to esteem her. Wherefore is it, that with a temper so mild and gentle, 227I see her passively yielding up her dignity in her own house, and witnessing in silence her sister’s treatment of an unoffending girl, who has a just claim even upon her ladyship for protection.”—“Poor Lady Maclairn,” replied she, “is inured to suffering. She knows she can effect nothing, but by an abject submission to Miss Flint. Many causes have contributed to break down her spirits; but none have lessened her principles of virtue: she is an estimable woman, and much to be pitied.”—We were interrupted by Mary’s running towards us to take leave of Mrs. Heartley. She threw her arms around her neck, and, fondly kissing her, said, “Now you will believe that I am comfortable! One day in a month like this would be happiness! You see I have now a dear, kind friend!”—Our general adieux followed; but again Malcolm deserted us for the plea of business at Wilson’s.

228Whether it was owing to my dose of flattery, or to the rum bottle, I will not decide; but certain it is, that Miss Lucretia received us with good humour. She was more than commonly loquacious; and I, with the patience of a Lady Maclairn, listened to the history of her sprained knee, which had spoiled her for a walker. This disastrous subject gave place to her inviting me to take an airing with her the following morning, when she engaged to shew me a very “pretty country.” But this was nothing, for I was even proof against a long story in which her dear brother Philip was the hero, and I was led to approve of his conduct by a direct interrogation. “Was not his behaviour noble?”—I forgot the tale, but I recollect he saved a young woman’s being thrown from her horse. I had, however, my measures to keep, and we retired for the night in perfect good humour. What a simpleton I have been 229in not at first beginning to manage this woman by my address! She would fetch and carry like a spaniel were she but flattered. But more of this hereafter. You must know more of Mrs. Heartley and her fair daughter Alice. Mrs. Heartley is more indebted to an air of fashion and dignity, for the attractions of her person, than either to her features or shape. Her face would be called homely were it not lighted up by her dark and expressive eyes; and although I believe she is defective in her shape, she moves with grace, and is what you would distinguish by the title of an “elegant woman.” Her daughter would at once be thought by the admirers of half-starved, pale-faced beauties, as too nearly approaching to the dairy maid; for contentment and health have given Alice an embonpoint beyond the prescribed rules of fashion. She is a clear brunette, and her damask cheek has a rouge which 230thousands vainly strive to imitate. A pair of large hazel eyes give life and spirit to her round and dimpled face, and when she smiles (and Alice has yet to learn that smiles and laughter are vulgar) she is a perfect Hebe; and Mrs. Allen wished Bunbury had seen her, as he would not have omitted to give this laughter-loving nymph in his charming group of rural beauties. She tells me that I have not been just to Alice: perhaps I have not; and that I should have been more lavish of my praise of this handsome girl, had she not been by the side of Miss Howard. But again I pronounce this young creature to be nature’s master-piece! I had not before seen her animated by pleasure or exercise, nor could I have believed her delicate features capable of expressing the vivacity she discovered. She seemed to tread in air, and, whilst with winning smiles and captivating grace, she drew around her the people 231who were at work, the greater part of whom she called by their names, I could not but apply to this innocent enchantress the lines given to the charms of the mischief-making Armida.

“In wavy ringlets falls her beautious hair,

That catch new graces from the sportive air:

Declin’d on earth, her modest look denies

To shew the starry lustre of her eyes:

O’er her fair face a rosy bloom is spread,

And stains her ivory neck with lovely red:

Soft breathing sweets her opening lips disclose,

The native odours of the budding rose.”

I could not forbear uttering this rhapsody to the captain as he stood near me, whilst Mary was receiving the honest admiration of her humble friends. He smiled, but a sigh succeeded. “She is fair and lovely,” said he with emotion, “and as good as she is fair, and as innocent as she is lovely;—but so was her mother, Miss Cowley; yet she found this 232world a hard pilgrimage!” He turned away from me, and joined his niece. I will now bid you farewell.—Mrs. Allen joins in my blessings for your repose.—Yours,

Rachel Cowley.

LETTER IX. From the same to the same.

Your letter of Thursday, my dear Lucy, is in my hands twenty-four hours sooner than I expected it; but good news cannot travel too fast, and I sit down as blithe as a bird to thank you for the contents of an epistle which has renewed my spirits, and which will render me the “best creature in the world with Miss Lucretia;” for whose summons I am prepared in order to take an airing, and which allows me only time at present to tell you, that I am happy to find you do not any longer think your compliance 233with your brother’s request, is indispensible on the ground of duty. Why should he not be indulged with the sight of my gossiping letters from hence? Erase, expunge what you please; but gratify him with the details which you find amuse yourself. Let him see that his sister contrives to make in this dull portion of her life, those exertions which prevent her mind from stagnating. Do not think you err by deviating from the letter of your father’s harsh law, whilst you so carefully adhere to the spirit of it. I would no more tempt my Lucy to sin, than I would sin myself. Horace knows that I am not a spiritless, whining, love-sick girl; but he well knows what I have to sustain in my separation from you, and in my removal from Heathcot. Have no fears, I beseech you, as to the final event of such an attachment as the one which binds me to Horace Hardcastle. When he ceases to be worthy of my 234esteem and affection, I shall despise him; and when I forget myself, he will despise me. Neither your father’s scruples, nor the maxims of the world will lesson the ties which unite our hearts; of this be assured.——I am summoned, the coach drives up.

LETTER IX. In continuation.

It was not to the fault of the weather, my dear Lucy, that Miss Flint could attribute her return home with a head-ach; nor do I attribute my fatigue to the morning airing; but I begin to find out that I am not yet quite proof against provocations: read, and judge. The mistress of the vehicle with much cheerfulness received me into it, and observed most graciously, that it was time for Miss 235Cowley “to see a little about her.” In consequence of this intention she gave the servant his directions, and we proceeded not more than a mile, before “Miss Cowley” discovered that Tarefield-hall had not been more unfortunate in the lack of taste in its first projector, than it has been since in its lack of cheerfulness and contentment; for gradually descending from the heath, we came in view of the village, and a country, by no means unpicturesque. My attention to the valley in sight, through which meanders a branch of the river War, was interrupted by our approach towards a large house, which still wore the relics of Gothic architecture, and past magnificence. Upon enquiry, I learned that it was still called the “Abbey,” and was the residence of “one Wilson, a farmer.”—“What a striking monument it offers,” observed I, surveying the venerable mansion, “of the lapse of 236time, and the vanity of human greatness!”—“Yes,” replied Miss Flint, “it is enough to make one sick of this world, to see such a house in the possession of an upstart, who would have had his post in the stables had one of the “Ingrams” still been its master. But this family is happily extinct. Happily, I say, for I am certain they could not rest in their graves, if they knew who lorded in the Abbey at this day! But it is to be hoped these people will have their turn! I have heard they got this estate in a shameful manner! Wilson’s uncle I believe was an arrant rogue, and the beggar on horseback is exemplified in his heir.” This subject having considerably discomposed the placid features of my companion, I prudently dropped it; and she, pulling the check-string, bade the driver stop at Mrs. Snughead’s gate.

It was not difficult to discover the ease and opulence of the rector of Tarefield 237parish, from a view of his neat and genteel abode, which fronts the road, and has a flower-garden, with gravel walks before it. We stopped at the gate; the servant was ordered to go the kitchen way, for enquiries respecting the lady’s health. “I shall not go in,” said Miss Flint, “for we should spoil the gravel, and give Mrs. Snughead a fever-fit for the day at least; besides, she would not amuse us with her tiresome details of nervous fits, and sleepless nights.” A maid-servant from the front door appeared, her feet shod with two flat pieces of board, who, shuffling to the carriage, brought her lady’s compliments, and hoped that we would enter the house. “Not now, Martha,” answered Miss Flint. “When do you expect your master home?”—“Madam has had a letter this morning,” replied the girl, “and the clerk is to tell the young gentleman, that Mr. Snughead will do duty on Sunday himself.”—“Well 238that is good news, Martha,” observed Miss Flint, “and I hope your mistress is in spirits.” “Poor lady!” answered the girl in a tone of pity, “she has never held up her head since her poor son Mr. Banks left us; she is quite broken down, Madam! I wish you would have the goodness to see her. The kitchen is quite in order,” added she, glancing her eyes on the untrod path to the house. “Poor soul!” said Miss Flint, “I could not comfort her, Martha, and I am pressed for time. Give my love to her. Drive on, William.” Thus concluded the friendly call. “You have had a good escape,” observed she, settling her large person more at ease. “We should have been detained an hour with Mrs. Snughead’s lamentations about her son. I pity her husband most sincerely, for he has for twelve years and more had the plague of a wife, who is hourly dying, if you credit her, and whose death he dreads; for her 239jointure of five hundred pounds per annum, pays for her board, though in my opinion, not for his life of mortification and continual fear. When I see such marriages as these,” continued she with an air of self-complacency, “I bless my good fortune in having escaped matrimony; not that I think there are none happy but those who are unshackled, for I am persuaded there are many happy matches; and that a young woman cannot do more prudently, than to secure to herself an honourable protection, and a worthy man. When I was young, I was too useful to my poor father to think of changing my condition. I was my father’s only comfort during a period of his life rendered miserable by the conduct and ingratitude of his children; particularly his favourite daughter, Mrs. Howard, whom he brought up with too much fondness and indulgence. His second marriage was an absurdity; and 240he soon found that it added little to his domestic enjoyments. It did not require the spirit of witchcraft, for me to foresee what did result from so unequal an union as my father’s with this young bride; but I could not desert my post even then with satisfaction to myself. The mother-in-law was a mere child in the knowledge proper for the mistress of a family; and I soon discovered, that my father had only added to my cares by placing at his table an indolent woman, who only married him in order to live at her ease. However, I will be just to Lady Maclairn; as my father’s wife, she conducted herself with discretion and modesty, and I have in return been her constant friend.”

Her marriage with Sir Murdock was a foolish business! Mr. Flamall strongly opposed it; but Harriot was always romantic! He predicted then, that the baronet would be crazy; and well he 241might, for he had symptoms of insanity which no one could overlook. But a title, though without a groat, flattered Mrs. Flint’s vanity, and I had only to reconcile matters, and to think of preventing the evils of this connection as it related to my dear Philip’s security. “You may judge, Miss Cowley,” continued she with augmenting seriousness, “of my affection for a brother, whom, from the hour of his birth, I considered as consigned in a peculiar manner to my guardianship and care. His mother’s second marriage enforced these duties on my heart; to shelter him, I was determined to offer my house to Lady Maclairn as a residence at once honourable and prudent for her. Thus has it happened, that I have had for years a lunatic under my roof. Besides this, I boarded the whole family at so moderate a sum, that with a better regulated economy, Lady Maclairn might have saved something for 242Malcolm’s exigencies, for Philip was entirely my charge; but I cannot imagine how she manages her purse, it is never beforehand, and I doubt, Malcolm will take care to prevent all accumulations. Idleness at his age is a melancholy prospect! I wish Harriot may not live to repent of her confidence in this young man. But now I am on the subject of my family, I will add a few words in explanation of my conduct, as it relates to another object of my care. Were you, Miss Cowley, acquainted with all the insults and injuries I have sustained from Mary Howard’s parents, you would only wonder to find her under my roof. But when I received her, to relieve my brother Percival from a burden he could ill sustain, I meant not to train her up to any expectations but such as resulted from her mother’s imprudence. She it was who entailed poverty on her child; and I shall fulfil my duty, in teaching 243her to be useful and industrious; lessons she never would have learned but for me. I know she has complained to you of my severity, as she and her friends call my vigilance”——“Never, Madam,” said I, interrupting her, “your plan of conduct needed no explanation with me; and Miss Howard neither directly nor indirectly has accused you of doing wrong in my presence.”—“Well,” answered she, with great warmth, “on this point I am perfectly at my ease, provided she tells you at the same time, that her parents brought my dear father with sorrow to his grave, and that my peace and happiness were destroyed by their perfidy.” She spoke, and looked so like a fury, my dear Lucy, that I was absolutely silenced by dismay. “But let us change this topic,” continued she, softening her voice, “for one more agreeable to you, and less painful to myself. I think I need not say to Miss Cowley, 244that I acceded with joy to my dear brother’s prospects of an alliance with you. I must however observe that your worthy father, not only evinced his affection for you in his choice of Philip, but the prudence of a man solicitous for the prosperity of a rising family. On the score of merit and conduct, Philip needs not fear any competitor for your favour. His fortune will be ample and solid, for I consider myself as only his steward. Mr. Flamall’s proposal of your residing at the hall, was a matter I heartily concurred in; and in order to give Lady Maclairn more consequence in a family you have honoured by your presence, and to which you will belong, I resigned my authority in it, and became, like yourself, a boarder; paying at the rate of six hundred pounds per annum for the accommodations of myself and servants.”—I was going to speak, in order to spare her any further display of her consummate 245prudence, but she proceeded.—“I have said nothing of the person of your ‘intended,’” said she, with a most gracious smile. “This is his picture drawn when he was about eighteen.” She presented me a miniature of the young man, which to say the truth was strikingly handsome. “Nature has been liberal to your favourite,” observed I, examining the portrait. “He is much improved in his person,” said she with eagerness, “since that age. There is not in England a finer made man! I am certain you will allow this when you see him.”—“I hope to be disposed to render justice to Mr. Flint’s merit in every point,” answered I, “for this consideration he has a right which he may claim; but, my dear Madam, I conceived, that you, as well as the rest of Mr. Flint’s family, understood that I had declined the conditions of my father’s will: I was explicit with Sir Murdock. 246Mr. Flamall, and consequently your nephew, know by this time, that Rachel Cowley is not to be transferred like her father’s negroes from one master to another. I have no resentment against Mr. Flint. His pretensions to me are too ridiculous for a serious examination; and if he have a just title to the character he bears, he will scorn, as I do, an interference so offensive to his honour, and so humiliating to his self-love. I could say more on this subject,” added I with spirit, “but it is unnecessary; and I request I may be spared from renewing it. Lady Maclairn has avoided it; and you, Madam, when you know more of me, will give me credit for a frankness in my manner of treating it, which is as decisive as it is firm. Mr. Flamall is my scorn, and I wish by hearing nothing more of his nephew, to respect Mr. Philip Flint as your brother, and Lady Maclairn’s son. When I marry, it will not 247be a husband of Mr. Flamall’s appointing.” The rising and deepening tints of Miss Lucretia’s fiery cheek, prepared me for her speech. “I would advise you, Miss Cowley, as a friend,” said she, “to be cautious of provoking a man of Mr. Flamall’s character, by using a language of this kind to him, whatever may be your intention in regard to the duty you owe to your deceased father’s will.”—“My father’s will,” exclaimed I, “will not be violated by my rejection of Mr. Flamall’s authority, which, in every instance, I despise!”—“It is because you do not know him, I am very certain,” answered she with suppressed rage. “You are mistaken, Madam,” replied I with firmness, “I do know Mr. Flamall. It is himself, who from the false estimate he has made of his talents, forgets it was necessary for him to know his benefactor’s daughter, before he hazarded a scheme which will end in his defeated 248ambition. My residence at Tarefield is the prelude only of my designs, to shew this man, that he can do no more than be subservient to a Cowley: this I will make him, and it may be he will acknowledge this. I only understood the secret of teaching him to know his place and duty; my father assuredly did not.”—“You astonish me,” said she, “by your violence and prejudice against Mr. Flamall; you even insinuate suspicions against his honour.”—“Honour!” repeated I with a look which seemed to silence his defender; “the honour of Mr. Flamall cannot suffer.” The remainder of our road was passed without a single word being exchanged. She retired to her own room, on arriving at the hall. At dinner, Mary said her aunt had gotten a head-ach and could eat nothing. I suspect she drank the more, for before supper the dear girl joined us, saying her 249aunt was in bed and asleep, having been much fatigued, and out of spirits.

The evening was too inviting not to tempt us out. Not a breeze ruffled its serenity; the moon shed her silver radiance o’er the tranquil scene. Mary, light of heart, bounded before us like a sylph. Sir Murdock spouted Ossian with enthusiastic delight. Your Rachel’s spirits had been disturbed, and to compose themselves they made an excursion—no matter where,—since they found repose. Lady Maclairn and Mrs. Allen, wisely judging that star-gazing and quoting, might not suit them so well as walking, proceeded to meet the truant Malcolm, in which purpose they succeeded; and we walked till a late hour. Amongst the various conjectures which my ingenuity has suggested in my endeavours to fathom the real character of Lady Maclairn, I began to suspect that she had some intention to circumvent her brother 250in his plans of securing my father’s property for his favourite. She has hitherto most diligently adhered to the conditions I exacted, rarely mentioning even the name of her son Philip, whereas she frequently descants with fondness and eloquence on the merit and conduct of her “dear Malcolm,” “her prop,” “her boast.” I had even infused into Mrs. Allen’s mind something of my own suspicions, when on our return to the house after meeting with the young man, chance gave to me a secret which has quite overset this opinion of Lady Maclairn’s policy. Something which escaped Mary, whose arm I had taken, in the gaiety of her heart, produced from me the question, “Is then Mr. Maclairn a lover?”—“Yes,” replied she, “he has courted Miss Heartley a long time.” “Do Sir Murdock and his mother approve of his attachment?” “Oh dear, yes!” answered she, with innocent vivacity, 251“How should they do otherwise? She is one of the most amiable girls in the world, as well as the most virtuous and prudent of her sex. Besides, Malcolm and Alice have loved each other from their childhood, and they will never cease to love.” I was answered and satisfied. So you see, Lucy, these freaks of fancy happen elsewhere as well as at Heathcot. I think in another century parents may discover the force of sympathy, and will think of some remedy for the mischief it may do whilst their children are in the cradle. It is a wretched business, when poor unfortunate beings, whose wealth is unequal, take it into their heads to yield to the attraction of sympathy. It is still worse, when the scale of fortune is empty on both sides. Might not the now useless sash worn by children round their waists, be usefully worn over their eyes till they are properly married? I speak only of those neglected children, who, 252left to nature’s lessons, are so apt to receive impressions from beings as devoid of instruction as themselves; for I am aware, that young people properly educated for the world they are to live in, want no mufflers. They may be trusted with the use of their eyes; or should it happen that a beam of light dazzles them for a moment, a coach-and-six, a diamond necklace, or a sounding name, will restore them to the true point of vision. But I must be serious. What pains and penalties, my Lucy, does the folly of man give to the pilgrimage of this life! Not satisfied with the allotted portion of trial deemed by Providence for our benefit, or to travel in a road prepared by infinite goodness for our feeble powers, we seem to be diligent in obstructing it when smooth and level, with thorns and briars of our own seeking. Your good father, my Lucy, with all his wisdom, dares not make his children 253happy,—and, why not? Because Miss Cowley ought to marry a man as rich as herself. Where does Mr. Hardcastle find this law? In a world he despises.—“Is it not late, my dear child,” asks the sympathizing, Mrs. Allen, looking compassionately on my tell-tale eyes. It is time to forget the world at least.

Yours, ever,

Rachel Cowley.

LETTER X. From the same to the same.

Unbending dignity, Lucy, has been a match for sullenness. I have conquered; and Miss Flint has broken silence, and held out the olive branch. But hold, it was not that unbending dignity you may suspect which produced peace, it was in sober truth my folly which did the business; for as she could not always look 254grave when others laughed, she forgot her anger and laughed with the rest. As I have measures to keep, I was in nowise ungracious in my turn, and all discord was buried by my reading to the collected circle, the comedy you sent me. Before we parted, Miss Flint mentioned her intention of going to church the next morning, and I readily engaged to accompany her. You must have been surprised, that I have not mentioned to you our having been in a church since I have been here, but the absence of the rector had slackened Miss Flint’s zeal, and the baronet and his lady preferred their own prayers to Mr. Snughead’s. Mrs. Allen likes their form of devotion, and having a head-ach, has remained quiet to profit from Sir Murdock’s sermon. A little of the still fermenting leaven, as I suspect, induced Miss Flint to disappoint my expectations of a ride with her niece; on my enquiring for her, she said with a haughty 255air, that Mary preferred walking with Warner, her woman. We soon reached the church, and I followed my stately conductress to a pew in the church, in which was another equally distinguished by its size and decorations of lining and cushions. We had scarcely seated ourselves, for Miss Flint performs this business with peculiar caution and regard to her dress, before the Abbey family entered, escorted by Malcolm: and they took the adjoining pew. I instantly rose, and paying my compliments, asked Miss Heartley for the captain. She told me he was with Miss Howard, and following them. I again took my seat. “Why! where, in the name of wonder!” whispered Miss Flint, “did those women become known to you?” My answer was prevented by a harsh and strong voice, which rapidly began the service. The captain’s entrance with his niece again discomposed Miss Flint’s features, and the confessional 256prayer was lost to her whilst she was chiding Mary for her delay. She meekly said, Mrs. Warner could not walk fast, and retiring to a remote corner of the pew, composed herself with seriousness to the duty before her. A sermon on the deceitfulness of riches, begun and finished in less than ten minutes, concluded Mr. Snughead’s task. I again acknowledged the women in the next pew for my acquaintance, with a frankness and cordiality, which still more surprised Miss Flint. “I find my brother the captain,” observed she fixing her eyes on him; “needs not any introduction to you, Miss Cowley; otherwise”—“Oh dear, no!” answered I, “Sir Murdock has anticipated you in your obliging intention. I have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Flint in my walk.” Thus saying, I joined Mr. Heartley, and left Miss Flint to the care and compliments of the rector at the church-yard gate. She with much dignity mounted 257into her coach; I followed. The captain was coldly asked whether he and Mary walked; an affirmation was given: then turning to the obsequious divine, she invited him to take an airing, and to dine also, at the hall. Some excuse was pleaded, which I did not hear. “Phoo!” replied she, “there is no end of such whims. You will make an arrant slave of yourself.”—“Well, I submit,” answered he, leering at me, “I cannot be in better hands than yours.” “We will take a circuit home,” observed Miss Lucretia; with much complacency, “Miss Cowley is yet a stranger to the country, and you will contribute to recommend it.” He bowed. Now, Lucy, knowing, as I do, your predilection for the cloth, I mean to be on my guard how I lessen your partiality for the black coat you so peculiarly favour: yet, truth is truth, and though I mean not to reproach you for your want of taste, I must tell you there is no comparison to be 258drawn between Mr. Sedley and the reverend Mr. Snughead; to be sure, our curate has some qualifications, with which in the opinion of the simple souls at Heathcot, he might rise to an archbishopric without disgrace to the pastoral crook; but in some particulars, he is a mere cypher compared to the rector of Tarefield parish. “Proofs, proofs,” methinks I hear you call for. Well, be not angry, you shall have them, I advance nothing without proofs, nor any thing in malice. I honestly allow that Sedley is handsome; but his beauty is of that kind which will never make his fortune; for people in general do not much care to admire graces of any kind which they can neither rival, nor like to copy. Now, I have a notion that Mr. Snughead was, in the days of his youth, which by the way is on its wane, universally allowed to be irresistible, and that he answered exactly to what some ladies denominate “a sweet 259pretty man, a neat dapper fellow, a teazing mortal.” His features are still small and regular, and his complexion, naturally fair, is thought less delicate than in the days of his youth, still good; his teeth are white and even, and have suffered nothing from neglect. But either from a scurvy trick of nature, or from his neglect of fasting (I say nothing of praying), he is become so corpulent, that were one to encounter him on all fours, instead of the two limbs destined to support him, one would take him for a tortoise; you well know that I am no enemy to en bon point; whenever I see it with a cheerful countenance, I regard it as indicative of a contented mind: but unhappily, Mr. Snughead’s opinions are diametrically the reverse of mine. He lives in open and perpetual war with this incroacher on the sympathy and elegance of his person; and by the cruelties he hourly inflicts on himself, suffers a martyrdom, from which 260even the mortified Pascal would have shrunk; for I think it may be presumed, that by not eating his soup Pascal’s penetential girdle was bearable; but poor Mr. Snughead cannot be at his ease either full or fasting. He imitates in barbarity the fell Procrastes, for his cloaths are made by a measure that has never been enlarged since the day of his gentility, and his unfortunate person, like the victim to the iron couch, is doomed to suffer under ligatures as painful as the rack. He seems momentarily in danger of suffocation, and I could not, without pity, hear him so often complain of the “melting weather,” nor view unmoved his hand instinctively raised to his cravat in order to relieve his respiration. But Mr. Snughead’s stoical firmness consoled me, and I next examined his dress. But what pen, my Lucy, can do justice to the elaborate neatness of this canonical beau! Who can describe the glossy black robes, the 261polished shoes, the dazzling whiteness and texture of his linen! In what language shall I convey to your imagination the honours of his head, his tight, perfumed, well-powdered curls! I despair, you must even fancy perfection. The frequent application of a well-scented, delicate cambric handkerchief to his face, gave me an opportunity of discovering that it was not his tight lacing which had impelled his hand to his throat, but the desire of exhibiting this precious relic of former beauty; for although somewhat in shape dropsical, it yet retains its whiteness, and is properly distinguished by a sumptuous amethyst ring encircled with brilliants. I was diverted from further observation, by his abruptly addressing me with, “Well, my pretty young lady, what say you to our north roads? Is not this a very pleasant one? What do you think of that prospect in view?” I coldly replied, that the village looked pleasant; and turning 262to Miss Flint asked the name of it. She mentioned it, and observed to Mr. Snughead, that Greenwood’s plantations were flourishing. This person was, I discovered, the clergyman of the parish in view, and not in the number of Miss Lucretia’s elect; but as Mr. Snughead had not succeeded in showing me his wit; he returned to the charge. “You will soon be pleased with your situation, I hope,” said he, taking my hand, “and we shall hear you acknowledge the happiness you will meet here, without travelling further; a road which so many young ladies take, to find the temple of Hymen.” I withdrew my hand, and answered him with one of my petrifying looks, as you have named my honest contempt of puppyism. “When do you expect your brother?” continued he unmindful of my frowns. It was not determined, was the concise reply, and a silence ensued. Again the civil Mr. Snughead began. “I hear wonders of Sir 263Murdock’s health and amendment,” said he, addressing Miss Flint; “they tell me his journey to London has quite renovated him.” “It has produced exactly the consequences I predicted,” replied she, with a toss of her head. “He is now as much too high in his spirits as he has been depressed; now he is always in motion and busy, and as a proof of his amendment, he has in his walks with Miss Cowley met the Heartleys, and as I suppose, introduced them to her, as neighbours of mine and Lady Maclairn’s”—“Always in the wrong, poor man!” said he: “perhaps he told you, Miss Cowley, that they were duchesses incognito, for he knows them not himself. However, my dear Madam,” continued he with a more respectful manner, “I think you should be on your guard, and never walk with Sir Murdock without another companion. There is no dependence to be placed on a man whose mind is so unsettled as the poor baronet’s.” 264“When I perceive Sir Murdock acts either like a madman or a fool,” answered I, “it will be time enough to avoid him; hitherto, I have seen no indications of an unsettled mind.” “Perhaps not, young lady,” answered he with tartness, “neither your age nor experience, I presume, have given you the opportunity of understanding, that there is very frequently a wonderful shrewdness and cunning in madness.”—“I have observed no inconsistency in Sir Murdock’s mind,” answered I, with seriousness, “nor has he discovered to me any of that cunning you speak of, which I conclude may, and must be detected, if the person’s mind be disordered. However,” continued I, assuming a careless air, “if in any instance there can be found so much of method in madness, as to evade all examination, it entirely confirms the received opinion, that madness and wit are closely allied. Folly under this supposition 265appears to me to be worse than lunacy, for that is incurable.”

I am rather disposed to think that something in my too honest face proclaimed what I thought; I felt it glow, and I was out of humour: Mr. Snughead of course had the advantage of me, for with much officiousness he endeavoured to be agreeable. I was the rebel Rachel Cowley,—I could not help it, Lucy. On reaching the hall, I followed Mr. Snughead’s steps, on whose arm Miss Flint leaned; and I overheard the puppy say, “Proud enough in conscience!” “Inconceivably so,” was the reply. Yes, Lucy, I am proud, I disdain the civility that can simper at the conceits of a Mr. Snughead, and despise the impudence of any clerical man, who forgetting himself, and the respect that is due to his profession, fancies his dress is to enforce respect from others. What right has a reptile of this class to the tribute which all pay to a Sedley? 266No, no! I am too provident “to cast pearls before swine.” You know my infirmity, Lucy; I have now taken a rooted antipathy to this Mr. Snughead, not only as he is a contemptible creature, but because he irritated me to anger. I was vexed and out of humour with myself. The kindly greetings of the collected family were lost upon me, and I was on the point of quitting the room, when luckily, I observed Sir Murdock’s cold and ceremonious bow to the intruder. A placid and contracted air yielded to a suffusion of his Scotch “blude,” which for a moment mantled in his cheek: this moment was of use to me, I recollected myself. My gaiety succeeded to this little triumph, and even Mr. Snughead was treated with civility. An excellent dinner was a temptation I should have supposed this gentleman had been proof against; I will not say that he eat like an epicure, but most assuredly he eat more 267than his waistcoat allowed, for he suddenly complained of a most violent pain in his stomach, and Miss Flint prescribed a glass of rum. My tender heart melted, and I was just going to recommend slackening his waistcoat, when I saw him have recourse to the remedy. He breathed more freely, and attributing his indisposition to the extreme heat of the day, perfected the cure by untying his cravat. But I am doomed to be incorrigible on certain points! I have not been able to get rid of my antipathy for this animal. Now attend to the conversation. “I hope you found Mrs. Snughead’s health improved on your return home.” This was a question from the lady of the mansion, who, till the cloth was removed, had not found time to talk. “I cannot flatter myself! She is, my lady, still very ill, very ill indeed: I am in constant anxiety, and have too much reason to fear that she will shorten her days by yielding to her complaint, 268which is merely nervous. She is never out of the apothecary’s hands, and it is my opinion, medicine does her more harm than good.” The unfeigned sorrow with which Mr. Snughead delivered this opinion, induced Miss Flint to take the part of the comforter. “She will soon be better,” observed she, “I have no doubt of it, now she is rid of her constant plague. You will see her spirits will mend in a short time. But what have you done with young graceless?” “I saw him embarked for the West Indies,” replied Mr. Snughead; “he was highly delighted with his uniform, and having gained his point, nothing would do but the army for Banks, and that predilection was, I fear, strengthened by his mother’s opposition to it.”—“He has been unfortunate in his destination,” observed the captain, “and will have a bad climate to encounter; it has of late been fatal to thousands.”—“He must take his chance 269and trust to Providence,” replied Mr. Snughead, with great gravity; “prudence and sobriety at his age, may preserve him, and I hope he will consider this, and be wise.”—“Wise!” echoed Miss Lucretia, “he must act otherwise, in that case, than he has hitherto done, and associate with those wiser than himself. However, I commend him for his spirit; for nothing is so ridiculous as to see a young man tied to his mother’s apron-string! And after all,” continued the tender-hearted spinster, “none of us can die more than once; therefore it is a folly to think of what may happen or not happen to Mr. Banks.”—Malcolm, who had during this conversation been biting a cork, with eyes flashing resentment, now burst into a sarcastic laugh. Lady Maclairn instantly rose, and observed, that the heat of the room incommoded her. A look of supplication directed to her son did not escape me. Every one agreed 270that the garden was preferable, and we left the table. I retired to my room. From the window I soon after saw the party sauntering in the avenue, but as Miss Flint was not with them, I supposed she had also chosen her apartment for a tête-à-tête with Mr. Snughead. I therefore hastened down stairs to join my friends, when to my surprise and vexation, I found the tête-à-tête party quietly enjoying themselves on the garden-seat close to the door I had to pass. I could not escape them without rudeness. “You have done wisely,” observed I languidly, “in being stationary.”—“I think we have,” answered Miss Flint, inviting me to occupy the vacant place by her side, “and I advise you to follow our example.”—I urged that I was going to the avenue.—“You look fatigued,” observed she with kindness, still pressing me to sit down, “and your friends will return soon, for I am certain we shall have 271thunder.”—Not disposed for any exertions, I took the seat, and with truth acknowledged that I had the head-ach. My silence, or stupidity, if it must be so, probably led Miss Flint to pursue the thread of the conversation which I had interrupted; for, turning to Mr. Snughead, she said—“But, as I was saying, Mr. Snughead, is it not your duty to prevent Wilson and his people from instantly occupying the only pew in the church open to strangers? It is really ridiculous to see such people so misplaced!”—“I have no authority to prevent them,” answered he. “The whole chancel is attached to the claims of Wilson, as the proprietor of the abbey lands. It was merely owing to accident he was not my patron for the living instead of yourself, for his uncle would have purchased it of your father; and Wilson might, if he pleased, place his servants in your pew; for, in fact, you 272enjoy it by favour. But why do you not speak to your brother the captain? He certainly ought to sit with you on every account. He should not brave public opinion at church. It is, to say no more, indecorous to see him pass you with those ladies, and make the whole congregation stare, as they do, at his gallantry.”—“He would be disappointed of his aim if they did not,” answered Miss Flint, with anger; “it is to brave me, that he so far forgets decency——.” “You judge too severely of your brother,” observed the rector, in an assumed conciliatory tone; “it may be, and probably is, that the lady exacts this homage to her power. The poor captain is not the only one of his class who finds passive obedience and non-resistance an important duty, without the pale of the church as well as within it.”—“Who is now severe?” cried the facetious Miss Lucretia, tapping Mr. Snughead’s shoulder; 273“but you married men do right to fancy your shackles no worse than those of your more fortunate brethren. In the mean time tell me what is your opinion of Mrs. Heartley’s discretion, in availing herself of such an introducer as Sir Murdock for getting acquainted with Miss Cowley? Pray may I ask,” continued she, addressing me, “how often you have met this fashionable and easy lady?” “Once or twice in my walks,” replied I, desirous of continuing the conversation, “and I must confess that she pleased me by her manners; she is a well bred woman, has a cultivated understanding, and is entertaining.”—“Your opinion does justice to your candour, young lady,” observed the coxcomb near me. “She has, I am told, a good address, and can be very pleasant. I am not surprised that you were pleased with her; youth ought not to be suspicious.”—“It appears fortunately for my sagacity,” replied 274I, laughing, “that Mrs. Heartley imposes on all ages. This will keep me in countenance, should the conclusions I have drawn from her appearance be erroneous. I took notice that all the females on the benches rose and curtseyed to her as she passed through the aisle at church.” “So they would to Wilson’s dung cart,” answered he, laughing and shewing his large white teeth, “for the same return. They have Madam Wilson’s skimmed milk in their mouths, and her Christmas plumb-pudding in perspective; and for these they would bend their knees and their necks ten times a day, although they are so insolent to their betters.”—“You forget,” observed Miss Flint, “that they owe some civility to the village doctress.”—“True,” answered he, “I forgot their obligations to Mrs. Heartley’s James’s powder and her worm-cakes, but I owe her no gratitude on that score; for if she go on, my surplice 275fees will be diminished, and the sexton will starve.”—“You are the drollest of mortals!” cried the exulting Miss Flint, “but a truce with your wit. You well know my motives for removing Mary from Wilson’s. I had solid reasons for thinking the society she had in that house improper for her. I wish to caution Miss Cowley, without offending her. Are you not convinced that, if Sir Murdock had been a rational man, he would have judged, as Lady Maclairn and myself have done, that Mrs. Heartley and her daughter had no claims to Miss Cowley’s notice?”

“Upon my word you perplex me,” replied the sapient divine, passing his clay-coloured hand over his violet face, “I know so little of these ladies! nothing indeed, but from report. My wife from the first had your scruples. I know not any genteel family that visits them. They say the mother is a very lively woman, 276and no one can dispute the charms of Miss Alice! Our young man, Banks, was one of her admirers; but his mother did not approve of the intimacy between him and Harry Heartley. This gave offence, and the ladies overlook their pastor. I should imagine Miss Cowley would act with prudence, to be on the reserve with ladies who do not visit at the hall.”—The straggling party approached us, and our conversation finished.—To my great relief, I found that Miss Flint only waited their return, to bid adieu to the captain; pleading her engagement, and the moon, for passing the evening with “poor Mrs. Snughead.”—The carriage which was in waiting immediately appeared, and, with much formality, the Reverend Mr. Snughead took his leave.

All nature seemed to respire more freely as well as myself, after Mr. Snughead’s departure. The evening was indeed an Italian one, and Lady Maclairn 277contrived to impart to it the charms which so often embellished those at Heathcot. We had a regale of fruit in the avenue, and every one was freed from constraint, and disposed for enjoyment. No, your poor Rachel was not in harmony with the scene. My spirits had been exhausted, and I felt unusually languid. I found a luxury in tears, and I sauntered from the circle. I could not check my imagination: it fondly traced our happy days. The regales of strawberries in the root-house; our Bacchanalian revelries under the mulberry trees, where we retaliated the mischief done to our frocks, by smearing Horace’s face with the impurpled juice; our dear father’s plots and contrivances, at hide and seek, and our mother’s tales of wisdom and wonder! Oh, days of innocence and of peace! how soon departed! whilst the remembrances of your pure joys serve but to heighten the contrast of 278those hours of my existence which are now lost to me! What has Rachel Cowley in common with such beings as those who have tormented her to-day, thought I! There are those who maintain, that in order to love virtue, we must know vice: but far be from me such experiments! I want no hideous contrasts to shew me her genuine work! I have witnessed that all her “paths are pleasantness,” and all her purposes gracious! What, under her benign influence, has been done with that turbulent self-will which, when a child, menaced me with destruction! of that ignorance and presumption which would have rendered me pernicious to my fellow-creatures! “What had I been, Lucy, had I not been sheltered in the very bosom of virtue? and am I a companion for a Miss Flint, or a Mr. Snughead?”

I was roused from a train of thoughts like these by the sweet Mary. She approached me. “Are you indisposed, my 279dear Miss Cowley? You look fatigued,—take my arm: we will retire to the house.” I raised my tearful eyes; the very image of pity binding up the wounded foot of the pilgrim, met them. I recollected myself. I remembered it was Mary’s holiday; and that my dejection clouded her hour of satisfaction. I pressed her hand, and joined my friends with assumed alacrity. She understood me, and I was recompensed for my exertions. Gaiety gave place to a rational conversation. Captain Flint talked of America, and my spirits settled into composure; but I have been too busy to-day for sleep, and you have to read my nightly labours. It is now the hour when the disturbed spirits are recalled home. I will obey the voice of chanticleer, and go to bed. Sleeping or waking, I shall ever be your affectionate,

Rachel Cowley.

280

Note to the Reader.

Finding nothing important to my history during the course of several weeks’ correspondence, so punctually maintained by Miss Cowley, I have suppressed a few letters, to avoid the censure of prolixity.

Amongst the causes assigned in her letters at this time for her dejection of mind, she mentions the absence of her friends from the Abbey, who, it appears, were on an excursion to Hartley-Pool, a bathing-place not very remote from them. She dwells, however, with much more inquietude on the condition of Miss Howard. She observes, that her uncle’s absence has still more lessened these observances of civility which Miss Flint had practised. Her indignation daily augments, by perceiving Lady Maclairn’s increasing reserve on the subject of Miss 281Howard’s unworthy treatment.—“To what purpose serve her downcast eyes and varying colour,” writes Miss Cowley, “when at table she hears Miss Flint tell the servant, that Mary’s plate needs no change? The very footman blushes. Why does she not insist on every one’s equality at her table? Surely, Lucy, the Gospel does not recommend with the spirit of peace, an insensibility to oppression! It is, however, too much for me to witness; and I am determined to have some conversation with Captain Flint when he returns. Something shall be done to mitigate this poor girl’s sufferings. I suspect she dares not complain to her uncle. I will do it for her, and trust to the event. I disdain that humanity which shrinks from active service, and can quiet its feelings by exhalting its sighs in useless pity and fretful censures.”—“But,” adds she, renewing her wonted spirit, “I am called to order. 282My dear Mrs. Allen is sounding in my ears her direful predictions in regard to girls who love scribbling better than sleep, and sentiment better than roast beef. As pale faces bring up the rear of the evils she has mustered to frighten me, I will be docile, though to tell you the truth, her brow of tender solicitude has subdued me. How often have I drawn on her treasures of health! how often has she relinquished repose in order to watch over my infant wailings, and sickly frowardness! Never shall a care reach that bosom on which my head has rested, if I can prevent it! So I will go to bed. What an age it is since you have had letters from Horace! Ah! Lucy, you must pity Rachel Cowley, for she is discontented with herself, though always your