Front matter

LADY MACLAIRN,

THE

VICTIM OF VILLANY.

A NOVEL.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

BY MRS. HUNTER,

OF NORWICH,

AUTHOR OF LETITIA; THE UNEXPECTED LEGACY; THE HISTORY OF THE GRUBTHORPE FAMILY; PALMERSTONE'S LETTERS, &c. &c.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR W. EARLE AND J.W. HUCKLEBRIDGE;

AND SOLD BY W. EARLE, NO. 47, ALBEMARLE STREET; GEORGE ROBINSON, PATERNOSTER ROW; B. CROSBY AND CO. STATIONER'S COURT; THO. OSTELL, AVE MARIA LANE; AND ALL OTHER BOOKSELLERS.

1806.

[Barnard and Sultzer, Water Lane, Fleet Street.]

LADY MACLAIRN,

THE

VICTIM OF VILLANY.

CHAP. I.

LETTER XIII.

Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

Wednesday Evening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rachel Cowley.

CHAP II.

LETTER XIV.

From the same to the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rachel Cowley.

CHAP. III.

LETTER XV.

From the same to the same.

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

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

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

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

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

I will spare you the trouble of writing me an essay on anger. I know all you would say on such a topic, but it would be out of season; for I was not angry, Lucy: I am never angry, but where I could like, and love, were it necessary. You must demonstrate some specific remedy for antipathies, before I can be benefited by the lecture you will be prompted to send me. Now, collect all the antipathies in nature, and they will not amount to that which this reptile Mr. Snughead has produced in Rachel Cowley's mind. Perhaps I was too warm; but what is to be done with antipathies? I have no talent at a fainting fit; I cannot scream, and look terrified when I want only the strength of a man, in order to grasp a despicable foe. Nature, nature, my Lucy, is my divinity! to her do I owe my aversion of the Snugheads' race; and when they do fall in my way, what is to be done? I cannot crush them, as many do a poor harmless spider; but I would probe them to the quick, without flinching. Some vices I can pity, but a spirit of defamation is my abhorrence; and an unworthy minister of a religion to which I am attached, as my supreme good, is my antipathy. So I beg you will recollect yours to a toad, and pardon your

Rachel Cowley.

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

LETTER XVI.

From the same to the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAP. IV.

LETTER XVII.

From the same to the same.

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

LETTER XVIII.

From Captain Percival Flint, to Miss Cowley.

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

I remain, Madam, Your obliged humble servant, Percival Flint.

Memoirs of the Flint Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAP. V.

Memoirs of the Flint Family continued.

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

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