CHAP. III. (continued 2)

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

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

Yours ever,

Rachel Cowley.

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

LETTER XLIII.

From the same to the same.

Saturday evening.

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

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

Faithful,

Rachel Cowley.

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

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

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

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

Yours, &c.

Rachel Cowley.

LETTER XLIV.

From the same to the same.

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

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

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

Rachel Cowley.

LETTER XLV.

From the same to the same.

Tuesday.

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

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

Rachel Cowley.

LETTER XLVI.

From the same to the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rachel Cowley.

LETTER XLVII.

From the same to the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rachel Cowley.

LETTER XLVIII.

From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

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

But thoughts will intrude Lucy. Horace continually over the couch of a person in Lord William’s situation, is not an image which cheers my serious hours. I believe that few medical men now refuse their concurrence in the opinion that consumptions are contagious, particularly to those who are young. It has been, and must be, a matter of surprise and regret to me, that Mr. Hardcastle has not participated with me in these apprehensions; but on no consideration would I wish him to be alarmed at this moment; being certain, that none would induce Horace to leave his friend at this juncture. I will therefore imitate him in his virtue, and I beg you will do the same, and leave the event to that Providence which has hitherto preserved his health, and witnessed his perseverance and fortitude in the exercise of his duty. I frankly confess that I have not been altogether your Beatrix, since the receipt of Horace’s last letters; and the absence of the Serges, with that of my friends from the Abbey, has left me more leisure, than has been useful to me; but knowing my remedy, I have applied to it; and I am at present Sir Murdoch’s pupil for painting in oils: he encourages me: and I am employed; the Heartleys are, however, returned, and my spirits are returned with them. Tell Mary she is to give full credit to Alice’s news of her uncle’s triumphs at Hartley-pool. He is become a beau, and a young man, and could we manage to keep him easy in regard to Miss Flint, we should all be contented with him; but he is too anxious for her to keep long his good looks, which, to say the truth, are beyond any I expected to see, for he is absolutely handsome with his ruddy face. Malcolm returned last night; and you, as we did, will expect Putney news. He saw poor Leonora only once: she was indisposed when he left his good friends, but Captain Fairly had several times shown himself to the modest rustic. Malcolm, was by no means pleased with him. He says that, except a showy person, which may be called a handsome one, he could not discover a single attraction in this man, which was likely to captivate a girl of Leonora’s description; for he is cold, formal, and affected in his manner; and announces the little he has to say with a pomposity which diverted him, and which it was astonishing could have escaped Leonora’s ridicule. But he thinks the captain is acting a new part with these simple people, and he asserts, that, Fairly has worn the buskin, or at least, has studied for the stage. Malcolm very discreetly took care to be absent the first day the offending daughter was received at Putney; but judging that the interview would leave Mr. Serge dispirited, he returned in the evening before the new married couple had left the house, which they did, it appears, in order to their finally quitting the Adelphi-Hotel, for Putney, where Malcolm left them. “On entering the drawing room,” continued our favourite, “I found only Mrs. Serge with the captain, and a sort of awkward introduction followed. The captain appeared impatient for his lady’s departure, who with her father was with Miss Serge; and expressed in high-flown terms, his apprehensions lest his dear Leonora should be completely ill, with a day of such fatigue and trial, for her weak and delicate spirits. I thought him an awkward hypocrite.” “Oh! do not fear!” answered the mother, with more tartness of manner than I had yet perceived; “Nora will bear this day’s fatigue as well as she did her journey to Scotland; though, to say the truth,” added she, “I do not think her complexion improved, by travelling post for so many miles; and unless rest restores her colour, you will be in danger of renewing your preference of Lydia’s fair skin and hair.” She laughed, but it was obvious that more was meant by this observation, than I could understand; the captain, however, probably did; for with a smile he reminded her, that all stratagems were lawful in love and war. “That is more than I will allow,” answered she, colouring; “and I must needs think, that a battle or a wife, so gained, show more cunning than courage; however, let this pass, you have succeeded; and I trust you will be happy with your ‘Nut-brown Maid.’ The captain spouted some poetry in reply; and Mrs. Serge with a look of softened resentment remarked, that he well understood the way to a woman’s heart, and she had no doubt of his knowing how to keep Nora’s. The door opened, and Mr. Serge entered the room with his weeping daughter. Malcolm hastily retreating into the inner apartment, heard her sobs and adieus. The next day, she took possession of her deserted nest; but was too ill to join the family at their repasts. Malcolm saw her, however, for five minutes, when he took his leave of Caroline, who has wonderfully supported herself during this scene of vexation. He was commissioned to say all that was cordial and kind on the part of the harrassed Serges; but they could not write.”

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

Your’s, affectionately,

Rachel Cowley.

LETTER XLIX.

From the same to the same.

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

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

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

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

Rachel Cowley.

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

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

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

LETTER L.

Putney, October the 11th, 1790.

“My good Sir Murdoch and Cousin,”

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

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

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

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

October the 12th.

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

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