_From the same to the same._
I have somewhere read that wonder is the child of ignorance; it was
fortunate for me that I recollected this sage remark, for I was in
danger of oversetting it, by wondering without being ignorant. Have I
ever yet seen Mr. Hardcastle act like a wise and prudent man during
my whole life, except in one melancholy instance? And yet, Lucy, the
_folly_ and _extravagance_ of his letter to Captain Flint produced
so sudden an impression of surprise on my mind, that experience was
confounded; and I exclaimed to Mrs. Allen, "Who could have believed
_this_, even of Mr. Hardcastle!" On reflecting more deliberately on
this proof of his inveterate opposition to all that is _proper_ and
_suitable_, I find however a consistency in his eccentricities, which
might have secured me from _wondering_. After having laboured in
meliorating a stubborn and unfruitful soil, he has taken the fancy
to shew his skill in the flower garden, and to please his taste by
cultivating the sweeter blossoms of a more genial spring, and a more
productive mould. Peace be with him! His work is worthy of his hand!
Under his culture will Mary Howard shed her mild fragrance around,
and, secure from nipping colds or wintry blasts, she will, with,
amaranthine bloom, cheer and delight his bosom! And you, my Lucy,
"will be cheered by a companion your friend loves." These are your
words. What shall I say to you in return? _Nothing._ Let Mary speak
my thanks, whilst I bless Heaven for permitting me to be the means
of sheltering innocence, and communicating to others the happiness I
have enjoyed. I must nevertheless check my gratitude, in order to tell
you, and this _unaccountable_ Mr. Hardcastle, that I mean in future,
to decline the honour of being the bearer of letters, which turn
honest people's heads giddy. I am aware, that my own would not better
sustain me, on the sight of _some_ signed Hardcastle, than the poor
captain's has sustained him; this, however, escaped your good father's
consideration, so let it pass; whilst I proceed to inform you, that
"gold may be bought too dearly," and that my nerves are not strong
enough for _heavenly delights_. We are, however, somewhat more settled
into mortal cares; and the captain, I presume, will, in his letter,
find room to tell you when you may look for your guests. We have now
something else to _do_; and which is _doing_ with April faces. Mary is
so busy that she does nothing. I am asked over and over again, "whether
Miss Hardcastle will not think she dresses too much for a young
creature in her condition of fortune; whether, I think Miss Hardcastle
will not find her aukward for her age." Then comes hope, to dispel her
doubts and fears. "If she should please, if Miss Hardcastle should take
a fancy to her as I had done, how happy would be her lot! Her dear
uncle's heart would be at rest, and she in a course of improvement!"
Why do I write all this to you? Alas! I cannot impose on you. It is not
Rachel Cowley that is preparing to set out for Heathcot; and I must
weep, and envy.
I will not go to the Abbey to-morrow: what have I to do with trunks and
band-boxes destined for your abode! No, I will not go near them! Pity
me, my dear Lucy! Tell me that your good uncle has produced some change
in your father's inflexible resolutions. Mr. Freeman is a wise man,
although he loves my poor Horace so tenderly. Surely he might convince
Mr. Hardcastle without invading on the prerogatives of the immortal
Newton, that no material injury would be done to the planetary system
by our writing to each other! He might go farther, and safely predict,
that our marriage would not hasten a single comet. No extraordinary
thunders would announce to the world, that happiness had triumphed over
cent. per cent. and over certain scruples, unheard of by multitudes,
and which multitudes would laugh at. Urge him to try his utmost
eloquence in favour of an union of pure and unmixed affection. Can
there exist a reason for the cruel separation to which we are doomed? I
have no father to offend now; none to implore, but Mr. Hardcastle! Pity
your
Rachel Cowley!