After a safe and speedy passage hither, and having happily witnessed a
scene of tenderness, which whilst it unmanned me, gave to my anxious
heart the most complete assurance that my sister had nothing for doubts
or fears, I hasten to acquit myself of my promise to you, reserving for
my future leisure the particulars of Margaret's little romance. I have
not seen Mr. Flamall; but enough has transpired, to satisfy me that it
is better I should not see him. In the mean time, I have succeeded in
gaining the good will and entire confidence of the good old Oliver
Flint. I took an opportunity when he was exulting at the prospect of
Philip's happiness, and paying his assiduous court to "his Margaret,"
to ask her whether her head and her shoe-heels were of the same stuff;
"for" added I, "the road of happiness and prosperity, though smoother
than the rocks at Cintra, have made many stumble." This observation
brought forwards Margaret's adventure, and your knight-errantry. With
this prelude I began my questions; and I found a willing auditor. "You
shall have my opinion of this matter," said Mr. Flint, wringing my
hand with eagerness, "on condition that you promise me not to disturb
my poor boy's comforts, nor attempt to see this uncle of his. We have
done with him, Mr. Sinclair, and the arm of justice will reach him,
without your aid; but let me tell you, by what means I have formed
this opinion of a man, whom for a time I respected. You need not be
told my reasons for desiring my brother Philip to visit me. My last
surviving hope was nearly of his age, and bore the same name. I had
lost sight of my family in England; and for many years had considered
this as no misfortune, having been led to conclude that the conduct
of some amongst them, had proclaimed their unworthiness. My sister
Lucretia was the only one of my father's children with whom I had any
intercourse by letter, and she constantly mentioned this posthumous
child with tenderness and promising hopes. Her adoption of him pleased
me, even before I was childless myself; and as it was obvious she had
an influence with his mother, I wrote to her, stating my wishes and
intentions in this boy's favour. Her answer was satisfactory; but I
was informed that Philip had an uncle, who claimed his rights in a
child who from his cradle had been his care and comfort; and that
he intended to share with his nephew the hazards of the voyage, and
the pleasure of seeing me; and in this arrangement his mother had
concurred. They arrived; and I soon showed Mr. Flamall that I was
satisfied with my heir. He, on his part, convincing me by his conduct,
of the part he had taken in forming him for a worthy one. My friend
Mr. Cowley, the father of the young lady for whom you are interested,
was not less pleased with this serpent in disguise, than myself; and
indeed, I know of _none_ to whom his company was not acceptable. He
was, or affected to be, charmed with his situation, and from certain
hints and well-timed displays of his capacity for business, my friend
made him very advantageous offers of employing him in the regulation
of his accounts. He accepted them, and from that time resided with Mr.
Cowley, who became attached to him more and more. About this period
my poor friend received his daughter's picture from England; and I was
summoned to celebrate its arrival with others of his acquaintance.
Curious to see the change which time had produced, on an infant I had
carried in my arms many and many a time, I went at an early hour, and
found poor Cowley fondly surveying it. I was struck by the beauty of
the image before me; but it had recalled to poor Henry his lost wife,
and he yielded without restraint to his tender regrets. I endeavoured
to soothe him, and amongst other things said, that his girl pleased
me, though she had his saucy eyes, adding, 'Suppose, Henry, we make
up a match between us? My _boy_ is as handsome as your _girl_; and
he will have reason to be satisfied, if she is only half as good and
as beautiful as her mother was.' 'She has my saucy eyes, you say,'
replied he, fixing his own on the picture; 'if she have my spirit also,
she will wish to chuse a husband for herself; and I am very certain,
she is well qualified to chuse wisely.' He continued to expatiate to
Mr. Flamall, on her good fortune in having been brought up by _Mrs.
Hardcastle_, and with much satisfaction continued to enumerate his
daughter's various attainments, and the proofs he had in his letters
from her, of good sense and discernment. This merely accidental
conversation produced on Flamall's mind the first suggestions of his
ambition; I have no doubt of this; for he frequently mentioned to me
the advantages which would result from an alliance with my old friend;
and withal intimated, that he was certain that Philip was a favourite
with Mr. Cowley. Moreover, he frequently joked with us on the subject,
and advised Cowley to send for his daughter. I had, however, by this
time seen enough of _my youngster_, to suspect that he was in love
elsewhere. I observed, that whenever Miss Cowley's picture was the
theme of praise, Philip paid his tribute of admiration as much to the
_drapery_ as the _face_; and that with the _young ladies_, he was more
pensive, than with their _mothers_. But hourly, my dear Sir, did he
gain upon my heart; for in every thought, word, and deed, he brought
to my remembrance my own dear boy, the last of my mortal blessings!
But let this pass: you will soon know this worthy lad. I had soon
after, having given up listening to Flamall's match-making scheme, the
shock of seeing Mr. Cowley seized with his first apoplectic fit at my
table. He recovered from this attack; but he was a changed man. He
was not insensible of his diminished strength; and his conversations
frequently turned on his settling his worldly affairs, before he left
me. On an occasion of this kind, he one day in particular consulted
me in relation to his two natural children. 'They are mine, Oliver,'
said he with great tenderness; 'and their mother is as unconscious of
evil as themselves. I have appointed them a provision and a guardian
which will be a security for my honour, when I am dust. They will
perceive that I was in affection _a parent_, when I thought of _you_
for my substitute in duty. Tell me, have I taxed your friendship too
heavily?'--'You have always been more than a match for me, Henry,' said
I taking his trembling hand; 'but for once, I have the ascendency;
for without consulting you, or having a doubt of your friendship, you
have for years been my appointed executor, and the destined prop of
those children now in heaven.' Poor fellow! he was moved to tears.--'I
mean,' continued he, 'to try the effects of a change of climate. I
wish to see my dear daughter before I die; I wish to recommend to her
those proofs of her father's weakness. She will be kind to my innocent
Marian; and when the boys are sent to England for instruction, she
will protect them as my children. I have no fears for her happiness,'
continued he; 'Hardcastle will continue to watch over her safety,
and I have named him and Counsellor Steadman joint executors with
yourself, in all matters relative to her concerns. Hardcastle has a
son,' pursued he, 'of whom my dear girl has written me _wonders_. I
have good reasons for believing that the lad's romantic father has for
some years banished this boy from his house, lest he should exchange
hearts with my girl. I have never dropped a hint of this suspicion to
any one but yourself; but should I live to reach England, and find this
young man a _Hardcastle_, and my daughter disposed to favour him, I
will see her married to him, and then die in peace with the world and
myself, as having well managed the talents given me.' This conversation
finished by his repeatedly thanking me for the comfort I had given to
his dejected spirits; and some short time after, he told me that he had
finished his most important concerns; and should, whenever he embarked,
leave Marian and her little ones under my roof; which promise had
reconciled her to his voyage."
The second shock to his enfeebled frame left us little for hope. Yet
he again rallied; but with the loss of all power in his legs, and with
a general debility, that rendered every exertion fatiguing. He did not
quit his apartment, and rarely his bed, for much time together. His
faculties were notwithstanding less oppressed, than after his first
attack; for he was more cheerful and equal in his spirits. During this
term of his trial, how often have I heard him bless me for being the
agent in the hands of Providence, in conducting to him Mr. Flamall,
who so ably went through the business he was no longer in a condition
to superintend, and whose society was a comfort to him! To say the
truth, I was no less pleased with his conduct than my friend; 'for this
fellow's talents are up to every thing _but honesty_.'
One morning I went as usual to Cowley's; he was still in his bed, and
the sun-blinds were down in the bow-windows of his spacious apartment.
I stumbled on entering, from the sudden transition from light to
darkness, against some moveable; and with the utmost cheerfulness, my
friend said, 'Why, how now, Oliver! you are one of those 'who love
darkness rather than light because your deeds are evil;' therefore take
care of your shins.' Rubbing the one offended, I approached the bed,
and then only perceived, that on a small table close to its side, was
a sheet of parchment, with pen and ink, and that Flamall had quitted
his station near it to receive me. 'You are busy,' observed I, thinking
he was, adding a codicil to his will, for such the lessening obscurity
discovered the parchment to be.--'I will call this evening.'--'I had
finished, my dear Oliver,' replied he, grasping my hand. 'We have
wished for your appearance; I have only to sign and seal.' He rung
the bell and desired the servant to show the gentlemen into the room.
His physician, with one of the most respectable men at Kingston,
entered.--I retreated to the bow, and passing the blind, stood in the
balcony. I heard him say something as an excuse for having so long
detained them; and he added, 'I have been hearing Mr. Flamall read my
will once more. I now, in a sound mind, declare it to be last will and
testamentary act, which I am about to sign in your presence.' The
business was performed with all due formalities; and his faithful Juba,
to whom he had given good learning when he was in England, witnessed
this act of his beloved master with such emotions, that he left the
room the moment he had written his name. Mr. Flamall asked him where
he should deposit the will; and Cowley answered, 'in the cabinet.' The
gentlemen saw him place it in the cabinet, which stood opposite to the
foot of the bed, and Cowley received the key, which was attached to the
chain of his watch. He now called me from my post, and for some time
chatted with us. At length the gentlemen departed; and Juba, recovered
from his grief, entered with some refreshment for his master. 'Try and
get off this key,' said Cowley to him, giving him the watch. He did so
without difficulty. 'There, my dear Oliver,' said my friend, giving
it me, 'you will take care of it; and I have closed my accounts with
this world.' We were both silent, for I could not speak. 'There is
one thing,' resumed he, 'which I had like to have forgotten: you will
find my wife's jewels and trinkets in that cabinet; let Rachel know
I should have sent them to her long since, but that I could not bear
to see them. There is a pearl necklace amongst them; her mother wore
it the day she was married.' His voice sunk, and he burst into tears.
'Come, come,' said I, 'my dear fellow-sufferer, let us have no more of
this; get well, and carry your daughter this necklace yourself. You
will find, when placing it on her neck as a bride, that God has many
comforts for you yet in store.' He shook his head.--'I trust he has,'
replied he, 'but they are not in this world.' Flamall, who had left the
room with the visitors, returned, and my friend changed the subject of
conversation. He lived only nine days after this interview. You may
judge of my surprise at the contents of the will, when called upon to
produce it. Mr. Flamall acted his part to the life, but with me his
villany stood confessed! I need not tell you his power over poor Miss
Cowley, nor Philip's surprise that he was involved in her fate. His
spirits, which had visibly declined from the time he had been with me,
became totally dejected, and he passed his time here in solitude. I
was certain he had the same suspicions with myself; and, although it
went to my heart to vex him, I determined to open my mind to him: I
did so by relating to him all I have told you; and I added, that if he
preferred going to England, I would go with him and leave Flamall 'to
the devil's care.'--'I have no wish to return to England,' answered
he with emotion 'I wish to die here, and would this hour resign my
breath willingly were it not for you!' The poor boy clung to my bosom,
and wept bitterly.--'Well,' said I, 'we now understand one another. I
would sooner see you dead than Miss Cowley's husband: but you may be
her _friend; we also will try to be cunning_. Flamall is your uncle;
so much the worse for you, and the better for him, according to the
estimation of danger. We will leave him to an arm which will, in its
own time, reach him to his cost. Show some alacrity in the post your
uncle has assigned you, and be vigilant over _accounts_ which relate
to the heiress he has gained for you. Inventories will not be marriage
articles, Philip, but they may be evidences of what Miss Cowley is
worth. She may like you as an honest man, though not as a suitor forced
upon her. We do not want her money, but Mr. Flamall does; and if he
finds he cannot have it one way he will try another.' Philip entered
into my views; he worked like a negro in Flamall's office for Miss
Cowley, but complained bitterly that his uncle persecuted him daily
on the subject of the marriage, and highly resented his reluctance
to the voyage to England. About this time the partner of an old and
respectable house of correspondence I had in London, arrived here. He
met Flamall at my table, for I was a _cunning man_ you will observe,
and preserved appearances on many accounts. The stranger, before he
quitted me, asked me how long I had known Flamall. I answered; adding
that he was nearly related to my brother Philip. 'I should be sorry
for the young gentleman,' replied he, 'were I not assured that I
must have heard a false representation of Mr. Flamall's conduct in
England.' I urged him to explain himself; he evaded for a time my
enquiries, saying that he had only common report to produce as an
apology for _wondering_ at seeing Flamall _in good company_, and in
an honourable station of _trust_; but, added he, "I am safe with you;
I have heard that he _writes too well_, therefore take care of him,
my good old friend." I smiled and shook his hand: we understood each
other. Well! I am making this a long story! but now for the conclusion.
One evening Philip returned from Kingston so ill that I thought he
was dying. I say nothing of what passed in my mind. Here was my last
hope within sight of the grave! He grew better, however, towards the
morning, and the doctor told me his disorder was not the cruel fever
which had made me childless. Philip was moved to see my distress, and
he at once told me that he did not deserve my love and goodness, for
that he had been afraid to trust me. He then told me all about his
marriage with that poor little girl of ours, and the roguery which that
d----d Flamall had practised to make him believe she was a faithless
baggage. He had met Miss Lindsey by chance at his friend Dalrymple's,
where he had persuaded Flamall to place the two little Cowleys and
their mother; and, as you may suppose, poor Margaret's innocence was
cleared up. It was well Flamall was then beyond my reach! He was at the
large plantation, twenty miles from hence; so instead of shooting him
through the head I employed my time in getting my poor boy well; and a
contented mind hastened his cure. I shall never forget what passed in
my mind when this _affectionate_, and very _anxious_ uncle came on the
wings of the wind to see his "dear Philip!" I met him, however, with my
_cunning face_ in the hall, and told him the patient was doing well,
for he was asleep; and he followed me into the eating room. A thousand
questions ensued, which were all answered by assuring him that he was
in the road to better health than he had enjoyed for many months.--"We
must part with him," observed he, "Jamaica will be the ruin of his
constitution: he was never robust."--"Oh!" replied I, gaily, "he will
do very well here when he has his wife."--"He will never have her,"
returned he, "by remaining here: Miss Cowley must be better wooed to
be won."--"We will leave Miss Cowley to be wooed by those suiters who
are nearer to her," answered I, "and be contented to receive the wife
who has been villified, and it may be ruined in health as well as in
peace, _by treachery_." He began to storm. "You had better be quiet,"
said I, "and thank fortune you are Lady Maclairn's brother: as for
mine, within yonder, he is my care, not yours: I will provide for his
happiness without delay, and only by signing Oliver Flint, do more
to effect it than you have done with your _penmanship_. I have seen
you, Mr. Flamall, for the last time, _for I know you_. When Philip is
well enough to be _disturbed_, without risk, he shall wait upon you if
you please, and introduce to you _Mrs. Lindsey_, who wishes to send a
letter to her good friend, _Doctor Maccleod_, whom she finds, to her
_surprise_, you correspond with, _although he is in Heaven_." I thought
the fellow would have dropped at my feet! I never saw a man _so cut
down_! "You will call for what you want," said I, retreating, "I will
send a servant to you; but my brother shall not see you to-day."
He followed me, without uttering a word, and, mounting his horse, left
the house. Poor Philip, who is the most affectionate of creatures, was
vexed when I told him of this visit. He wrote to his uncle, who sent
back the letter, and quitted the creek plantation. He resides now at
the other, and lives like an angry lion in his lair. "Philip will tell
you all the particulars of this villany," added he, rising to meet
him and Lindsey. "Be sure to advise him not to regard this fellow's
stubborn pride; he has been too humble with him, in my opinion, but
his mother's peace is always uppermost, and I cannot bear to see him
uneasy, so I never name Flamall."
Thus far, my dear Sir, you have seen Mr. Flamall as the _guardian_,
the _friend_, and the _relative_. I leave to you to draw your own
conclusions; but as the detention of the vessel permits me, I will
continue my history by informing you that they have amongst them made a
fool, to say no worse of your friend, of Henry Sinclair.
I perceived in Margaret's face a degree of anxiety and confusion
whenever she saw me look serious. Our party, the following day, was
augmented by two families, who came, in great form, to pay the bride,
as they called my sister, their compliments, and to plague us with
their ceremonious intrusion. I was in no humour for such company,
and, pleading a head-ach, I kept close in my own apartment. Thus
retired, I had just finished my solitary dinner when Lindsey entered
the room; and, sitting down, commended my prudence and good fortune
in escaping the people who were yet in the house. "I can do no more
for Philip," added he, yawning, "and it may do him good if they teach
him that no happiness here is permanent." I made no reply. "I find,"
continued Lindsey, "it is exactly as my wife had foreseen, you have
taken offence, and Philip's caution is misconstrued. I will follow
her counsels, for I have never had reason yet to repent of so doing.
Listen to me, and then be angry if you please. During your brother's
voyage hither his uncle informed him that he had long known of his
_intrigue_ with Miss Sinclair. Lecture followed exhortation, and
exhortation lecture: the unrepenting sinner kept his secret, and
listened in patience. One letter from _Miss Sinclair_, enclosed in
one from Montrose, reached poor Philip soon after his arrival here;
and the reception he met with from his brother cheered his drooping
spirits. At length his intelligence from Scotland failed; and his uncle
gave him seriously to understand that Mr. Cowley wished to secure him
for a husband for his daughter. Philip endeavoured to laugh at his
uncle's having taken up a few random jokes as a premeditated design,
but this evasion failing, he firmly told him that his affections were
engaged, and that his honour, without other motives, would oblige
him to refuse even Miss Cowley's offered hand. 'I would have spared
you, Sir,' replied Mr. Flamall, with sternness, 'the pain of blushing
before a man whose authority you have of late cast off, although from
the hour of your birth he has lived for the purpose of making you a
reasonable being. I had hoped to have seen you long since reclaimed
from the weakness and infatuation of a boy deluded by his vanity and
passions; but I see you require harsher remedies than mine since you
have found your path to fortune smooth. Read that letter, and then
judge of the nature of those engagements which your delicate honour
opposes to a situation the most enviable.' He threw a letter on the
table, and abruptly left the room. Philip found that it was one
from his college tutor, Doctor Macleod, to his uncle; and, from its
contents, it appeared that the discovery of his attachment to your
sister had been made by him to Mr. Flamall; for, after his approbation
of the measures which Mr. Flamall had pursued of removing the lover
from so dangerous a predicament, he proceeds in detailing the conduct
of the deserted fair one. 'This imprudent girl, writes the good
Doctor, 'soon supplied Mr. Flint's absence by admitting the visits of
_a new lover_. He was more experienced in the wiles of the sex, of her
class at least; and, being an independent man, of considerable fortune,
she was prevailed upon to quit her mother, and to place herself under
his protection at his seat near Dublin, without the name of a wife.
I am told that Montrose, her _first lover_, shares with her in the
generosity of her gallant; and that he is in Dublin, and supported by
this unhappy girl. Mrs. Sinclair has left Edinburgh. Mrs. Montrose did
not, at her death, leave sufficient to pay her debts. No wonder: her
daughter is somewhere in service: I hope it is an honest one. When your
nephew learns these particulars he will be convinced of the danger he
has escaped, for he wants not understanding; nor will his gratitude
fail in the acknowledgments due to those who, from their interest in
his welfare, have providentially saved him from pain.''This letter,'
added Lindsey, 'finished with latin, and cautions Mr. Flamall not to
forget that the assumed mask of _a Miss Sinclair_, and the designing
friendship of _a Montrose_, had been the destruction of men much more
experienced in life than his nephew, &c.--Philip's state of mind, on
perusing this letter, was such as I shall not attempt to describe. In
the confusion and tumult of his thoughts he crushed it in his hand,
and putting it into his bosom he left Flamall's house. He wrote to
me: no answer was returned. He then wrote to a young man for general
information, respecting his old friends, _the Montroses_ and _Miss
Sinclair_. To this letter he had a reply. It was such as confirmed,
in part, his tutor's intelligence; for the death of Mrs. Montrose had
broken up her little family, and the writer knew not where her son
and daughter were. 'Mrs. Sinclair and her pretty daughter had left
Edinburgh.' In the interim I reached this place with my wife; and my
friend, on whom I relied for my present establishment, placed us in
the house of our countryman, Mr. Dalrymple, till all was ready for
our final settlement at his plantation. You may judge that my Fanny
had formed her designs in favour of her injured friend, and she was
not long without information in regard to Mr. Flint's situation and
favour with his rich brother Oliver. She listened to his praises, and
the Dalrymples were not sparing of them. His conduct in his visits to
the Cowleys and their mother; his friendship to themselves, entered
into these details; and, finally, the disappointment of certain young
ladies who were said to be in love with the handsome stranger, who was
soon to return to England to marry the great heiress, Miss Cowley.
You will imagine the interview my wife so ardently desired was not
long delayed; and without entering into her reproaches or Philip's
distress, I will finish my narrative by telling you, that Doctor
Macleod's friendly epistle and fatherly advise, was dated _just six
months after his death_. The result was much happier than my poor wife
had reason to expect, for she had nearly been the death of Philip
in her indiscreet zeal for friendship. We are all at present in the
right road," continued Lindsey, "and happy; but in our apprehensions
of your warmth; for Flamall is without importance to us."--"I must
see him," replied I, "were it only to thank him for all his good
intentions. It will not, I presume, disturb the peace of the world, if
I should improve Mr. Flamall's art of 'writing letters from the dead
to the living,' or be taught by him the secret road to my old friend
Macleod."--"This is what your poor sister fears," said Lindsey, "and
which is the poison in the cup of poor Philip's present blessings. He
cannot speak to you on this delicate subject." "I do not now wish he
should," answered I, with warmth, "but by the----." I was interrupted
by the entrance of the bewitching widow, who with a smile turning to
Lindsey, asked him, if he had explained to me the wishes of my friends.
Lindsey made no answer. But I will hasten over my defeat. All I know
is, that I was subdued by her tears and pathetic representation of the
misery I should introduce, by my noticing this rascal. And so well
did she plead the cause of mercy and forbearance, that I do not think
I could have shot at a sparrow whilst within hearing of her voice.
"Promise me," said the syren, "promise me, Mr. Sinclair, that you will
leave this miserable man to the upbraidings of his own conscience.
Indeed you are not made for a murderer; nor does this guilty wretch
need your blood to condemn him to a heavier punishment than that which
now hangs over him; he is forlorn and dejected; and the prey of that
remorse and disappointment which his conduct has produced. Shall I tell
your _brother_? Shall I tell Margaret, that you will take no steps
to interrupt their peace?" "You may," answered I, seizing her hand,
"and if I am deemed a poltroon, you must defend me." She blushed and
withdrew as abruptly as she had entered. My pacific intentions have
cleared Philip's brow of care. We have had several conversations on
the subject of his uncle's late conduct. I am assured that Mr. Cowley
could not have found a better agent than this man, for his purpose, as
far as related to business. He is acute, active, and regular in his
employment; and Philip believes, that the same pride which had nearly
been his destruction, will keep him _just_ in regard to Miss Cowley's
property. He is persuaded that Flamall will be miserable, till he
is again on good terms with him; and he strenuously endeavours to
convince me, that his uncle's deviations from honour and integrity may
be traced to his unbounded affection for him, and an ambition which,
though without excuse in some points, has been vigilantly employed for
his benefit in many. "I cannot," added my brother, "_cancel_ from my
memory the numberless proofs he has given me of even parental anxiety
and care; and I will make every concession to his pride that may tend
to a reconciliation; for I know he loves me; and he is wretched. As a
man and a christian, this is my duty; as the brother of Lady Maclairn,
and the instructor of my youth, he has claims on my heart; and I yet
hope to see him restored to himself, and the good opinion of the
world." I had nothing to say to arguments of this kind: _Philip Flint_
is not _Henry Sinclair_; but it is ten to one that he is the happiest
and the wisest man of the two. I must try what wedlock will make of me;
for I begin to suspect I want smoothing and trimming. I still feel that
the current of resentment would carry me down to the creek plantation,
for the sole purpose of kicking this uncle to Margaret's feet. Mrs.
Dormer, my fair enslaver, keeps a watchful eye over me, and what with
balls, feasts, and her smiles, I am a lost man, though yet a steady
friend; and if you give the word of command I will kidnap Flamall, and
send him to you for the recompence of his deserts.
Yours, most faithfully,
Henry Sinclair.
P.S. I have not room for my sisters prayers for Mr. Hardcastle's and
Miss Cowley's felicity.