My letter from my unfortunate Charles contained these words:
“Forget, my beloved wife, that Charles Duncan ever had existence, or
that, in the miserable course of that existence, he has involved yours
in his misery, blasted the hopes of your youth, and planted daggers in
your faithful bosom. Forget, if thou canst forget, when pressing to thy
maternal bosom, the fruit of thy ill-fated union, the wandering,
wretched father of thy babe: or with pity and forgiveness think of him,
as one at _rest_; rescued from ignominy: concealed from the cruel
mockery of scorn; welcoming, at this moment, the approach of his
deliverer; and looking forwards with humble hope to an eternity, in
which he will be recompensed for the trials of his mortal state, and
pardoned for those mistakes, into which his youth and frailty betrayed
him. I enclose the copy of my will, with some of your dear letters: with
these you will receive your picture, but I cannot spare it from my
bosom, whilst my trembling hand is able to raise it to my lips, or do
more than sign the name of thy repentant, yet faithful,
A time was allowed me for my sorrow, and recovery from a fever of much
danger; but which was, I believe, of use to my general health; for I
certainly was less liable to illness, after this crisis. I experienced
something of those sentiments, which the dying Duncan had suggested. I
rejoiced that he was at peace; and considered my fate as ascertained. I
could not know more of grief, than I had experienced; and in a
submission, which necessity, and, I hope also, religion enforced, I
settled into a calm and resigned frame of mind. My extreme bodily
weakness favoured for a time this more placid condition of my spirits;
and my recovery promised to my tender and assiduous brother, a renewal
of his comforts. He soon mentioned Mr. Duncan’s donation. He told me,
“that knowing, as I did, that both Keith and his wife were dead; he
thought it was much the most prudent measure to let the property remain
on the stock books, as it had done from the time of Mrs. Duncan’s
committing her money and her reputed son to his trust, till such time,
as he should become of age. His quitting England within three or four
months of his being so,” continued my brother, “prevented any settlement
or transfer of the stock, but he was mistaken in his opinion of his
fortune; for it amounts to no more than two thousand pounds.” I answered
with sincerity that I regarded it, whatever it might be, as a common
fund; and should leave to him the disposal of it as most useful to our
common comfort; and being persuaded that I should not live long, I
thought it could not be better than as it was. He laughed at my
prophetic fears, assuring me that the physician had told him I stood a
better chance of being well than when at Kensington; and he left me with
a cheerfulness, which soothed me. His attentions did not slacken. He saw
with satisfaction my returning activity, and frequently observed, that I
was never more beautiful. By degrees he prevailed on my reluctance to
visit, and receive his friends; and I as clearly discovered, that my
brother wished to see me married, as I manifested a repugnance to the
very idea of exchanging my condition for any other. I thus attained my
twenty-third year. From this period, the calmness of my mind was
disturbed, by the change I perceived in my brother’s modes of life. With
anguish of soul I discovered, that he was tired of having a sister
without ambition, and a beauty, as she was called, on his hands, who was
deaf to flattery, and who scorned infamy, however decorated. I was
stiled “a romantic idiot,” “a cold and unempassioned statue, proud of a
form that was daily becoming useless.” I became resolute; and told him,
that with any form I would endeavour to gain honest bread. My spirit
silenced him. He begged my pardon, and pleaded his conviction, that it
would be in my power to marry the libertine, whom he had conditioned
with on easy terms, though not less profitable to his views. His fears,
his regrets at seeing me waste my youth in unavailing sorrow; his
belief, that my lover would marry me at the death of an old grandfather;
his wishes to do so _secretly_, were placed before me. I relented,
though without yielding to his dishonourable views, and all was again
peace between us. But I no longer considered _Philip Flamall_, as the
guardian of a sister’s honour. Under this conviction I soon after saw
Mr. Flint, for the first time. He came to the house, as it appeared, on
business; and finding Philip absent, seemed desirous of waiting for his
expected return; he was accordingly conducted to me, as a client of too
much consequence to remain unnoticed in the office. His age and
respectable appearance, induced me to shew him every mark of respect. I
recollected my father’s opinion of Mr. Flint and his family; and I tried
to please him by my attentions. My guest contentedly maintained his post
till my brother returned at the dining hour; fortunately we were alone
that day; and Mr. Flint, who accepted at once of the invitation, found
only a table at which economy presided; I retired as soon as my office
was finished; but I was told that he meant to breakfast with my brother
the next morning. Unconsciously I endeavoured to secure to Philip this
wealthy client; and as it will appear, I succeeded.
Some days after, my brother with much seriousness informed me, that my
modest and composed deportment had pleased Mr. Flint. “He has not only
made his proposals to me of jointuring you in four hundred pounds _per
annum_,” added he, “but he has also, on hearing the precise state of my
fortune, engaged to befriend me, by lending me a sum of money which may
turn to good account. He knew my father, and he is no stranger to the
difficulties in which he left me involved.”—I attempted to speak—“Hear
me to the end,” pursued he, “before you condemn a brother to a goal.
This man’s age, his retired habits of life, and his fair character in
the world for his uprightness, renders him more an object of veneration
than of love. You may recompense him for the protection of the _parent_,
by the kind offices of the _daughter_, whilst, by the union he solicits,
you are securing to yourself an honourable name and independence, and
saving me from ruin; for I tell you plainly, that I am already in a
state of insolvency, in regard to credit. I will have you to consider of
the answer you will commission me to give Mr. Flint.” “It is not
necessary to deliberate,” replied I weeping bitterly. “The knowledge of
my real situation will at once convince Mr. Flint, that I am not a
suitable companion for his children, nor a becoming choice for him, and
without adverting to the folly, which has led him to think of marriage,
it will be enough that he knows, that I _am Duncan’s widow_.”
Never shall I forget my brother’s fury! “Be a fool to the last!” cried
he, “See me a beggar! blast my character with your own! sink me to a
level with your highway-robber! But know,” added he trembling, “that I
can be as desperate as your Duncan. I will not be an outlaw for one
purse! Can you be so weak as to think any man will marry you, under the
name of Duncan? What has this miscreant to do with the present question?
He is dead, the witnesses of your _accursed_ marriage are dead. You have
persisted in bearing your _own name_, and the character of an unmarried
woman. Oh Harriet! let me plead for your youth, your helpless condition
of fortune; for your innocence, and for a brother who loves you! Marry
this worthy man: and let me see you protected from the dangers of the
world!” I was subdued. I forsook the path of rectitude, and, as _Harriet
Flamall_, married Mr. Flint, who was three times my age.