We quitted London a few days after the ceremony was performed, and I now
had leisure to repent of my weakness and timidity. My introduction to my
husband’s family was humiliating and painful to the last degree of
suffering sensibility. I was not only an _intruder_, but I was an
usurper of the rights I claimed; and I felt that, in my assumed title of
_Mrs. Flint_ was contained a reproach, which covered me with confusion
every time I heard it pronounced. My only consolation sprang from the
resolution of devoting my life to the man, whom I had thus deceived. He
was fond of me, and I studied incessantly to make him contented with his
wife. I foolishly began to think that I should contribute to the slender
stock of domestic comfort which I found at Farefield Hall. Mr. Percival
Flint, and his amiable sister Mary appeared to treat me as one destined
to enlarge their, and their father’s happiness: even Miss Flint seemed
reconciled to the young _mother-in-law_, who had, in no instance
abridged her in her authority. I was fond of flowers, and already began
to enjoy the amusement of the garden. Mr. Percival one morning entered
my dressing room, where Lucretia and myself were at our needle work, my
husband having taken his darling Mary with him in his airing; his hands
were filled with some rare and beautiful plants, and I found that this
was a tribute to my peculiar taste. My thanks followed, and Percival
withdrew, in order to see the plants properly disposed of. “You have
converted,” observed Miss Flint with a malicious laugh, “our grave and
solemn book-worm into a useful being. What a thousand pities it is! that
Percival had not seen you before his father:” as the business is now
managed he must remain the “despairing shepherd;” for I think the public
cruelty prohibits the son-in-law from marrying the mother-in-law, who in
many cases might console the poor widow. “My countenance marked how
little this levity pleased me.” “Dear me!” pursued she, “you need not
look so offended, or be displeased with so harmless a joke; you cannot
help Percival’s playing the fool, nor prevent people’s thinking, that
the father at seventy is not altogether so handsome as the son at
twenty-three or four: you might be tempted to acknowledge this truth
yourself were it not for this unlucky relationship; you could not in
conscience deny that he is much better qualified to succeed _Mr.
Duncan_, than _his father_.”—I heard no more; for yielding to terror and
surprise I fainted, and my successive fits alarmed the family; and, as I
supposed, moved to pity the cruel insulter, who had brought them on me.
She was very assiduous and attentive to me during the few days of my
convalescence; and with much humility begged my pardon, saying that she
had never entertained the slightest suspicion prejudicial to me; but
that having heard of a disappointment of a tender kind, which for a time
had injured my health and spirits, she frankly confessed that she had
attributed my choice of her father to that cause; believing that no
woman with my beauty, and at my age, would prefer for an husband a man
old enough for her grandfather. “I neither intended to reproach you or
that choice, nor to hurt your feelings by naming the gentleman in
question,” added she. “I simply wished to establish between us a
confidence and friendship which I conceived might be useful to us both.
I have my secrets, my dear Harriet; and my heart has suffered like your
own, the pangs of unrequited, nay, _abused_ love.” She proceeded to
inform me of Mr. Howard’s perfidy, who, after having gained her
affections, had voluntarily given himself up to the arts of her sister,
who with a pretty face, and the years of a child had basely supplanted
her in the opinion of a man, whom she well knew was necessary to her
happiness; and who had from her very cradle shown the greatest cunning
and address in rendering every one subservient to her will; and she
warned me at the same time of her absolute power over my husband.
Subdued by conscience, and uncertain of the extent of the information
which Miss Flint had gained, with the knowledge of Mr. Duncan’s name, I
accepted of her apology; and still further tutored by my brother,
passively yielded to an authority, with which I was unable to contend. I
tamely witnessed the treatment which poor Miss Mary received from her
enraged and implacable sister, and finally saw the innocent girl ruined
in her father’s love. My husband was incensed by some letters of Mr.
Howard’s, which fell into Lucretia’s hands; these were incautiously
preserved by the fond girl, and they were certainly such, as Mr. Howard
had done much more wisely not to have written. I endeavoured to soften
my husband’s resentment; and I should have succeeded; for he loved his
daughter Mary, even, if I may be allowed to speak, to a degree of
weakness; and he was wretched because she was unhappy. He spoke to my
brother on the subject, and discovered an inclination to unity and
forgiveness, requesting him to employ his influence with Lucretia to
give up to a sister a man whom she could not win for herself; adding,
that notwithstanding Mr. Howard had so highly offended him, he would
pass over every thing for the sake of peace, and to content poor Mary.
My brother instead of executing this commission, sternly warned me to
take care of what I was doing. “Were you any thing but what you are,”
said he, “you would perceive the danger of your interfering with this
virago; let her alone: in time you will see her your slave instead of
your tyrant. Trust not to the fondness of your husband; you see what she
has effected with her father in regard to her sister. Judge of her power
by this proof of it, and avoid offending her: you will ruin yourself,
and serve no one.”
I believe it is not useless to mention here, that on my marriage taking
place my brother took his degree as barrister, and quitting his house in
Red Lion Square, took apartments in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Whether his
former clients forgot him, or he them, I know not; but so it was; he
resided almost constantly at the Hall, and became useful to Mr. Flint in
return for the hospitality he found. Confined principally to the care of
amusing and nursing my husband, whose health rapidly declined under the
perpetual vexations he endured, I could not help perceiving that my
influence was sedulously watched; and every time he expressed the
regrets he experienced from being prevented seeing his child, I was
suspected of having produced those relentings of nature in her favour,
and was reproached by Mr. Flamall for my folly in being blind to my own
interest; and I was told that I had nothing to do but to attend to my
husband. I perfectly understood this language, and I _did attend to my
husband_; but it was not to deceive, or insult him. He was too weak to
be advised by me; and unhappily feeling at times the state of abject
slavery, to which his own weakness had reduced him, he vented his
resentments in peevish complaints, and angry reproaches, that I was too
passive and indifferent to defend him against his tormentor; then,
weeping like an infant, he would beg me not to leave him, for that I was
his only comfort.
One day he mentioned the disposition he had made of his property,
adding, that his children would think of him when he was dead, although
they had abandoned him whilst living. “As to you, my poor Harriet,” said
he, “I have taken care to leave you enough for your ambition, though I
can never repay you for the loss of your health, which will be destroyed
by your attendance on me. You will find, besides your jointure, a legacy
of three thousand pounds, with which you may settle yourself comfortably
when they send you from hence: this sum is in your brother’s hands, and
he may perhaps recollect when you shew him the bond, that he is in
arrears for the interest ever since your marriage. He was a needy man,
my Harriet, when I lent him the money, and I warn you not to trust him
with your affairs when I am gone, although he is your brother.” That
very evening he was seized with convulsions. I pass over an interval of
suffering which was terminated by his death.
I will not attempt to describe my astonishment on hearing the deceased
Mr. Flint’s will read. Let it suffice that its contents were such as
astonished every one. My name only appeared in it, as having been
provided for at my marriage; and as it was necessary to specify that the
jointure which had so provided for me, was to revert to Miss Flint at my
decease, on failure of issue. I retired to my apartment overwhelmed with
grief and confusion. Mr. and Mrs. Howard might be said to have haunted
my imagination; I had witnessed their distress on hearing this _unjust_
will read; they were continually before me; and innocent as I was, I
felt my soul agonised by the internal conviction which pressed upon me,
that all was not honourable, yet a suspicion of my brother reached only
to another enigma. What was become of the bond? This question was on my
lips more than once; but Philip had succeeded in making himself more the
object of my dread than confidence. To retire from the Hall; to assert
the independence which I had so dearly purchased; to share with the
Howards their father’s bounty, were the purposes of my mind, and its
support. In the mean time I was treated with unusual respect and
attention by Miss Flint, who repeatedly assured me, that the object of
her father’s affections would always have claims on her own; that she
could not bear to see me so depressed by an event which was to be
expected in the common course of nature; and that if I thought I had not
been sufficiently considered for the sacrifices of health and pleasure,
she was certain that her father’s omission resulted from his firm
persuasion that we should always share the same abode and domestic
comforts. I blushed, and replied, that I had every reason to be
contented with Mr. Flint’s generosity and affection. “Had the provision
allotted me,” added I with more spirit, “been only a fourth part of what
it is, I should have been satisfied; for I seek only independence.” She
looked disappointed, and changed the subject of conversation.
My brother paid me a visit the following morning; and having in vain
requested me to take an airing, grew angry. “Wherefore is it, Harriet,”
said he with a petulant air, “that you affect to play the Ephesian
Matron with me? It is impossible you can regret the death of a doating,
childish old man, worn out by sufferings, at seventy and upwards? To
what purpose this seclusion, this dejection, these perpetual tears? One
would imagine you had already been entombed long enough! But there is no
remedy for a romantic mind,” continued he with more tenderness. “Any
other woman but yourself would have resented his want of generosity. You
are poorly recompensed, my dear girl, for your watching, and for the
loss of your beauty.” “I have enough for my wants,” answered I, “and
much more than I deserved.” “I was not of that opinion,” replied he,
“and soon after your marriage gave Mr. Flint to understand that I
thought his widow was but slenderly provided for, unless further
considered. He told me that he had thought as I did, and had acted
accordingly. He added that you were the only comfort he had in this
world; that he had to thank me for the blessing, and that I should find
he had not forgotten my kindness. I have reason,” continued Philip, “to
think that he kept his word, and destroyed the bond he held against me;
for it has not appeared.” I concealed my face in the sopha-cushion,
otherwise he must have perceived my astonishment. “This consideration on
his part,” continued he, “has been however repaid on mine, for I have
been useful to him in my professional way, and never charged him
sixpence.” I sighed profoundly—“Come,” cried he, assuming a more
cheerful air, “let us now look forward to more pleasing prospects. You
may yet be _mistress here_.”
I was now told of his intrigue with Miss Flint; of his unhappily being a
married man; and of the worthlessness of his wife, who exercised over
him an empire, in all things save that of bearing his name. In a word,
Miss Flint’s critical situation was brought forward, and my agency was
demanded as the only means of saving her fame, and the infant from the
disgrace of an illegitimate birth. I listened to this discourse with
disgust, and even horror; but, suppressing my feelings, I told him with
firmness, that I had gone already too far into concealments, not to
discover the danger of the road; that I meant to quit the Hall, and had
already formed my plans for my future life. “These,” added I, bursting
into tears, “will not, nor can be subservient to your, or Miss Flint’s
views.” “You will change your mind,” replied he sternly, “when I tell
you, that, what you have refused to do from gratitude and affection to a
_brother_, may be thought expedient to perform for your own safety. Miss
Flint has known the particulars of your first marriage from the day you
appeared here as her father’s wife. Moreover she insists upon it, that
you have no legal proofs of Duncan’s death, nor any claim to your
jointure, from its having been granted under a name and character to
which you had no right. You will do well to reflect on her temper, and
on your condition, under a prosecution _for bigamy_. My evidence, in
your favour amounts simply to the Dutchman’s verbal attestation of being
at Duncan’s funeral, and his letters and will written at Surinam. These
with me are conclusive proofs; but I know not how far they would be so
thought in a court at Doctor’s Commons; nor with what consequences at
the best, your marrying when a widow under your maiden name may be
attended.”—“My punishment is just,” exclaimed I, “I will avow the truth,
I will not take Mr. Flint’s money. I will go where I may mourn my lost
happiness and _die_. I ask you only to provide me an asylum for the
moment. I will not be a burden to you.”—Tenderness was next tried, my
ruin involved his; the fate of a child who though yet unborn, was urged
with many tears; Miss Flint’s generosity to me, her attachment to him
were not omitted. I was conquered. “Do with me what you will,” said I
mournfully, “only remember, Philip, who it was, that spread the toils
with which my soul is encompassed; I cannot live to see you miserable.”
He employed much sophistry to convince me that I was engaged in the
performance of a meritorious work, inasmuch as it secured innocence from
shame, and saved the reputation of Mr. Flint’s daughter: a woman who had
respected my secret, and whose gratitude would bind her to me for life.