I will pass over the means of deceit and imposition now employed. I
became a _nominal mother_ to _Philip Flint_, and the measures which had
been adopted by removing me to London, in order for my confinement,
appeared to have secured Miss Flint’s reputation. Thus betrayed by
others, I had some palliations to offer to my upbraiding conscience. The
innocent being I had adopted as my own, pleaded still more powerfully. I
loved him with a parent’s love, and I sheltered him from unjust reproach
and scorn. In this temper of mind I became acquainted with Sir Murdoch
Maclairn. Alas! in the society of truth and honour I was a dissembler!
How often have I forgotten, whilst listening to his tale of woe, in
which all was faithfulness, that _I_ was a _deceiver_! and whilst my
heart and tongue spoke his language, that my life had been for months a
falsehood, my affections now betrayed me: I loved, and I rashly hazarded
the peace and the honour of the man for whom I would have died. I became
his wife, and to his noble heart do I appeal: he has found me his
_faithful wife_. May I not say yet _more_? If to have emulated Sir
Murdoch Maclairn in his virtues; if to have loved him supremely; if to
have known no joy in which he has not shared; if to have shared with
courage his sorrows which were aggravated to me; by the bitter
conviction that I alone deserved to be wretched; if to have thus acted
is to be a wife; then will Sir Murdoch Maclairn pronounce me his
faithful, though erring wife. Witness for me, my beloved son. To my
Malcolm do I appeal; to my support, my only hope in this world! you have
seen your mother’s conflicts; you have shared in her sorrows. Witness
for me that I have lived for no other purpose, but to soothe, to watch,
to sustain the father whom you love and venerate. One incident which
occurred in your early life must be mentioned here. You are no stranger,
my son, to the difficulties we had to surmount, in consequence of your
father’s resolution to leave the Hall, and to reside in France. I have
frequently lamented before you this period of my life. We had, however,
so far conquered the opposition to our removal; the time was fixed for
our journey, and even our trunks were preparing. Miss Flint saw these
preparations with unfeigned grief; for let me be just, she knew me, and
she loved me. I left your dear father busily engaged in examining some
papers, contained in a cabinet which had been recently sent him from
Scotland, and with my work bag, sought the dejected Lucretia. She was
alone, in the bow parlour, and weeping; I was employed in consoling her
by those arguments which had been a thousand times repeated, when
Philip, your uncle, entered, and sullenly took up a book without
noticing me. In a few minutes after, your father entered the room, and
with a placid air said, “I have brought you something to see, and
admire;” and placing a small ebony box richly inlaid with silver on the
table before us, he succeeded in exciting our curiosity. “The casket is
nothing to its contents,” said he, smiling at our admiration of the box,
and taking from it a shagreen picture-case which he opened. “What say
you to this portrait?” said he shewing us a pretty large miniature of a
gentleman in a Spanish habit; “did you ever see a more manly, gracious
countenance?” We examined it, and to the praise due to the artist, and
the noble lineaments he had preserved, was added our admiration of the
rich diamonds which encircled it. “It ought to have a companion,”
observed your father, taking up another shagreen case, similar to the
one before us; but it might have been as well if the picture of the lady
had never reached my hand; for Harriet may be jealous of its superlative
beauty. He added, that the story of the lovers was long and disastrous;
and might be the ground work of a tragedy not unlike in many particulars
to “the Fatal Marriage.” “I remember,” continued he, “that when my
father many years since shewed me the two pictures, he briefly mentioned
some circumstances, which touched me to the soul. He was the friend
intrusted with these portraits, and with the care of seeking out an
infant son, who had been conveyed from Madrid when no more than three
days old; and who had unaccountably eluded all the enquiries which my
father had, at that time, been able to make. My absence from Scotland,
and my father’s death with other events,” he sighed—“obliterated from my
memory this box and the particulars I have mentioned. About a month
since, it was sent me, having been deposited by my father previously to
his death in the hands of a minister of the Kirk of Scotland, He on his
death-bed sent it, to me, with many injunctions to be careful of it.
Amongst several letters written in Spanish, from which I can only
discover the writers to be of high rank, I found also a deposition made
by my father, and addressed to myself. He informs me, that having
traced, as he believes, the invaluable child of his noble friends, he
had sent his mother’s picture to the faithful woman who had been the
only person privy to his birth, and who passed for his mother. This I
was instructed to do, added my father; and the test of the boy’s
identity, rested on the woman’s returning the picture, with the name of
her lady annexed to it. She received it from faithful hands; for I was
already on that bed of death, from which I am permitted to write this.
She said she should write to me from London, having in her turn
instructions to follow; and that with the witnesses of her integrity she
should present herself before me with her precious charge, and with
transports of joy make over to my care a youth worthy of the Duke and
Dutchess; she signed herself S. Duncan. Philip advanced to the table; he
examined the picture attentively.” “Does your romance finish here?”
asked he, “So it appears,” replied my husband, “otherwise that picture,
and the letters would have been reclaimed.” “I should think no one will
at present be found to claim them,” observed Mr. Flamall. “I fear so
also,” answered Sir Murdoch; “but when I am on the continent, I shall
lose no opportunity of giving up my important trust to the family.” “I
would be d—d,” cried my brother laughing, “if I went a league out of my
road on such an errand!” “Perhaps not,” answered my husband coldly; “you
may not think it necessary.” He folded up the portrait, and, replacing
it, withdrew. “What a pity it is,” cried Flamall, as he followed him
with his eye, “that Maclairn is not a Spanish Grandee! His gravity would
have suited admirably with their dignity; and his honour with their
pride; some people, and honest ones too, would think the diamonds at
least a lawful prize in this case; and without a doubt, they have long
been considered as lost. They would pay for your journey, Harriet, or
usefully decorate the _poor_ Baronet’s _lady_.” I made no answer, for I
was nearly fainting with emotion and surprise; but finding Miss Flint
well disposed to reply for me, I left the room, and retreated from the
scene of altercation which ensued, and which was but too familiar to my
ears. Your father’s illness succeeded to this occurrence, my dear
Malcolm. I will hasten to inform you, and him of the reasons which led
me to give this incident a place in my narrative.
It is now something more than five years since, that I was called upon
to feel the full weight of the penalty affixed by eternal justice, to
the violation of truth and rectitude of conduct. In the duties before
me, the remembrance of the unfortunate Duncan had been softened down
into the placid hope of his being at peace. Miss Flint had apparently
forgotten that such a being had ever existed. A more immediate concern
engaged her mind, and from her excessive fondness of her son, grew up a
dislike to you, and a jealousy of your mother, which harassed me and
rendered her unhappy. Several circumstances, which I need not recall to
your memory, proved to her, that the slave of Mr. Flamall, and her own
sheltered dependent, was not without the animal instinct of defending
her offspring; and even in these contests, the name of Duncan never
escaped her lips. This generosity was not lost upon me, who had to
sustain the cruel and barbarous hints, not unfrequently dropped by my
brother, in regard to a subject, too painful to be enlarged upon; and
which produced no other effect, than that of making me, more and more,
the inmate of your father’s apartment.
I had, as usual, seen my beloved patient quietly tasting that repose
which his agitated mind required; and I left him, to take my accustomed
walk in the avenue. A radiant moon, with the soft evening breeze, which
had succeeded to a sultry day, cheered me, and I sauntered until you met
me on your return from your friends at the farm. We enjoyed the scene
around us; and, for some time, conversed at our ease, on the seat round
the oak, but hearing the turret clock chiming the three quarters after
ten, I rose to return to the house; when suddenly, a wretched looking
man, sprang from the covert near us, and ran with swiftness down the
avenue. You instantly dissipated my alarm, by telling me it was a sick
sailor, whom you had met and relieved that afternoon, on your way to Mr.
Wilson’s. He had, it appeared, been shipwrecked, and was begging his way
to his friends in London. You finished your little story, by adding,
that you supposed he had strolled into the avenue, and had fallen
asleep. We parted for the night, and I thought no more of the mendicant
sailor. The following evening I again repaired to the avenue, it was
about eight o’clock, and again I took my seat at the oak. Again, did I
see this miserable object slowly advancing towards me; his ghastly
countenance excited my compassion, not my fears, and I rose to meet him,
with some silver in my hand. He stopped, leaning himself against a tree;
and wiping his face, as though faint with hunger, gazed upon me. “Do not
advance,” cried I, quickening my pace, “honest friend I am coming to
give you a trifle.” He groaned, dropped a sealed packet, and darted from
me with speed.
Terrors too powerful for language assailed me! I gasped for breath, and,
for some minutes, stood motionless, gazing at the fleet and dreadful
spectre; for such he seemed. At the stile he turned; and from its
elevation still saw me, he struck his breast and head; then vanished. A
sudden conviction, shot through my confounded senses; I seized the
parcel; it was addressed to Lady Maclairn, and in the well remembered
characters of _Charles Duncan_. I placed it in my bosom; and was, I
believe, indebted to the air for the preservation of life; for I did not
faint, although unconscious of time. Your cheerful voice, Malcolm, as
you approached me singing, roused me, and I attempted to rise; but again
I sunk on the seat I had quitted, and burst into tears. You saw my
emotion, my dear son, and in reply to your enquiries I made the usual
answer, for the dejection of my spirits, adding, that I had again seen
the vagabond in the avenue, at a distance, and not chusing to advance,
had kept near the house, not altogether without fear. “I met him,”
returned you, “and told him that he was trespassing, and that he must
not be seen in the avenue. He said, he hoped he should be many miles
from it in twenty-four hours, meaning to pursue his route before
sun-rise the next morning. He begged my pardon; he had been induced to
seek the relief his miseries needed, but finding the lady was alarmed
had retreated. I commended him for his attention, and rewarded him with
some silver.” “He has done me no harm,” replied I, “for I was not much
disposed to ramble, feeling languid before I left the house.” I was no
sooner arrived there, than I retired to my room; and with agonies, which
it is beyond my power to describe, I read as follows,
“_To Lady Maclairn._”
“The poor, the outraged, the vilified Charles Duncan lives to proclaim
his wrongs! to pour forth his sorrows before the only being on earth who
will pity him! He lives to redeem his honour from the disgrace and
eternal infamy, of having deserted the woman, whom in the presence of
his Maker, he vowed to cherish and protect. He lives to take vengeance
on his oppressors! He lives to behold thee once more! and then death
will close his account here! The grave will be his bed of repose! Heaven
will, in its own time, explain to him, wherefore he existed; and to what
purpose he has suffered!!!
“I am composed, my Harriet. I have seen thee, I have heard thy gentle
voice! listened, in breathless silence, to the pure effusions of thy
spotless mind; heard my Harriet, my wife, my _all_ that Heaven has given
me! speak to _her son_, praise his filial duty to _his father_; heard
that that parent had been _smitten_, stricken by the hand of adversity!
Heard her call him, “her dear _Maclairn_,” her helpless, her unfortunate
husband! Was this the language to heal my broken spirit? No: but it was
that which has fettered every tumultuous passion of my soul! I would not
for worlds speak to you, Harriet; I would not for worlds approach you!
No: I would refuse your offered love! What! brand with infamy thy
spotless name! Sink the honourable wife, the virtuous mother to be the
sharer of my wretched condition! The companion of a reputed robber, a
worthless vagabond; of a being who can claim no affinity but to the
earth he treads! No; Harriet, thy Duncan is not yet so poor, so abject!
Scorned, and sunk as he may be in your eyes, he yet proudly maintains
his claims to the recompense of long suffering and patience. This is not
Duncan’s theatre of glory! But he has before him an inheritance, and a
home; and he has only to press forward to attain it.”
“The wife of Sir Murdoch Maclairn; the mother of his children; the prop
and comfort of his life is in my eyes, encompassed by an host of angels.
Shall the wretched Duncan invade the blessings of another? No, Harriet.
He has beheld you for the last time. Live and die a suitable inhabitant
for a better world! _Live_ to be reverenced by your children’s children!
_Live_ to be called the Matron’s pride, and your sex’s boast. Only think
of me, as a man who was once thy love; as one incapable of forgetting
you. Think of me as one, who would sooner have been what he has been
cruelly believed to be, than have basely left thee to the tortures of
doubt and suspense, and abandoned to an insulting world. Think of me
only as an unfortunate man, as one whom you _may_ pity, as one who will
soon be removed: as one whose heart——
“Again I take up my pen. Again the tumult of my senses is calmed. I can
now weep. I can thank God that your brother is absent. I can pray, my
Harriet! I can see the God of mercy allaying the storm, and smoothing my
passage to himself. _Farewell_: I have only to see, that you are in
possession of my justification; and then shall seas again separate us,
whilst my soul still fondly clings to thee. Farewell! Farewell!
“CHARLES DUNCAN.”
“You have not forgotten the hour of our separation, Harriet! You cannot
have obliterated from your memory my agonies, on trusting to the winds
and waves my wife, my hopes, my all! You cannot have forgotten my vows
of love, of fidelity, of truth. What must have been the artifices, the
machinations employed to beguile you of your confidence in Charles
Duncan! But have I not before me an evidence of that subtle mischief
which man, when lost to all that is manly, can effect? Was thy innocence
a match for villany? Thy weakness an armour against cruelty? What have
not been the means employed to ruin _thee_ as well as myself! Oh Being
of infinite justice! to thee do I look up for a solution of all my
doubts! Let me still hold fast my only consolation; my Harriet, my wife
stands blameless in thy sight, and in my bosom. She is still cherished
as the faithful, but deluded, perhaps fatally deluded, victim of
baseness and cruelty.
“Again farewell!”
This letter had evidently been written after my alarm in the avenue by
the wretched writer’s sudden disappearance. His narrative was detached
from it, and bore several dates, as will appear; may heaven in its mercy
lend a portion of its never-failing compassion to those to whom the
miserable Harriet now consigns it! May they pause from time to time, and
contemplate the _noble ruin_ thus exhibited to their view! For
Maclairn’s justice will acknowledge it to be _such_; and he will applaud
the woman, who, although shrinking from the consciousness of guilt,
dares to avow her veneration, and love for virtue. She must indeed be
sunk, who could erase from her memory a man like _Charles Duncan_; and
Maclairn will understand and fret, that the heart would be unworthy of
his, which should not have room for suffering and oppressed innocence,
and a memory faithful in its tribute of sorrow and sympathy, gratitude
and admiration, for a man, who not only loved her, but also her fame,
better than himself. Yes: he will acknowledge that his Harriet, even in
these tears, which she gives to suffering and departed worth—but let me
hasten to the conclusion of a task which duty prescribes, before my
sinking spirits faint.