LETTER LVI.
_From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._
I am truly rejoiced, my Lucy, to know that the manuscript is safe in
your hands, having had on my spirits a dread of its miscarrying. You
know not the comfort you administered to poor Lady Maclairn by your
letter of Saturday’s post. She suspected, by my lenity, that I was but a
poor casuist in matters of conscience; and that I was more solicitous to
banish her sorrows, than to probe the cause from which they spring; but
since you agree with me in asserting, that it is your decided opinion,
there can be no criminality in a concealment which secures to the
innocent peace and security; I find she listens to me with more
confidence; and I hope in time to convince her, that to disclose a
secret which cannot produce, either directly or indirectly, any
beneficial effect to those who must, on the contrary, suffer from such a
disclosure, would partake more of folly than wisdom.
In this conclusion I am guided by the best light my understanding offers
me: moreover, I cannot help placing in the balance, the whole train of
events which have led astray from the paths of rectitude, a mind
constituted like Lady Maclairn’s; and I am disposed to believe, that she
will be exculpated by an unerring Judge, for those deviations to which
she has been betrayed, by the treachery and oppression of others, more
culpable than herself. Although falsehood is never to be excused, yet
the caution of wisdom may surely suggest, without a crime, the
reasonableness and utility of suppressing that “_truth_ which ought not
to be spoken at all times;” the produce which regulates our zeal, and
imposes silence, is no violation of truth. These are my arguments with
poor Lady Maclairn; I even go farther, Lucy; for I insist, that she has
_for years_ been practising the most heroic virtues by suffering in
silence, to preserve the peace and tranquillity of her husband and son.
But, my dear friend, if such be the penalty annexed to the concealment
of error and duplicity by an ingenuous mind, even when that concealment
is qualified by the powerful motives of preserving the peace and
interest of all around us, what, I ask, must be the horrors of the mind,
which covers, with a veil of darkness, the fraud intended to ruin the
innocent, to betray the unsuspecting, and to defraud the ignorant? What
must be the state and condition of those whose life is a _lie_? I cannot
form a more appalling idea of a state of future punishment, than in the
contemplation of the hypocrite’s terrors even in this life. What must be
the life of a person, whom deceit and treachery have made responsible
for his safety to a confederate, as depraved and dishonest as himself;
living under the dread of the chance of every moment for open detection;
harassed with the conviction that a more immediate interest, or more
specious promises, will convert the sharer of his crimes into an
informer and accuser, whom he dares not confront? What can equal the
pang which must at times pierce his bosom when he recollects, that he
enjoys the confidence and favour of his fellow creatures, only because
they do not know him for a monster to be shunned! But I must check this
train of thought.
Lady Maclairn thanks you for your soothing letter. Her mind is relieved
by the participation of its burden. She can now, to use her own words,
live without devouring her griefs, lest they should be seen. Sir Murdoch
smiles and tells her, she is his rival with Rachel Cowley. We shall yet
be more comfortable I trust.
I enclose for your amusement and _Mary’s perusal_, a letter we received
on Monday from Mr. Serge. Well may this poor man apply to himself the
words of the son of Sirach!
“The father waketh for the daughter when no man knoweth, and the care
for her taketh away sleep when she is young, lest she pass away the
flower of her age; and being married, lest she should be hated.” I only
regret that Mr. Serge did not study the same author, or at least one as
wise, for the means to prevent the watchfulness and parental anxiety, so
admirably described in the above mentioned words: for had he understood
better how to chuse a wife, he might have slept in peace. A woman
without understanding can hardly be called a virtuous woman, and we well
know the price of a virtuous woman is far above rubies.
Miss Flint goes on deplorably; her sufferings have subdued the baronet,
who sees with augmenting admiration the unremitting attentions of his
“excellent Harriet.” Even Malcolm relents, and this morning most
cordially wished his mother to urge her to send for advice to London,
thinking her case a chirurgical one.
I am growing somewhat displeased with the winds and waves; but I
remember _Canute_, and submit to a power which I cannot control. Mrs.
Allen sends her love; she is constantly engaged with her invalid. Miss
Flint is not easy without her.
I remain, faithfully your’s,
RACHEL COWLEY.
LETTER LVII.
_Jeremiah Serge to Sir Murdoch Maclairn._
MY DEAR FRIEND, _Putney, Oct. 27_.
I am certain, if you knew the consolation I have in your counsels and
advice, you would rejoice; for it is the command of a master we both
wish to serve and obey, that the “strong help the weak.” God knows I am
weak, and my talents few; you are a chosen servant, to whom many are
intrusted; but yet, Sir Murdoch, we are of the “same household,” and the
children of the same father; and, blessed be God! you do not, like some
men, scorn the relationship, because one is appointed to a lower station
than another, by that wisdom which will accept the _lowest_, who
performs what is required of him. I am again brought to the trial of my
strength by a new sorrow, from which, my good friend, neither my money,
nor my wisdom, can altogether shelter me. Yet both shall be tried, as
the means of relief; for both have their use, when in the discharge of
that duty, which I am bound to perform as a Christian parent. My
daughter, Caroline, encourages me to open my heart to you; she says, she
will be answerable for the event, for that Sir Murdoch Maclairn is a
_man_ as well as a _baronet_, and that he will feel as a father the
troubles of a father; and she is sure, that you will approve of my
conduct; I think also that you will; for I have been governed by her;
and surely Heaven, in its mercy, has preserved her life for my good; and
has arrested the hand of death, until she was more than ripe for the
blessed state prepared for her. Such a child! and yet so wise! so good!
I cannot proceed——
I have taken up my pen again. It is only five o’clock, and not a soul
stirring in the house but myself. So I will try and disburthen my mind a
little!—I do not now remember whether I told you, that some few weeks
since, Mrs. Tomkins, after passing a day or two with my dear child,
during her mother’s absence from home, took Lydia to town with her, her
dear sister thinking, as she told me, that the poor girl was losing her
spirits. I, knowing that she thought of every one’s comforts, consented
to my good friend’s wish of showing Lydia some kindness. The very
evening they left us, Caroline turned her discourse on Nora, praising
the letters she had written to us, and, with her perfect charity, hoping
all things. “I do not repent, my good child,” said I, “of the kindness I
have shown her: I am not the poorer nor the worse man, if I have
purchased with seven thousand pounds, the gratitude of one, on whom she
depends for the comfort of her life. Would to God, that I could purchase
health for you!” She smiled, and said, “Then indeed would you be in
danger of a bankruptcy; for I believe my father would give his last
shilling for his children’s benefit. But let this pass. My health is not
_at present_ what troubles me. Promise me, my dear father, that, should
Lydia stand in need of your support, you will remember, “That, where
much is given, much may _justly_ be required;” but that where _nothing_
has been _sown_, we cannot reasonably except an harvest to rise.” “Make
your mind easy in regard to her,” replied I, “thinking she had in her
thoughts the little favour Lydia stands in with her mother, I pity and
love her.” “I understand what you mean; and I promise you, I will be her
father and her mother too, when occasion serves. She shall not be
brow-beaten and neglected as she has been of late.” “Alas! my dear
father,” answered Caroline, “you must promise _more_, or I cannot die in
peace. You must promise to forgive another offending child: you must
promise”—She threw her arms around me, Sir Murdoch, and weeping, added,
“to shelter her from reproach and shame.” I turned faint and giddy; and
my daughter gave me her salts. Oh! if you could but have heard what she
said, you would not wonder at what I have done. In a word, my child was
satisfied; and she lives to tell me again, that she was going to a
Heavenly Father, from _one_ who imitated him in lenity to his offending
offspring. There was, in her look, something which poured joy and
comfort into my broken heart. I only wish I could go to heaven with her.
“Well, I saw my weak unhappy girl; and Mrs. Tomkins advised me to let
her manage; for she was certain the terror of seeing her mother would be
fatal to her and the unborn infant. I could not reproach her, Sir
Murdoch, indeed, an _afflicted_ man is not an _angry_ man: and after
all, had not I been deficient in my duty? Has not my indolent temper,
and love of peace, been more considered than the good of my family? I
have been too passive, Sir Murdoch, too indulgent.
“I found the young spark who had taken Lydia’s fancy was William, who
was with us at Fairfield Hall, and whom we all liked, as a very sober
well behaved young man. His sister, my wife’s favourite maid, introduced
him to us some time before we went to Bath. She said he was like many
foolish young men, tired of being remote from temptation; and that he
had gained, with much difficulty, her father’s consent to seek a place
in London, as a valet, or a butler, being well qualified for both; she
was quite unhappy that he should be left to his own guidance till he was
fixed in a sober family; seeing he was a very likely young man, and
quite a stranger. So my wife, who never is behind hand in good nature,
said he might come to Putney, and we were well pleased with him, and
engaged him to attend us to Bath. Poor Lydia has been honest with Mrs.
Tomkins. The young fellow was not so much in fault as herself: she
confessed that she sought him. However, this was not the question with
me; we might perhaps have hushed up this business; such things are done,
as they say, every day: but what follows? a crime, in my opinion, ten
times worse than Lydia’s; being, as it were, committed in cool blood;
for what can be more dishonest than passing off a deluded girl for a
chaste one? and depriving a poor innocent babe of a father, and a name.
I could not do such an act of injustice; being convinced that it would
be doing what I should not think just in another to do by me.
I consulted our friend counsellor Steadman, however, on this vexatious
business; for notwithstanding I have little to be proud of as one may
say, yet it went some how to my heart, that a child of mine should be
pointed at by scorn and derision. He is a worthy and a wise man, and
agrees with Mr. Tomkins, that the best thing I can do, is to let these
young simpletons be married; the girl being half distracted with the
fear of losing sight of William; and he being willing to take her, as he
told the friend we employed, Mrs. Tomkins’s mother, that he would work
for her to his life’s end, and show his good master that it was not his
money he wished for. I find his parents are honest people, though low in
the world; they had a farm within six miles of York, but by losses
amongst their cattle things went backward, and being in arrears for rent
when their lease expired, they lost the farm. William was then about
eighteen, had received good learning, and was a sober, steady lad; but a
little pride made him discontented; and he did not like to work as a
gardener, in a piece of ground, which his father cultivated in that way,
near York, and which, as he says, in excuse for his leaving his parents,
could only produce a maintenance for them, and that he was only a burden
on the ground. So all was fixed for the marriage, and we thought no time
was to be lost.
I am not quite pleased with my wife, Sir Murdoch, although I know she is
as harmless as an infant; yet it grieves me to see that she will always
be _an infant_. She was absent a whole month from Putney; and whilst
Caroline was thus employed, and thus disturbed, she was taking her
pleasure with people she knew nothing of, and whom all honest and sober
minded persons would shun. During eight days she waited forsooth, for
the captain, who could not think it proper _for Mrs. Serge_ to travel
without an escort, as he calls a puppy. I remembered the time, when much
younger, she could travel by land and by water without such a conundrum
in her head. However they arrived here, and the captain, to my great
satisfaction, refused to lodge with us, pleading business in town; and
intending to be absent only three days from his Nora and his friends.
I shall say nothing of my poor wife’s hysterics, when I told her how
matters stood with Lydia. She was terribly bad indeed! But, thank God,
these fits are not dangerous, as the doctors say; and experience seems
to justify them in their opinion; for, I know one of my wife’s old
friends, who has been subject to them twenty years. No sooner had my
poor Lydia got the better of hers on this trying occasion, than she
lamented her hard case, saying, with many tears and much anger, that she
should never be able to shew her face again amongst fashionable people;
and that no one but myself would ever have thought of sinking their
family by such a _dunghill_ connexion. I lost my temper, Sir Murdoch,
for it frets a man to be always doing for the best, and who is said
never to do right. And I very roundly told her, that all the plagues of
my life were owing to fashionable people, as she called gamblers and
pickpockets; and if, added I, that were all the mischief, I should be
tempted to thank William Willet for his good services. You have now,
continued I, been a month under a roof which the honest would shun;
whilst under _your own_, Mrs. Serge, the prop and stay of my life, is
sinking to the grave. You might have learned a lesson of more value than
what your fashionable people at Reveland Park have been teaching you.
She looked confounded, and wept in silence. No man loves peace more than
I do; my heart relented; and I only added, that she knew this was my
temper; that, whatever I _thought_, or rather _felt_ to be right, that I
would _do_; and that the following morning Lydia would be Mrs. Willet. I
kept my word, Sir Murdoch, and last Thursday by means of a licence, I
saw the young couple united. I do not know how it was, but they quite
softened me by their tears and thanks. Mrs. Tomkins was so good as to
accompany them to her mother’s; they set out as soon as the ceremony was
over, and I returned to Putney to dinner, contented and relieved in my
mind. On entering the parlour I found my _fashionable_ son-in-law there;
he was reading the newspaper, and I asked him, by way of saying
something, “what news?” “None,” replied he, “of importance; but I
understand, Sir, we may expect a curious article to-morrow.” He smiled,
and, as I thought, insolently; adding, “Miss Lydia Serge, second
daughter to Jeremiah Serge, Esq. married to William Willet, late butler
and gardener at Putney in her father’s house, will make a curious
paragraph!” “Very likely,” answered I gravely; “and the article may
farther say, that the marriage ceremony was performed in _St. Martin’s
Church_, by the minister of the parish, and in the presence of the
bride’s father. I shall contentedly leave to the public their opinions;
some may be found who will perceive nothing wonderful in a marriage
between _Serge the taylor’s daughter_, and Willet _the farmer’s son_.”
“You are to judge for yourself, Sir,” replied he, “but I conceive few
will think Miss Lydia’s character redeemed by this twofold disgrace to
herself and family. Upon my honour I pity Mrs. Serge; and I dread the
effects of this intelligence on Mrs. Fairly.” “Look ye, captain!”
answered I, “neither your mode, nor William Willet’s, of getting a
footing in my family has been such as will make either of you my
counsellors or guides. I shall act as I please, do as I please; but as I
am a _just man_, be it your case so to conduct yourself, as to make it
pleasant to me to be _your friend_. My children, _except one_, who is
too good for this miserable world, have both chosen for themselves. The
same lenity has been employed for the one, whom weakness has betrayed to
folly, as to the other, whom vanity and presumption rendered ungrateful
and disobedient.” “I hope, Sir,” returned he with a fierce air, “you do
not pretend to compare—” “We will do what is better,” answered I,
ringing the bell, “we will drop the enquiry, and have our dinner.” My
gentleman was surprised, I believe; by my manner he took the hint,
however, and followed me to the dining parlour. Our meal was not a
cheerful one, and I went to my dear girl the moment the cloth was
withdrawn.
I see, Sir Murdoch, how things are turning. My wife is cajoled and
flattered by this fellow to such a degree as would surprise you; she
fancies he has done her a great favour by running away with her
daughter! Poor soul! it will be well if he does not run away with her
simple understanding! However, all these troubles call upon me for
diligence in the settling my worldly concerns, as well as those, for
another and a _better_ state. I have already spoke to counsellor
Steadman on this subject. My property is very considerable, and much
caution is necessary in the disposal of it, so as to render it a
_lasting_ benefit to my family. Now, my good Sir Murdoch, I think
nothing would give me more comfort in my last hour, I believe it is not
far distant, than to know that I had left you, and my dear friend Mr.
Malcolm with Mr. Steadman, guardians and trustees for the support of the
ignorant and helpless, and a _wall of defence_ for the innocents who may
spring from my daughter’s imprudent marriages. I am led to hope that you
will not refuse me this kindness. You shall hear from the counsellor
when all is prepared. He has been my right hand lately; I am directed by
him in all that relates to William’s settlement; but Lydia shall have
the same allowance as Nora; and we are on the look-out for something for
her husband.
God preserve you all in health,
prays your faithful friend,
JEREMIAH SERGE.
P. S. My wife begs to be remembered, she is out of spirits, and fancies
the air of Putney unwholesome. My Caroline is a miracle! It is
astonishing to think how nature is supported! I am far from being well;
you will not wonder at this.