LETTER LVIII.
_From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._
It is with no small satisfaction, my dearest Lucy, that I find my
“enthusiasm of mind and ardency of temper,” (to avail myself of your
gentle terms for a spirit too often governed by the impulse of a heart,
which, in its promptitude is apt to take the lead of judgment) have met
with your approbation and concurrence, in regard, at least, to the
conduct I mean to pursue with Lady Maclairn: to say the truth, Lucy, I
could practise no other; for she hourly rises in my _estimation_, and
_esteem_ with me is the basis of affection. The relief which she finds
in communicating her thoughts to me, has given to her very language a
frankness which appears to be her natural character; and in her account
of the various occurrences of her life, since she married Sir Murdoch,
she omits not even her conjectures, as these arose from the
circumstances in which she has been placed. “I long since had proofs,”
said she this morning, when speaking of the suffering Miss Flint, “that
Lucretia was not devoid of feeling. My brother, for reasons of his own,
had so contrived it, that she firmly held an opinion which he, it is
probable, only _affected_ to have. Illegitimate birth he considered as
an indelible disgrace on the innocent; and Miss Flint adopted this
notion, firmly believing that neither fortune, talents, nor even virtue
could screen an unfortunate being, who stood in this predicament, from
the reproach and insults of the malicious. Her affection for her child
was unbounded; and I saw with comfort, that I had at least gained her
gratitude, by my apostacy from truth. The conduct she maintained with my
brother, in the mean time, puzzled me. It was obvious, he was no longer
_the favoured lover_; and one day, observing Philip much disturbed from
an interview he had with her in the garden at Kensington, I ventured to
say to Lucretia, that I was sorry to see Philip unhappy.” “I understand
you,” replied she, “and I will be explicit with you. I shall never be
his wife; nor will I be to him what I unfortunately have been. I am a
_mother_, Harriet, and I will prove myself one, by remaining what I am,
and what I can contrive to be, the guardian of my son. I have no
passions to gratify, no desires to control, since I beheld the face of
my child; to love and cherish him, and to bless you for your goodness,
shall fill up the measure of my _miserable_ days.” She burst into tears
and left me abruptly. Her sincerity wanted no evidence stronger than her
conduct, continued Lady Maclairn. For some time all went well. I was
made happy through her mediation, and amongst the delusive hopes, which
led me to Farefield Hall as Maclairn’s wife, was the flattering one,
that, by the influence I had acquired over Lucretia, I might in time
reconcile her to Mrs. Howard. Mr. Flamall frustrated these designs. His
affections, as a parent, were so artfully, so effectually brought
forward, and his conduct was so specious, that Lucretia insensibly gave
him a confidence, which as gradually subjected her to his will and
pleasure as myself; and she observed, that nature had yet preserved one
strong hold in Flamall’s bosom; for that he loved his child; and that
would prove to her a source of future comfort; for that no man was more
capable of the office of preceptor. Even I assented to this opinion,
Miss Cowley, as it related to his talents; and I was still the dupe of
that affection, which nature had interwoven with my frame for my
_brother_. He became more serious and reserved from the hour of Philip’s
birth, and in the regularity of his conduct, and the instances I had of
his growing parsimony, I scrupled not to think that he was a changed man
in many respects, although still unsubdued in his love of power. As
Philip became of an age to receive his lessons, his visits at the hall
might be called a residence; but you know already how little these
visits were productive of comfort to me, and, I may likewise add, of
comfort to Miss Flint; for my brother was a rigid disciplinarian; and
had not the child’s temper been one of the most docile and sweet, he
would have been miserable; for my brother, guided by his acquaintance
with vice, understood not that the path to virtue is pleasant, and to
unperverted feet, and a pure heart, has allurements far superior to any
that his lectures and vigilance could furnish.
You may judge of the difficulties I had to encounter in this period of
my life; and the condition to which I was reduced by _a brother’s_
reminding me, from time to time, that it was best for me to be
“_prudent_.” There was little need of a conscience like mine to draw the
inference; his tone and manner were sufficient, and he repeatedly roused
Lucretia to stand forth as my champion, on a ground which had made me a
coward, and the slave of the wretch who had led me into the crooked
path. “Her conduct was, at least, uniformly generous on this point,”
continued Lady Maclairn; “she never, directly nor indirectly, mentioned
Duncan, nor did I, till very lately, know to what extent her knowledge
went of this unhappy affair. I breathed like one freed from death, when
I found that Mr. Flamall had determined to leave England with Philip.
From the time I had the unfortunate Mr. Duncan’s narrative before me, my
soul abhorred the sight of my brother; and I so entirely secluded myself
in my husband’s apartment, that we did not meet twice in a week, and his
reserve and coldness when we did, went not beyond mine. Again, my dear
Miss Cowley, truth obliges me to give a good report of Miss Flint. In
proportion as my spirits flagged she redoubled her attention to my
wants, and her purse was ever open to me. I believe, that my brother’s
reason for going to Jamaica, originally sprung from a serious quarrel
with Lucretia. The death of his wicked wife left him free to marry, and
he was very pressing on that subject with Miss Flint. Lucretia had her
secrets as well as myself; but accident led me within reach of hearing
her say, “Never; urge me no further; for by all that is sacred, if you
do, Percival shall know all.” I retreated, fearing to be discovered;
and, from that time, his voyage was mentioned as a decided matter. After
my brother’s departure, Lucretia fatigued me with her importunities, to
draw me from my husband’s room.” “I should have a servant to watch him;
and one I could rely on, although it cost her an hundred pounds _per
annum_.” I was firm, and she submitted. Left to herself, she thought of
her niece, and I was consulted on the expediency of her inviting this
poor girl to live with her; I was distressed for a reply; knowing the
bitter resentment which she had nourished even to the name of Howard;
and her hatred to those who had sheltered this unfortunate and excellent
couple. I evaded the question as well as I could, contenting myself with
observing, that I had always thought it an act of duty on her part to
take care of her niece. “I am willing to do so;” answered she colouring;
“but I must first know what she is good for; and whether the people with
whom she lives have not taught her to believe I am a monster.” I saw the
rising storm, and timidly shrunk from it, saying, that I could not give
her my advice, without incurring the censure of being swayed by a sordid
consideration for my reputed son. “But you know,” added I, “that you can
provide for both these young people; and you must determine their
respective claims.” Poor Mary soon after exchanged her abode of peace,
for _this_, and the event has confirmed my fears. The gentle and timid
Mary neither gained spirits here, nor strove to amuse her aunt’s. She
had but one path, it was to submit in silence to her aunt’s temper, and
to anticipate her commands by her diligence. She soon perceived the
fatal habit which Lucretia indulged; and this produced terror and
disgust in her innocent mind, which, as you will believe, did not tend
to conciliate her to her aunt’s hardships. I did all that I could do, to
soften the one and encourage the other; but my interference was
resented, and I was reproached, as being allied to her enemies, and
blinded by Malcolm to favour the Heartleys.
I was tempted, Lucy, to hazard some questions, with a direct reference
to Sir Murdoch’s suspicion of having been poisoned; but a moment’s
reflection checked my curiosity; and I diverted her attention from
perceiving my embarrassment, by asking her, whether she knew what was
become of the gentleman’s portrait, and the papers, which so obviously
appeared to have belonged to Mr. Duncan’s story? She unaffectedly
answered, that, “Sir Murdoch had, when in London to meet me, consigned
them into the hands of the Spanish minister, then resident there; and in
the interview,” added she, “he learned that this nobleman was not
totally a stranger to the fate of Duncan’s parents; they were dead; and
a distant branch of the family was in possession of the title and
immense estate; but there was a sister of the Duke still living, who was
abbess of a convent; and to her he engaged to deliver these melancholy
memorials of her still adored brother. Can you wonder, Miss Cowley,”
continued she with emotion, “that I wish for death! think of my
meditations, when darkness and repose conceal me from all eyes but those
of a merciful Being, who witnesses my agonies. Such has been the ruin
effected by a wretch I dare not curse! He is the child of my parents;
the ties of blood still flow around my heart; and I implore Heaven’s
sparing mercy for him, whilst my soul sickens at the thought of the
injuries his hands have wrought, and which no time nor repentance can
remedy. Think of his dreadful account with outraged humanity, violated
truth, and every law of justice! I endeavour to hope that Charles has
found his peaceful grave. I dream of him; and this frame of mind lays me
open to superstition: my imagination presents him, as exultingly
hovering over me on angel’s wings, smiling with ineffable complacency,
and beckoning me to follow him. I try to obey him, and awake trembling.
Such are the visions of my sleeping hours! You need not be told the
meditations of my waking ones. One single principle of action has
counteracted the fatal effects of these perturbations. I love my
husband, my dear Miss Cowley, with an affection exclusively his; and I
wish to live, whilst that life is useful to him. I am prepared for the
event of being hateful to his eyes. God will have compassion on me!”
My tears composed her; and my arguments were listened to. She promised
me to be all I wished; and I broke up the conversation by proposing a
walk in the avenue. Her husband joined us there, and I told him I had
been chiding my mother. He smiled tenderly, and placed himself between
us, observing, that he would keep the peace. “You will not succeed,”
replied I with assumed gaiety; “nor will I accept of you for an ally;
you are too much like your wife; but I have blustered her already into
obedience to my will; and she had promised to be good, and to walk with
me every day the sun shines, instead of sitting in Miss Flint’s room to
hear of pains which she cannot alleviate. He thanked her, and blessed
your