P. S. Has Alice informed you that Mr. Snughead is dead? either his
son-in-law’s return, or his grief for his wife was too much for him: he
died at Bath of the gout in his stomach.
LETTER LX.
_From the same to the same._
Our good father has no doubt communicated to Mary the news of her uncle
Oliver Flint’s death. Peace to his manes! He has left behind him a good
report, and we are much pleased with the last proof of his being an
honest and friendly man. His heir, Mr. Philip Flint, has written a very
handsome letter to the captain, to inform him of his legacy of five
thousand pounds, and Mary’s of three, adding, that, believing it was the
intention of the donor, that there should be no delay in the payment of
these bequests, he had transmitted to him the first six months interest
of the sum, in order to answer the present unavoidable retardment of the
principal sum whilst waiting for his precise orders. Mr. Flamall still
remains obdurate; a circumstance which Mr. Philip Flint in his letter to
his mother regrets, as a draw-back on his comforts, and peculiarly
oppressive to his mind at a time when he might have been useful as a
consoler.
There were letters for Miss Flint from Mr. Flamall and her brother; some
precautions were judged requisite in regard to the delivery of these.
Doctor Douglass undertook the business, as well as to prepare her for
the sable dress of the captain. He asked her how long her brother Oliver
had left England; she took this hint, and replied with calmness, that he
had been dead to her more than thirty years; but, added she sighing,
when we are re-united, this period will appear nothing! Encouraged by
her composure he proceeded to mention his honourable acquittal of his
promise to Mr. Philip Flint, and the regrets of his friends for his
loss; and giving her the letters destined for her was on the point of
retiring, after recommending to her to be careful of fatiguing her
spirits. “Remain a moment,” replied she, taking the two letters. “You
shall see that I mean to preserve my tranquillity. This comes from a
hand that never administered to me, aught but comfort.”—She placed Mr.
Flint’s letter under her pillow. “_This_ from a man who, miserable in
himself, is the common disturber of the peace of others. I will not read
his letter: put it into the fire.” “I hesitated, in obeying her,”
continued the doctor; “she perceived it, and tore it into fragments.”
Now burn them, and judge, said she, that I can be firm. Mr. Flamall has
nothing to do with this hour! I will not be disturbed by his
resentments. She paused, and saw the mutilated letter consumed. “I shall
not have the comfort my brother Oliver had,” observed she, “but I do not
murmur. Percival is very kind to me, tell him that I am calm and
composed; but that I shall be busy to day, and cannot see him; and send
Lady Maclairn hither.”
It appears that her ladyship’s commission was to send off an express to
Durham for an attorney whom Miss Flint named. Mary will have a letter
from the captain to-morrow. I am going to pass the day at the Abbey; Sir
Murdoch droops a little, he dreads the consequence of his wife’s
perpetual fatigue; she has a cough not very pleasant to my ears.
Mrs. Allen is of great use to the invalid. She regulates the sick room
with her usual address, and has convinced Miss Flint of the utility of
quitting her bed for the sopha during some part of the day. She thinks
it refreshes her spirits; and some interval of ease at present enables
her to make the exertion.
I remain Lucy’s affectionate,
RACHEL COWLEY.