_From the same to the same._
Believe me, my dear friend, the slight indisposition which that Chit
Alien has magnified into a dangerous fever, was shorter in duration
than the alarm she so incautiously produced at Heathcot. It is true
that, in order to please Lady Maclairn and to satisfy my nurse, I
submitted to the penance of keeping my bed for two days and have for
some days since, been pent up in my own apartment. It does youth and
vigour no harm, to have from time to time such gentle lessons as the
one I have been taught, of the fallacy and fragility of life; but with
the cordials of kindness and attention which I have received, the
only remaining doubt is whether I shall think of it to any purpose.
Sir Murdoch, my first physician at present, or rather my only one, is
accused of being like too many of his medical brethren, unwilling to
pronounce the patient well, from his relish of his fee. But this is
pure malice; and a scandal fabricated by Mrs. Heartley, out of revenge;
because he preferred sharing with me a new book, to dining with her;
alleging also, that as she had allured my nurse from her charge, it
behoved him to watch me. You will do wisely, my dear Lucy, to consider
the danger of this tremendous fever, during which Mrs. Allen leaves me
to amuse herself. But these romantic girls! they so dearly love the
pathetic, that they are never to be trusted with a plain tale. Now I,
being a mere matter of fact correspondent; and who, in two lines, had I
been permitted, would have told you that I had got a severe cold; now
as frankly avow, that I have had a fever-fit, to the full as _pathetic_
as any which Allen’s imagination pictured to you. But as it happens to
be one of that sort which is contagious, I beg you to be prepared for
a quick pulse, and an aching head, on perusing the enclosed narration.
I have paid the tribute; and have calmed my spirits, by writing to my
Horace. Adieu, _pour le présent_.
(_In Continuation_)
When Mrs. Allen left me, for her walk and her day’s holiday, Sir
Murdoch took his seat opposite to me. I was making some artificial
flowers for Lady Maclairn’s vases. The baronet was amused by seeing
me, as he said “rival Flora;” and we chatted some little time over the
work. At length his silence to a question of mine diverted my attention
from my employment, and looking at him, I found he was fallen into one
of his absent fits, and as usual, had his eyes fixed on me, with that
expression of sadness so peculiarly touching. “Come, my good friend,”
said I with cheerfulness, “do not suppose I shall permit you to be
idle; either take up the book, or wind this skain of silk for me.” He
smiled and took the silk. “Take heed you do not entangle it,” said I,
assisting for a moment in the operation, “it is wofully ruffled.” “It
resembles more closely,” replied he calmly, and proceeding cautiously
in his task, “the web of my thoughts which you interrupted.” But I had
found the clue, that had made all smooth within, and with patience I
shall succeed in _this_ business.
“I was thinking, my dear Miss Cowley,” continued he, “when you called
me to order, of those means which Providence employs for its gracious
purposes of mercy and deliverance, to beings like ourselves, who
in the imperfect state in which we are placed, with all the reason
of which so many boast, neither can provide for our own good, nor
prevent a future evil: I was tracing the chain of events which in
their consequences were appointed to heal my wounded mind, and with
these considerations, entered the sense of my own short-sightedness,
and opposition to the intended remedy; my repugnance to Mr. Flamall’s
offers of placing you here; the dread of seeing you; and the painful
struggles I had in conquering my aversion to the journey to town. As
these circumstances arose to my memory, I experienced the truth and
vexation they had caused me; and I doubt not my countenance indicated
to you that I was disturbed. But what will you think when I tell you,
that the first view of you was to me accompanied with an anguish of
soul unutterable, and which it makes me faint even to think of? Yet,
my dear Miss Cowley, you were the angel of mercy sent to heal me, you
spoke, you smiled, I heard your voice, the storm of conflicting sorrows
was hushed, my soul was entranced in bliss; for I imagined that I saw
before me my sainted Matilda. This lady was my early love, my affianced
wife, the pride, the glory of my race! the object with which my life,
my honour, and my affection were inseparably connected! Listen to
me,” added he with solemnity, observing that I was disturbed, “your
influence over me has not been effected by your attractive beauty:
neither your understanding, your native cheerfulness, nor your tender
compassion, would have reached my torpid heart and extinguished
sensations. It was your resemblance to his portrait, Miss Cowley, that
burst asunder the chains which had weighed me down, and that spoke
peace to my harassed spirit.” He drew from his bosom the miniature
picture of a young lady; and presenting it to me added, that his wife
had been surprised by my striking likeness to it. The painting was
enamelled and highly finished; and the face was, to speak frankly,
lovely. “I am disqualified for a judge,” said I, examining it; “were
it less beautiful, I might allow my vanity indulgence, and honestly
confess, that, I think it does resemble a miniature of me, drawn when
last I was in London, for a friend; but this lady was a much fairer
woman than I am.” “Not as she appeared when I knew her,” answered he,
replacing the picture; “health and exercise had given such tints to
her complexion as no colours I could employ were able to reach. How
many times have I had reason to regret the attainment which gave to my
aching eyes this faint memorial of her charms! Every time I surveyed
this picture was a moment placed to the account of misery, till I saw
you: but now it is my consolation to compare its features with yours.
I know what you think, but in pity to my infirmity suffer me to enjoy
the delusion, which lulls me to repose. You have no parents living. Let
me call you _daughter_. Such, had heaven permitted our union, would
have been Matilda’s child; such, the image of herself, might she have
bequeathed me, had”--He could not proceed; but bursting into tears he
covered his face. “Call me by any title that pleases you,” said I;
“none that you will give me can express more reverence and esteem than
I have for you. But to render your daughter happy, you must be less
susceptible to impressions so unfriendly to your health and comforts.”
“They have ceased to be afflictive,” answered he; “for I can now say
with Job, ‘My sorrows came in upon me as a wide breaking in of waters;
in the desolation they rolled themselves upon me; but my deliverer
was at my right hand to save me.’ His arm of mercy has been stretched
out for me also, and ‘I will praise him whilst I have my being.’ But
let me tell _my child_ her _father’s_ story,” added he pensively
smiling.--“Another time,” replied I, “will be better for us both.” “Do
you think so?” answered he with a sigh, “then it shall be so; but I
should like you to know the man before you, and whom you permit to call
you _daughter_. It would relieve my mind to give you a portion of its
burden.” I could not refuse this appeal, and he proceeded.