_From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._
I never shall, my dear Lucy, attempt to conceal from you the state
of my spirits. You judged right. I was dejected by the contents of
Horace’s last letter. His account of Lord William’s recent danger, by
the sudden bursting of an abscess on the lungs, and the depression of
mind with which Horace wrote the account of this dreadful alarm, could
not be balanced by the more flattering hopes with which he finishes his
letter. He says, that the patient is relieved, and that the physicians
are of opinion, that his life may be prolonged by this effort of nature.
But thoughts will intrude Lucy. Horace continually over the couch
of a person in Lord William’s situation, is not an image which
cheers my serious hours. I believe that few medical men now refuse
their concurrence in the opinion that consumptions are contagious,
particularly to those who are young. It has been, and must be, a matter
of surprise and regret to me, that Mr. Hardcastle has not participated
with me in these apprehensions; but on _no_ consideration would I wish
him to be alarmed at this moment; being certain, that _none_ would
induce Horace to leave his friend at this juncture. I will therefore
imitate him in his virtue, and I beg you will do the same, and leave
the event to that Providence which has hitherto preserved his health,
and witnessed his perseverance and fortitude in the exercise of his
duty. I frankly confess that I have not been altogether your _Beatrix_,
since the receipt of Horace’s last letters; and the absence of the
Serges, with that of my friends from the Abbey, has left me more
leisure, than has been useful to me; but knowing my remedy, I have
applied to it; and I am at present Sir Murdoch’s pupil for painting
in oils: he encourages me: and I am employed; the Heartleys are,
however, returned, and my spirits are returned with them. Tell Mary
she is to give full credit to Alice’s news of her uncle’s triumphs
at Hartley-pool. He is become a beau, and a young man, and could we
manage to keep him easy in regard to Miss Flint, we should all be
contented with him; but he is too anxious for her to keep long his
good looks, which, to say the truth, are beyond any I expected to see,
for he is absolutely handsome with his _ruddy_ face. Malcolm returned
last night; and you, as we did, will expect Putney news. He saw poor
Leonora only once: she was indisposed when he left his good friends,
but Captain Fairly had several times shown himself to the _modest
rustic_. Malcolm, was by no means pleased with him. He says that,
except a showy person, which may be called a handsome one, he could
not discover a single attraction in this man, which was likely to
captivate a girl of Leonora’s description; for he is cold, formal, and
affected in his manner; and announces the little he has to say with
a pomposity which diverted him, and which it was astonishing could
have escaped Leonora’s ridicule. But he thinks the captain is acting
a new part with these simple people, and he asserts, that, Fairly has
worn the buskin, or at least, has studied for the stage. Malcolm very
discreetly took care to be absent the first day the offending daughter
was received at Putney; but judging that the interview would leave Mr.
Serge dispirited, he returned in the evening before the new married
couple had left the house, which they did, it appears, in order to
their finally quitting the Adelphi-Hotel, for Putney, where Malcolm
left them. “On entering the drawing room,” continued our favourite,
“I found only Mrs. Serge with the captain, and a sort of awkward
introduction followed. The captain appeared impatient for his lady’s
departure, who with her father was with Miss Serge; and expressed in
high-flown terms, his apprehensions lest his dear Leonora should be
completely ill, with a day of such fatigue and trial, for her weak and
delicate spirits. I thought him an awkward hypocrite.” “Oh! do not
fear!” answered the mother, with more tartness of manner than I had
yet perceived; “Nora will bear this day’s fatigue as well as she did
her journey to Scotland; though, to say the truth,” added she, “I do
not think her _complexion_ improved, by travelling post for so many
miles; and unless rest restores her colour, you will be in danger of
renewing your preference of Lydia’s fair skin and hair.” She laughed,
but it was obvious that more was meant by this observation, than I
could understand; the captain, however, probably did; for with a smile
he reminded her, that all stratagems were lawful in love and war. “That
is more than I will allow,” answered she, colouring; “and I must needs
think, that a battle or a wife, so gained, _show_ more _cunning_ than
_courage_; however, let this pass, you have succeeded; and I trust you
will be happy with your ‘Nut-brown Maid.’ The captain spouted some
poetry in reply; and Mrs. Serge with a look of softened resentment
remarked, that he well understood the way to a woman’s heart, and she
had no doubt of his knowing how to keep Nora’s. The door opened, and
Mr. Serge entered the room with his weeping daughter. Malcolm hastily
retreating into the inner apartment, heard her sobs and adieus. The
next day, she took possession of her deserted nest; but was too ill
to join the family at their repasts. Malcolm saw her, however, for
five minutes, when he took his leave of Caroline, who has wonderfully
supported herself during this scene of vexation. He was commissioned to
say all that was cordial and kind on the part of the harrassed Serges;
but they could not write.”
We are, my dear Lucy, becoming _lambs_ at Tarefield Hall: Miss Flint
could not settle for the night, without sending Warner with her
compliments to Mr. Maclairn, with inquiries after his health and
Mr. Serge’s family. Malcolm, whose heart is that of a lamb, also
coloured at this unexpected civility; and he very handsomely sent his
acknowledgments, and Miss Serge’s particular respects to her fellow
sufferer. So true is it, that “soft words turn away wrath,” that I
verily believe Malcolm listened with pity to his mother’s account of
Lucretia’s sinking health and spirit. I, wisely resolving to profit
from this temper of charity, have been in the invalid’s room for more
than an hour this morning. Lady Maclairn is relieved by these measures,
and poor Miss Flint often appears amused by our chat. But it is
incredible with what patience she bears the pain in her knee, which is
excruciating at times, and prevents her sleeping for nights together.
Who could have believed that pain and sickness would have rendered Miss
Flint patient and submissive! As it is a bitter remedy, Lucy, so it
ought to be an efficacious one; and it is our own fault when it proves
useless. Believe me cheerful and well, for indeed I am both; and I am
going to the Abbey this evening to exult with _the happy, and_ to be
happy.
Your’s, affectionately,