Putney, October the 11th, 1790.
“My good Sir Murdoch and Cousin,”
“I send you with my kind love, a small tribute of my gratitude, the
sentiments of which I shall carry with me to my grave, for all your
hospitable cares of us, when with you; and above all, for your pity
and compassion towards my dear sick child. I have only to say on
this subject, that not you, nor any under your roof, will ever live
to repent of your kindness to Caroline; for there never was a young
creature who better deserved the consideration of good people.
“You must take the will for the deed, if we have blundered in regard to
the things we have sent to your worthy lady; but Caroline thought her
mother had judged very properly; and was certain you would be pleased
with any marks of our affection, seeing we are not those, who do one
thing and mean another; and if the fashion of these things should not
happen to suit your fancy, the fault is not my wife’s, for she took a
great deal of pains to get what was tasty, that I must say; and Lydia
would go to the world’s end to serve a friend.
“I have had a meeting with my poor Nora, and my fine spark of a son in
law: it was just as my dear Caroline said it would be. I never felt so
uncomfortable in my life as when I saw my poor girl attempting to speak
to me, and unable to utter a word! I was like a dying man: I could
hardly breathe. What then must she have suffered, Sir Murdoch? Seeing,
she had left _me_ for another’s protection, not I _her_: but women have
a great advantage over us, for tears relieve them; and although I have
shed many, and found them serviceable, yet on this occasion I could
only compare my eyes to dry springs. Well, I sent her to Caroline’s
room, where I knew she would find comfort. So then my gentleman began
to talk of his _love_ and his _honour_; but I stopped him short, and
in so many words told him, that I would not give him a cast off brass
button for his whole stock of either of these articles. ‘A little
honesty, _Mr._ or Captain Fairly,’ added I, ‘would have pleased me
better. I am a plain, and it may be, in your eyes, an ignorant man. I
see no honour in running away with another man’s child, any more than
with his purse; nor any love in cheating a silly young girl of her
principles of duty to her parents, and reducing her to a life of sorrow
and repentance. However, it is no longer time to think of this: what
is done, is done: she must stand the hazard. The business now is, to
make the _best of what is done_. You knowing my calling and station
in the world, and need not fear on that score: Pray tell me, what is
_your_ calling, Sir: What are your prospects and pursuits? I am told,
you have sold your commission, and spent your father’s estate.’ He
looked confounded, said it was unfortunately true, the indiscretions
of youth had dissipated his means, and bad health had obliged him to
quit his regiment. But he trusted, that at thirty years of age, he
had gained experience, and that he might yet live to obliterate from
the world’s recollection, the follies of a youth of sixteen, committed
to his own direction, with a sword by his side, and a feather in his
hat. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘this is what _I call_ honest. Now tell me, what
is become of your estate: your father left it to you, and I should
like to see it reclaimed, and in your hands, to leave it to a son,
who might be made prudent by your experience: I am not a hard-hearted
man, Mr. Fairly, nor are you the first I have assisted, whose fortune
was out at the elbows. This estate I will redeem, provided you are
content to reside on it, and on condition, that I know your debts
to their full extent.’ He assured me that these were trifling; but
confessed that the estate was mortgaged for nearly its full value.
‘No matter,’ returned I, ‘I will not recede from my purpose: I did
not like your trade at Bath: try whether farming will not employ
you more profitably: be kind to your wife, and I will pass over all
offences.’--He thanked me, and again talked of his honour, saying he
was ready to give me any securities I wished, for my daughter’s future
provision. ‘I want none from you,’ answered I, ‘beyond that love and
faith you have given her before your Maker; for the rest, _I shall be
her security_. My daughter, by her imprudent conduct, has made over
_to me_ the care of providing for her children; and they shall not
be beggars, if I can prevent it. A fine tale indeed would it be, to
put on Jeremiah Serge’s grave-stone, that he trusted the property of
hard-earned industry and the future means of supporting his family, to
a girl of sixteen, who threw herself away!’ My gentleman was angry;
but I again stopped him short: ‘You will do well to remember,’ said I,
‘that I am a man who have made my way in the world by a very simple
rule in arithmetic, two and a nought will never make three in my
reckoning: a laced jacket will never supply the want of a good lining.
Do you take heed to merit my kindness, and leave to me the provision
for my daughter. Your good conduct will make me generous. Till I know
more of you I will be just, and every three months Nora shall have one
hundred pounds to pay your baker’s and butcher’s bills. But I warn you,
not to trust to me for being an easy fool to manage. I repeat it, Mr.
Fairly, I am not an ill-natured man, although a very firm one on some
occasions. Seeing but a very little way before me, I see, perhaps,
pretty clearly, what it is my duty _to do_; and when I see _that_,
nothing can turn me from forming it. If you want a little ready cash,
say so, I will supply you, as I would any man in need; and will forget,
if I can, that my money probably pays for the post horses that carried
my child to Gretna Green.’ So I put into his hand an hundred pound
bank-note, which he took with a lower bow than I could have made for
ten times the sum, to a man I had cheated. Our conference finished, by
my saying that I thought my house a more suitable residence for his
young wife, than either a public one, or private lodgings, till his
own was ready; and offering my hand, I told him that it depended on
himself to find a father under its roof. I thought he looked ashamed,
and his hand trembled so, that brought to my mind more forcibly my
blessed Master’s commands, ‘If thy brother sinneth against thee,
seven, and seventy-times-seven, thou shalt forgive him.’ And, after
all, Sir Murdoch, where is the comfort of an unrelenting temper? This
man may turn out a good husband, and repay my forgiveness of him an
hundred-fold by his kindness to my poor heedless girl. He may, if he
will, make a worthy man, and a good father, and be a comfort to me:
at any rate, I have done my duty, and pleased my blessed Caroline.
She told me this very morning, that she was certain I had secured the
approbation of my own conscience, and the favour of God, by my goodness
to Leonora; and that my conduct had given her a joy which this world
had not the power to lessen. Oh! if you could but see, and hear her!
But she is going where only she can be known and glorified!
“I shall not finish this letter to-day, as I must first see Counsellor
Steadman, who will write to you by this conveyance. You will have from
him the business now before us, and I shall expect your answer to be
speedy.”
October the 12th.
“My friend the Counsellor assures me, that he has so explained my
views and wishes, that you will not be offended, nor be able to
misunderstand my intentions. I shall therefore altogether waive the
subject, and finish my paper with my own cares and troubles; for it
is the only relief I find to disburden my mind of the multitude of
thoughts that oppress me, and I cannot help believing that my gracious
and merciful God, knowing that I should want a friend to support me in
my trials, has opened to me a road in which my ignorance and weakness
would meet with help and kindness.
“Poor Nora has not got up her spirits yet; she looks sadly, and seems
more pained than encouraged by my pity for her. Poor fool! She is like
a young bird, Sir Murdoch, who, in too much haste to try its wing,
has just reached a limed twig in sight of the nest it so heedlessly
quitted; and she now, poor girl, like it, sorrows, and thinks of the
comfort she had with us. My wife says that the Captain is very fond of
her, and if all be gold that glitters, I am to believe that he doats
upon her; but once _bit_ twice _shy_, is the maxim uppermost with me,
when the Captain is concerned. Fine words and scraps of poetry do not
convince me that he loves his wife better than I did mine, in the honey
moon, as it is called; and I am sure my Lydia never shed a tear then,
nor for many and many months after her name was Serge. I told poor
Nora this morning, that it grieved me to see her so dejected, and that
it was time for her to be cheerful, as I had no other intention in my
proceedings, than to show her my unabated affection, and to secure her
comforts. Poor creature! she burst into tears, and said I was killing
her by my kindness! God will, I trust, forgive me, Sir Murdoch, for my
heart smote me at the moment; but I could not help _cursing inwardly_
the rascal who had robbed me of such a child! My dear Caroline is yet
my consolation. She tells me, that Nora will be better soon; and
accounts for her present poor health in a way that cheers me. Fairly
says he loves children; that is a good sign; and I think there cannot
be found a man who does not love his own; so we will hope that he will
settle into a family man and a good husband, and then I may live to
forget my injuries, and to bless his children. God Almighty grant it
may be so! prays fervently your sincere and dejected friend,
“JEREMIAH SERGE.
“P. S. All here desire their kind love. We wish to hear from you,
and to learn that Miss Flint is mending. God bless you, and your
kind-hearted compassionate lady! You are a happy man, Sir Murdoch! You
have indeed a helpmate! Would to God all wives could be called so.”
* * * * *
In order to avoid prolixity, I have suppressed a few of Miss Cowley’s
letters, which were written during the course of a month, as those
contain nothing essentially necessary to the narrative before me;
and are chiefly addressed to Miss Howard, and written in Italian and
French, with a view to making these languages familiar to her. But I am
so much influenced by Miss Cowley’s opinions, that I cannot persuade
myself that I could better oblige my readers, than by recommencing my
allotted work, with the following letters sent to Miss Hardcastle with
her friend’s usual punctuality.
Letter LI.
_From Miss Serge to Miss Cowley._
Putney, Dec. 6.
“You have, my dear madam, been so minutely informed of every occurrence
that has taken place here since our return home, that I have with less
reluctance deferred writing to you than the kindness of your request
of hearing from me would otherwise have justified. I hasten, however,
with satisfaction to avail myself of an hour of comparative ease
and tranquillity of mind, to acquit myself, in part, of the debt of
gratitude so justly your due, and, with my poor, but sincere thanks for
all your goodness, to relieve my thoughts by a further communication of
those disquietudes, which still prevent my being _what I ought to be_.
“It will not surprise you to hear, that in my hours of solitude,
my thoughts recur to Lady Maclairn’s affectionate greetings and
tender solicitudes; to Mrs. Allen’s soothing cares; to Miss Cowley’s
encouraging smiles and animating conversations. These thoughts will
intrude; and I cannot yet treat them as intruders. Yet I have my
father: but _that father_ is a source of my deepest sorrow! I see he is
deceiving himself; that he cherishes the most fallacious of hopes: he
thinks me better, because my pains are less acute. He sees not, that
nature, worn out in the unequal struggle, is passively yielding to the
inevitable, though still suspended stroke; and I have not the courage
to tell him, that his Caroline is every hour hastening to her grave.
A fever which eludes his notice, and profuse nightly perspirations,
to which he is a stranger, must soon be terminated. I am neither
deceived, nor alarmed. I have made an acquaintance with my conqueror,
which has stripped him of his terrors, and I find that aspect which
is so appalling and so hideous when viewed from afar, and through the
medium of this world’s pleasures and gratifications, not unfriendly to
the weary sufferer.
“I have weighed and measured my portion of painful existence, with that
of the sinner, who, like ‘the giant,’ runneth his race to destruction;’
and I am thankful. I have entered again and again into that seat of
judgment, which none but the eye of my Maker can pervade: neither
remorse nor fear assail me. I have been _an heedless_ child; but never
_a hardened one_, with my earthly parent; and how has he loved me! and
can I for a moment tremble at the thought of meeting face to face, my
Heavenly Father, my Almighty Friend, who knoweth that I am but dust
before him; and who has yet upheld me with tenderness and love? No,
my dear Miss Cowley: imperfect as my services have been, manifold as
have been my omissions of duty, I cannot forget that I have for my
salvation a God of infinite mercy and goodness; and in hope I shall
calmly resign up my spirit into his hands. I have been led into these
reflections by the considerations of that gracious providence which
has permitted me to see my dear father somewhat relieved from his late
vexations, and which hath allowed to me the means of being useful to my
sister. All has been done that we can do for her comfort. We must leave
the future to her own conduct, and the principles of the man to whom
she has so unguardedly trusted her happiness. I wish to entertain a
favourable opinion of Mr. Fairly; but I am uncandid, or he is unworthy.
He disgusts me by his attentions and flattery to my poor mother, his
fulsome and ridiculous fondness to his wife before my father. With me
he affects a pragmatical gravity and importance, talks of my wonderful
wisdom, patience, and fortitude, ‘till he convinces me, that I am
peevish and irrascible. Poor Lydia is either overlooked or reproved by
him, with an impertinence which my mother and Leonora ought to check.
The consequence is, that she detests him; and has moped in her own room
till she is unwell. She grieves also, poor thing! for Willet’s removal
from the family. This young woman, whom you will recollect was with
us at the Hall, was a favourite with my mother, and in fact Lydia’s
companion and friend: indeed, we all liked her as a useful well-behaved
young person. Willet, however, took offence on finding at our return
hither, a house-keeper installed in office, by Mrs. Tomkins, at my
father’s and mother’s request, during our absence: she was impertinent,
and not chusing to make concessions, or to accept of the station my
mother chose for her, she quitted her good lady and her dear Miss
Lydia for another service. I have been a gainer by this change in
our administration. Willet was too lively to be useful to me; and we
have gained a prize in the good woman whom Mrs. Tomkins recommended
to us. Mrs. Thornton has so pleased my dear father, that he has in
his fond consideration promoted her to a place of more trust than the
housekeeper’s room--she is now my constant attendant; and her daughter
superintends below stairs with great regularity and diligence.
“My mother has been absent from home nearly a fortnight. She
accompanied Mr. Fairly and Nora to his house, near Chelmsford in Essex;
with the intention of seeing that it was a suitable abode for her
daughter. I was much gratified with my sister’s reply on the occasion.
She said she should be happy with any accommodations in the country.
I suspect poor Nora has in the course of a few short weeks discovered
that she has gained but little by exchanging the yoke of her tender
and generous father, for the chains of wedlock, a regimental suit, and
a handsome man. She is not in spirits. Since her departure she has
written twice to my father: her expressions of gratitude, paid him
for his money, and I believe they were dictated by her feelings. She
mentions the house as being all she wishes, but that her too _fond_
and _anxious_ husband thinks it stands in need of repairs, and that
it cannot be made a suitable residence for her for less than _fifteen
hundred pounds_. The money was instantly advanced; and Leonora, in her
second letter informed us, that Mr. Fairly had consented to live at
the farm till the house was ready for them. There was an appearance of
content and triumph in this letter which delighted me. She spoke of her
plans of furnishing it _neatly_: of her garden; and of the happiness
she hoped to find in a cottage orné.
“Yesterday, instead of my mother, whom we expected, arrived a letter
from her, dated from Reveland Park, the seat of a rich nabob, called
Anthony Dangle, Esq. His house borders on Mr. Fairly’s little estate,
and his lady, recently married, was one of Nora’s school companions.
My poor dear mother writes in raptures of the grandeur and style of
Reveland Park: the table, the society, and the politeness of the young
mistress of the mansion, who at eighteen or nineteen, purchased with
her beauty and accomplishments, the state of an Asiatic princess, and a
husband of forty, already a cripple with the dead palsy. Leonora will
be her guest for some time: in the exultation of my mother’s heart she
hopes they will keep her till her own ‘_little box_’ is ready; for Nora
is adored at the Park. Can you blame me, if my anxious and apprehensive
mind recurs to the story of the Homespun family? Alas! no: you are too
judicious not to see the danger of such connections as these, to _my
mother_.”
“This letter, my dear Miss Cowley, will not amuse you, but it will
make its appeal to your good nature: you will think of the invalid who
has beguiled three or four tedious days of their allotted dullness,
in writing it: you will think you see her raising her languid eyes to
heaven, whilst she breathes out a petition for your happiness; and you
will think with kindness of the grateful and obliged
“CAROLINE SERGE.”
“P. S. I shall say nothing of my _brother_, Malcolm Maclairn. Ah! would
to heaven I had a more legitimate claim to use that title, than even
his kindness has given me. What a difference in Nora’s fate would such
a man have made! It is not possible for me to tell you, how gentle
how humane, his conduct was to us on the road. But he is a good and a
virtuous man; and may the Almighty bless him! My father writes to Sir
Murdoch, or to him, I believe; he desires to have my letter to enclose.
I expect to see my mother in a few days, and Mrs. Tomkins will be with
us to-morrow evening, to pass some time at Putney.”