_To Malcolm Maclairn, from Mr. Serge._
“My dear young Friend,”
“Having received from your good father more compliments than I asked,
and less information than I wanted, relative to the plans in which you
were engaged with Mr. Wilson, when I was at Tarefield, I have taken my
measures in my own way, and with better success; for Wilson and I have
managed the business without compliments or demurs; and you are fairly
_lurched_, if you be a young man too proud to accept of a kindness from
a true friend. Hoping you will see the drift of my meaning, I send you
a draft on my banker for a thousand pounds: it is placed in your name,
and herewith you have his acknowledgment. Get married and settle at
once: have no fears: I will take care of my farm and my farmer. Let
your nest be well lined: I send the bill for that intent; meaning to
take care myself of all without doors. Your answer to this will either
break the thread of our love, or join it till death; for it will either
show me, that you do not know Jeremiah Serge, or that he does not know
Malcolm Maclairn. However, guessing where the “shoe will pinch,” I
will say that when I want my money again I will ask you to pay it. And
in the mean time receive a good interest for it in your good will and
kindness. So may God prosper you, and my money thus employed!
“I am your loving friend,
“JEREMIAH SERGE.”
[_Miss Cowley’s pen is employed in what follows._]
I was with Lady Maclairn when her son read her this letter. I cannot
describe to you the various changes of her countenance, whilst he was
so doing. Her lips trembled, and with difficulty she asked him whether
Sir Murdoch would be satisfied to see his son established in life by
Mr. Serge. Malcolm answered that his father left him to act as his
own judgment directed: that he had convinced him of the probability
of being able to repay his generous friend, and that it was in fact
a good speculation for Mr. Serge. “But,” added he, “I am not governed
altogether by this consideration in my purpose of accepting Mr. Serge’s
kindness. I am not too proud to receive favours; nor so mean as to
court them. The voluntary offering of an honest and generous heart
shall be received with a frank and honest gratitude, and I may live, my
dear mother, _to give_, as well as _to receive_ benefits. At any rate
I am not worthless, and my benefactor will not have to blush for his
predilection in my favour; for I shall never forget his kindness. And
the prospect! my dear Miss Cowley,” added he, seizing my hand as if it
had been Alice’s, “is it not too alluring for romantic scruples, and
a fastidious pride to combat.” I smiled; and he now eagerly ran over
the advantages which would ultimately accrue from the Wereland Farm:
expatiated on the happiness before him; and in the most unqualified
manner adverting to Miss Flint’s dissolution as a contingency that
would not break his heart, he drew a picture of domestic peace and
comfort, to which his affection gave the most glowing colours. “We
shall then taste the blessings of union and love undisturbed,” said
he. “My Alice will reverence and serve my mother; and we shall see her
smile, and bless our infants.” The poor mother answered only with her
tears. “Why do you weep?” asked he, with tenderness. “It is because I
fear, my dear Malcolm,” replied she, “that this cup of joy will never
reach my lips.” “It is I that ought to have this doubt to check my
present contentment,” answered he seriously, “whilst I see my mother
wasting her health and spirits on----.” She prevented his finishing;
and with a gentle smile asked him, whether he had seen Mr. Wilson.
He replied in the negative, adding that he was then going. “Do not
forget to tell your friends,” said she, “that Lady Maclairn means to
write to Mr. Serge, and to thank him for having rendering her son
happy.” Malcolm kissed her glowing cheek, and withdrew. “Poor fellow!”
said she, the instant the door closed, “how little does he know that
nothing on this side of the grave can make _his mother happy_! I see
your surprise, my dear Miss Cowley,” added she, weeping, “you are
not prepared for the frankness with which I now confess that there
has been _for years_ a canker worm in this bosom, which has not only
destroyed my peace, but which has also tainted my _very face_ by its
baleful influence. You are yet a stranger to the woman before you;
notwithstanding that penetration which has shown you that she is not
what she _wishes to appear_. I have perceived your suspicions; and in
a thousand instances, have marked your but too accurate conclusions.
I have had lately to struggle, not only with my secret sorrows, but
with the acute sense of being suspected _as a deceitful woman_ by
that being to whom I stand indebted for the only comfort of my life:
by my husband’s friend and consoler! Yet, Miss Cowley, my soul is
yearning to convince you that it is honest and sincere. I must explain
to you the causes which have imposed upon me a conduct of duplicity
and deceit. I want a friend, Miss Cowley: yes, I want a friend, in
whose faithful bosom I may with safety place a secret that oppresses
my own, and which must destroy me. I have for some time resolved
to take this step. You will, I think, be disposed to grant me your
compassion, if the narrative I mean to place before you should exclude
me from your friendship and esteem.” She spoke with so much energy and
feeling, that I was confounded, and remained silent. “I distress your
generous mind,” continued she, “but recollect your conduct; recall
the numberless instances in which your candour and goodness have been
exerted to spare the too conscious dissembler. I will only say a few
words more: justice to myself demands them! Had not your firm refusal
of Philip Flint rendered my purpose needless, you would have known
his mother before you had been a week under this roof. I will not say
what were my feelings when I found that this trial of my strength was
spared me! You once invited me to call you _my daughter_,” added she,
renewing her tears. “Good God! could you at that moment have seen my
heart! Could you but have conceived what then passed through my very
soul! You were the child of my husband’s fond and grateful love! You
had saved him! But I was unworthy of you!” I am not made for moments of
this kind, Lucy. I could not speak: but hiding my face in her extended
arms, I sobbed forth my feelings.
_In continuation._--Lady Maclairn has this moment left me. I was shut
up all yesterday in my apartment with a cold in my head, which you
will place to the real cause. Sir Murdoch and Mrs. Allen made some
remonstrances on my insisting that they should keep their engagements
to dine at the Abbey. And you will judge that my time was fully engaged
by the manuscripts I now send you.
Lady Maclairn took her tea with me, and with composure and dignity
of manner, she said, “I see, my dear Miss Cowley, that I have taxed
your sensibility severely. You are now acquainted with the unfortunate
Harriet Flamall, and are now qualified to judge of her hopes and
pretensions to your kindness.” ‘You are an angel,’ exclaimed I, with
honest fervour. ‘Patience and suffering have made you one, even before
your time.’ She mournfully shook her head. “I gratefully welcome the
sentiment which has urged the misapplied epithet,” said she. “I accept
with joy and comfort the friendship which dictated it. _I know Miss
Hardcastle._ Do you, my dear Miss Cowley, prepare her for her knowledge
of _me_. Tell her, that you have received me as a guest worthy of your
pure bosom. Send her the manuscripts, and ask her whether two hearts
will not be needful to shelter mine from the oppression under which
it groans. The dread of having those papers in my possession,” added
she, “has frequently tempted me to destroy them. Yet I wish to leave
some memorial behind me, to witness that my soul abhorred deceit, and
that even under the cruel yoke of it, my principles were firmly those
which rectitude teaches. The peace and honour of my husband and son
were of too much consequence to be hazarded by my impatience under
the dependence to which my own weakness had reduced me. Miss Flint’s
caprices and temper have been to me _petty evils_; and my conformity
to her will has been amply recompensed by the reflection that I have
served as a barrier, although a weak one, to passions that would have
betrayed her more to censure and reproach. She wanted not my brother’s
arguments to mislead her, but she was a stranger to his artifices.
And to whom but myself was it owing that she knew the betrayer of her
integrity and honour? Can you any longer be surprised that I have
yielded up to motives so powerful, that independence, which under every
privation of fortune I should have called _blessedness_ to the life I
have passed under this roof. Oh, you know not, Miss Cowley,” added she,
weeping bitterly, “what I have endured! But what was I, if not useful
in contributing to Sir Murdoch Maclairn’s comfort and happiness! I
had deceived him, and imposition was my _hard_ duty. How often have I
wished that my _death_ could have been as beneficial to him, as a life
miserable, though devoted to his service!”
You will love and reverence this woman, Lucy. I am certain you will.
Sedley will give you this packet. You will understand my caution. I
have written to Mary in French, expressly to prevent her inquiries. Let
me know that the manuscript is safe in your hands, and that you concur
with your perhaps too impetuous,