You know but little more of my family and connexions, my dear Maclairn,
than that I was the only daughter of a reputable attorney, who lived
respected in modest affluence; and who died as he had lived, with an
unblemished character. My mother, whose understanding and virtue would
have done honour to any station in life, died when I was in my ninth
year; and in her last illness she requested my father to place me,
after her decease, in the house of the lady who had instructed her; and
with whom she had continued to live on terms of intimacy and mutual
regard. This lady’s seminary had been gradually establishing itself
in the opinion of the public, from the time that my mother had been
one of its pupils; and it was at this period justly considered as one
of the most respectable boarding-schools in London. Friendship for my
mother, added to the governing principles of this excellent woman’s
mind, produced a tenderness for me, which was necessary in the first
instance of my removal from my indulgent father; but I soon found that
in my good governess I had a friend, and my school insensibly became
my home. During this period of my life, I enjoyed every advantage which
my fond father could supply; and his liberality extended to whatever
was judged suitable for girls of large fortunes. It is necessary to
mention Miss Flint’s arrival, as a boarder, during my long residence
in this house; but as I was two or three years younger than herself, I
had formed my little _coterie_; and as I was not particularly attracted
by her manners, we had no further intercourse, than such as resulted
from being under the same roof. With the partiality of my father and
my governess, I happily enjoyed peculiar marks of affection from my
brother, who was some years my senior; and to him I stood indebted for
my instruction in those branches of female accomplishments, which,
as being very expensive from the attendance of capital masters, my
father might have thought unnecessary for a girl in my station; but
my brother judged of my talents so favourably, that no improvement
could be useless to me. I had just gained my sixteenth year, when
my dear father was suddenly removed, and my happiness interrupted.
My governess kept me as a cherished guest till some days after the
funeral, when she gave up her charge to an affectionate brother.
It may not be improper to mention here an event which soon after
deprived me of this inestimable friend. Easy on the side of fortune,
and breaking in health, she gave up her school to another person,
and retired to the west of England, where she had near relations. My
grief for the loss of my father was for some time countenanced by the
dejection of my brother Philip’s spirits, and I discovered it to be my
duty to restrain my tears before him. I even attempted the office of
consoler, and assumed a cheerfulness with him which was remote from
my feelings. One day I particularly endeavoured to lead him to a more
resigned submission to the will of Heaven. He shook his head, and
in a desponding tone, replied, “that he should not need my friendly
admonition, could he forget his sister, but it was for _his Harriet_
that he grieved.” An explanation followed. My father’s death had been
accelerated by the difficulties which pressed upon him: he had just
escaped being insolvent. Philip had incautiously, or rather with the
honest pride of sparing to himself, and me, a disgrace so humiliating,
administered; and the effects had been inadequate to the demands. He
had consulted-his friends: had met with assistance and encouragement;
and had every hope that diligence and economy would in time extricate
him from his difficulties. In the mean time, I was his blessing; and
if I could submit with cheerfulness to superintend his family for
a season, he should be happy, and look forward to my more eligible
situation. He now mentioned his connections, and the chances which
were in his favour: hinting that my father had at least left him the
integrity attached to his name, and a knowledge in his profession which
none could dispute. I was not intimidated by this confidence, but I
reminded him that my education had qualified me for a teacher: and
that with Mrs. D--’s recommendation I had no doubt of being able to
provide for myself. “We have one and the same interest,” replied he,
“to conceal our affairs from Mrs. D--, and from all the world. Whilst
by my exertions I can keep matters as they now stand, I shall not be
suspected of being a necessitous man. You know not the world you live
in, my dear Harriet: we must keep up appearances, in order to surmount
our difficulties. You are young and beautiful, and in time, may marry
well. Till you can make a better exchange for my protection and love,
than by degrading yourself, my last guinea shall be spent to support
you. Have no fears, I will support my sister’s claims to respect: you
shall never serve for _wages_, till those of love fail.” Penetrated
by this goodness and generosity, it will be no matter of surprise to
you, my dear Maclairn, that I trusted to this brother; and repaid his
kindness by the most assiduous attention to his comforts and interest.
For nearly a year I superintended his family with contentment; for
Philip praised without ceasing his housekeeper, and frequently declared
that he would not change me for the richest wife in the kingdom; for
that I had established his credit by my management. I saw three clerks
constantly employed in the office, my brother’s regular attendance,
and every appearance of business as in my father’s time going on. The
new year’s day, I was told, that he was happy; for he could without
inconvenience augment his dear Harriet’s little allowance for clothes;
that he wished to see me always dressed like Harriet Flamall, and the
gentlewoman; though never like a girl on the look-out for a husband,
or a simpleton ready to take up with any offer. I well understood that
my brother was little disposed to favour what are called love-matches,
at which his wit and ridicule were constantly pointed; but as I was
neither exposed to those temptations, nor in any haste to change my
condition, I received these indications of his prudence with gratitude;
perfectly coinciding with him, that love was not the better for being
houseless and unfed; and as I had no wealthy suitors, though some
danglers, I was perfectly contented with being mistress of my brother’s
house, and seeing it his abode of peace. With youthful spirits and
youthful vanity, I exulted in the regularity which presided at his
table, and my heart was gay, when Philip said, “his Harriet was never
taken by surprise, nor unfit to be seen.” Kindness had given me an
interest with his servants, which were two maids, and a foot-boy; and
when my brother led a friend to his table, they good-naturedly forgot,
that they had shared with their mistress the liver and bacon, or tripe,
in order to sup on more costly viands. My brother’s person and address
were much in his favour, and it was not without some agreement on my
part, that our acquaintance “wondered that the handsome and agreeable
Mr. Flamall did not marry.” Some hints given me by our chamber-maid,
who, as I fancied, thought her master “too sober a gentleman,” led me
to suspect, that my brother had formed some connexion which stood in
the way of a more honourable one; and whilst his regular visits into
the country, in one certain direction, strengthened my suspicions, I
could not help doing him justice for the consideration with which I was
guarded from a knowledge of this supposed irregularity in his conduct;
and sensible that his cautions in regard to mine were scrupulously
exact and proper, I prudently left Philip to judge of the propriety of
his own actions; and with unbounded trust believed, that if he erred,
it was because he was human, and could not be altogether perfect, as
I sometimes fondly thought him; whilst with the utmost solicitude
he recommended to me the improvement of my time, and the prudence
necessary for my security.
Under these happy circumstances of life, did I reach my seventeenth
year, when towards the autumn, I was requested to prepare for the
accommodation of a young man, who was to reside with us. Philip
perceived my surprise. “It was not possible for me to avoid receiving
him under my roof,” added he; “his mother pressed the measure on me,
with so much earnestness from her death-bed, that I had not the
resolution to refuse her request; and standing as I do in the relation
of a guardian to the young man, who has not a single connexion or
friend in the world to whom he can turn, except myself, it is the more
incumbent on me to provide for his safety. He is a modest lad; but at
present a mere green-horn. He has been very ill since he has been in
town, and I should not be surprised, if, with his excessive sorrow for
the loss of his only friend, and the effects of his dreadful fever, he
be plunged into a decline. You will be kind to him, my dear Harriet,”
continued he, “for you will pity him. If we can manage to get him well,
he will become my pupil in the office, for he is poor, and must have
some employment. He is sensible of this, and grateful for the education
and little means which Mrs. Duncan has contrived to leave him.”
A sick, consumptive, friendless youth, oppressed with sorrow for a
mother’s death, was a guest not to be placed in any inferior part of
our house: my bed room was visited by the south sun, and had next to
it, a light dressing closet, appropriated for my books and bureau. I
was healthy; and the attic was equally convenient. The poor, dejected
young man should find a home, and a neat retreat: and the books
might help to divert his thoughts. This resolution was adopted. The
following week, Mr. Charles Duncan made his appearance at our dining
table; and on introducing him to me, Philip congratulated him with
kindness on his improved good looks; whilst I, with emotions of pity,
gazed on the finest youth my eyes ever beheld, blasted by sorrow and
sickness. His deep mourning dress, the sober-sadness and dignity of
his person, his collected demeanour and unstudied ease of manners,
surprised me. From time to time, he spoke; his intelligent eyes
were raised; and as the subject adverted to the recent events, his
countenance marked the keenest sensibility, and the most profound
grief. Without any of that aukward timidity, which I had been led to
expect, he with politeness made his apologies for wishing to retire
to his room, alledging that he had made exertions during the morning,
which had fatigued him. Philip with much civility conducted him to his
apartment. I had risen to receive his compliment on leaving the room,
and felt a secret delight in reflecting, that he would find the one
he sought suitable in those accommodations which he had a just title
to expect under any roof. I still remained standing, lost in thoughts
which perplexed me. The extreme caution of my brother in respect to
me, seemed to have yielded to his zeal for a stranger; and I felt
uneasy that I could not think Mr. Duncan a _lad just new to the world_.
“But he is poor and friendless,” thought I, “and my brother trusts
to those disqualifications for my safety.” A deep sigh followed; for
I discovered, that poverty was no shield to my bosom. My brother’s
returning steps roused me from my reverie, and I sat down to the piano
forte, to prevent my agitation from being noticed, and began to play
a lesson which lay open on the music-desk, in the hope of evading any
further conversation, relative to a guest, who I already discovered
had gained too much of my attention. But Philip immediately reassuming
the subject, and thanking me for giving up my room to the stranger,
asked me what I thought of him. “Poor young man,” replied I, “he
looks consumptive and very melancholy. I should not be surprised if
the air of London was found pernicious to health apparently so weak
and declining.” “He must take his chance on that point,” answered my
brother, “and should your prognostics be verified, I do not know
whether I should regret his death. Under the circumstances of an
illegitimate birth and friendless condition, life can afford but a very
scanty portion for his hopes or enjoyments. It appears,” continued
my brother, “that Duncan, as he is called, is one of those unhappy
beings, who are destined to share the iniquity of their mothers. His
probably has worn the cloak of hypocrisy and concealment so long, that
she has forgotten it was borrowed, or that she was the mother of a
child whom she did not dare to acknowledge. I know that the good woman
who has passed for his mother has left him a few hundred pounds, the
savings from an annuity allowed her for this child’s maintenance from
his cradle.” “But you know also his real mother,” observed I with
eagerness. “Indeed I do not,” answered Philip, “nor does Duncan know
her. I have some reasons for believing she lives in a foreign country;
is a woman of birth and fortune; and probably one of those chaste
dames, who thinks ‘the world can never thrive,’ &c. &c. I am sorry,”
continued my brother, “that I was not sooner known to Mrs. Duncan. I
might have gained more insight into this poor young fellow’s history,
and perhaps his mother might have been induced to continue his annuity.
But it was too late to press the business on a dying woman. She only
declared, that she was not the real mother of Charles, commonly called
Duncan; and requested he might be told so. I trusted to her papers
for further information, but nothing satisfactory has appeared; and
for the present, I think it is better to leave him to his regrets for
the loss of his reputed mother, than to the bitter conviction of his
birth and desertion.” I entirely coincided in Philip’s opinion; and
our conference finished by my admiring his goodness and humanity, and
vehemently reprobating the monster who could give up an infant to save
herself from the reproach and shame she alone merited.
Mr. Duncan’s health, for the space of more than a month, gave an
ostensible colour to my attentions. I had pity, for the motive of an
assiduity which, young as I was, my heart whispered was but the assumed
name for love. My brother trusting, as I concluded, to the effects
of his intelligence relative to his ward’s fortune and disgraceful
birth, for the security of a girl of seventeen, whose good sense and
prudence were proverbial with him, left the interesting invalid to
my unremitting cares, till the bloom of youth was restored, and Mr.
Duncan was deemed in a condition to pass some hours in the office,
in pursuance of his declared intention of studying the law. To what
purpose should I detail the progress of a passion mutually excited
under such circumstances as I have already mentioned? Let it suffice,
that my lover was a stranger to the arts of seduction, and myself too
inexperienced for the documents of worldly prudence, and too innocent
for doubts or cautions.
Amongst the number of expedients we had ingeniously contrived, to elude
my brother’s knowledge of our union, till Mr. Duncan was of age, was
one which appeared practicable and safe: my lover suggested it, and
related to me the interest he had with the good woman under whose roof
his mother had died. It appeared to him a providential interference,
that had conducted them to Mrs. Keith’s humane cares; for such was the
name of the person with whom they lodged. “My dear mother,” added Mr.
Duncan, “was indebted to chance for the recommendation of lodgings
in London, when she was a stranger. At Grantham we took up a lady
apparently of some respectability in the neighbourhood of that town,
for she was in a gentleman’s carriage, when she inquired at the inn the
hour at which the stage coach would reach London. She was a handsome,
pleasant, and well bred woman, and good-humouredly communicative. My
mother, in the course of our journey, expressed some regret on not
having written to her only agent in town, to secure lodgings for her,
observing that she did not much enjoy the thoughts of being forced to
sleep in a common inn. The courteous stranger instantly engaged to
conduct us herself to lodgings which she could recommend, adding, that
her uncle, Counsellor Peachley, had recently quitted his apartments,
for a country residence near town, and that by agreement, or rather
favour, the Keiths had permission to let the rooms in his absence, for
their own emolument. But this indulgence was, it appeared, limited;
and the lady’s good offices were requisite to our success. She kindly
performed her promise, and I believe was farther useful to us in the
distressing scenes which followed. My gratitude on leaving this house
for your brother’s, has, I believe, attached Keith and his wife to me.
He serves the office of clerk in this parish church, and might assist
us effectually. Your brother,” added he smiling, “pays his devoirs
regularly every Sunday in the country. You are tempted by a more
popular preacher, to stray from Mr. G----’s flock, and I suspect that
your servants are not scrupulous in the observance of their sabbath.”
I complied with a project from which I had little to fear, well knowing
that my brother’s example had been contagious in his family. Our banns
were published: Keith officiated as father at the altar, and his wife
as my friend and companion, my appearance not contradicting hers. My
husband demanded a certificate of our marriage, and I returned home
with it in my bosom unsuspected.
With a circumspection rarely preserved in a union, where the sum total
of years did not amount to forty, we eluded for a time all suspicion.
My situation became the signal for terror and anxiety to break into
that contentment of heart, which had succeeded to our marriage.
Duncan in vain urged the necessity of his openly declaring his claims
to protect me. I opposed to his arguments my dependence on my brother,
and his minority, which would for some months prevent his free agency.
I pleaded the expected absence of Philip, who constantly left town
in the summer vacation; and sanguinely brought forwards my project
of preserving our secret by means of Mrs. Keith: thus passed the
early months of my pregnancy. But I was unable to counterfeit health.
My brother was alarmed by my cough; and my friends recommended to
me country air. At this eventful period, _Mrs. Hatchway_ with her
daughter, now Mrs. Serge, paid their annual visit to London. Mr.
Hatchway was master of a ship, and his wife and only child, Miss
Lydia, contented with its accommodations, and fond of an element
with which they were too familiar for fear, every summer made this
little voyage; and stationing themselves in Wapping, enjoyed with
unwearied activity the more remote and fashionable pleasures of the
metropolis. They were our relations; and dining in Red-Lion square
from time to time, during their short stay, had been the customary
offering of good-will, and for which they liberally paid, by supplying
us with turkies and red herrings in the winter. Their remembrances
of this kind had been so abundant, that we on our side had enlarged
our civilities; and Philip had for the two preceding visits, treated
them with a sight of Sadler’s Wells, or the Haymarket. On seeing my
pale and emaciated form, they expressed much compassion; and, with
the _utmost generosity_, they declared I should not be hurried to a
crowd, in order to please them. My brother as warmly insisted that
Miss Hatchway should not be disappointed of her amusement; and this
contest finished by the good-natured mother’s _heroically_ saying,
she preferred remaining with me. During the absence of the party, my
ill-health was the subject of her conversation. Change of air and a
voyage were urged: she was certain that sea air would restore me in a
month. She remembered that her mother, before her marriage, was thought
in a decline; and had been cured by residing a few months at Y----h.
I immediately saw the advantages which might result from my quitting
my brother’s house; but I had my husband to consult. This, however, I
happily effected; for my restless cousin recollected a shop near us,
in which she had purchased some article a few days before, and she
wished for more of it. My cough again befriended me; it was near nine
o’clock, and the evening unpleasant, so she sallied forth alone. My
husband blessed heaven for this promised deliverance; he urged me to
accept of the invitation, and declared that he would remove me from
Y----h to Newcastle, and from thence to Leith: for that I should not
return to my brother’s, till my spirits were more equal to meet his
resentment. At supper, the good captain seconded his lady. “He had
long piloted his women.” The cabin was neat; and I had nothing to fear
in the “Charlotte.” My brother counselled me to try the experiment;
and my voyage was determined on. At the expiration of a few days the
ship sailed. Our navigation was prosperous and delightfully pleasant.
I was in no way incommoded; and the good friends with me, exulted
on seeing me keenly devour sea-biscuit. Freed from the dread of my
brother’s inquisitorial eyes, and amused by the novelty of the scene,
my spirits rose to cheerfulness; and I was led to consider my female
friends with some curiosity and amusement. Mrs. Serge, at present,
so strongly resembles her good mother in her person, that it is only
necessary to observe that when young, she was extremely pretty. Nature
had not been less faithful in the lineaments of their minds. Both
enjoyed an exuberance of health and activity; a constant flow of animal
spirits and good humour; to which was annexed an absence of thought
or attention for the morrow. My observations soon led me, however, to
doubt, whether their sum of positive happiness exceeded that of their
fellow mortals. Their constant restlessness; their insatiable cravings
for vanity and pleasure, might be fairly weighed with the cares of
the ambitious, and the labours of the philosopher; and most assuredly
were as fatiguing as the demands of vanity. A “frolic,” to use Mrs.
Hatchway’s term for a jaunt of pleasure, was the supreme good in her
opinion: it was necessary to her existence; and however qualified,
all was a “_frolic_” which put her spirits in motion. Having been wet
to the skin in an open cart; or slept in a barn on straw, or in a bed
with half a dozen companions, only gave zest to the remembrance of the
“fun” occasioned by any disaster. If the pleasure had smoothly rolled
on in post-chaises, and a good dinner, and a good inn received them,
their joy was complete; “for what was money made for, but to be spent?
Those who _worked_ had a right to _spend_.” No grievance tormented
them, but being stationary; nor did they believe there was a malady
which a dance would not cure. To people of this description I could
only plead the weakness of my bodily strength. We were safely landed
at Y----h, the captain proceeding in his voyage to Sunderland. A neat
habitation announced the opulence of my friends in that class to which
they belonged. The first day was passed in settling ourselves, which
was performed with admirable dispatch and order; for Mrs. Hatchway
observed, that, “after a holiday, idleness was ingratitude.” The
next day was given to their neighbours, who were numerous; but I was
indulged, and in my neat little chamber enjoyed the privilege of
writing to my husband. At supper, my cousin told me, she had engaged
me to see a ship launched. “We shall breakfast,” added she, “with the
captain’s wife, who lives on the quay. As soon as the vessel floats,
we shall go on board, and sail in her down the river. You will see
also the fort and the pier; and in the evening we shall return home in
_carts_; they are the fashion here, and the exercise they give, is
strongly recommended to invalids.” I had seen scores of these vehicles
moving in the street, and instantly imagined that a _wheelbarrow_,
although drawn by a horse, would not suit me. I pleaded fatigue, and
without the smallest ill-humour appearing, I was told, that no welcome
was worth a farthing, if folks were not left to judge for themselves:
“so please yourself, my dear Harriet,” added she, “and you will please
me. I hope to see you, before you leave us, as eager to run after a
fiddle, and as fond of a ride in a cart as this girl, who two years
since was as fond of her own room as yourself; but I soon made her
what you see her, as healthy a girl as any in England; and her aunt
will tell you so, when she comes. I have no notion of patch-work, and
darning muslin, which costs so dearly; Lydia was half killed by being
with my sister. You will take care of yourself, my love,” continued
she; “Sarah will be left with you; and I can trust her.”
She was not mistaken; Sarah was assiduous, and my tranquillity
continued uninterrupted till one o’clock, when she informed me, that
Mrs. Priscilla Hatchway, her master’s sister, was in the parlour,
and wished to see me. “There has been some blunder,” added the girl;
“for she is come to dine with my mistress.” Civility compelled me to
leave my retreat. A neat well-dressed woman of forty and upwards, rose
to salute me, and with much good-nature congratulated me on my safe
arrival. For some time I found my guest an intruder; but she insensibly
engaged my attention, by talking of my mother, and flattered my self
love, by observing, that I was her very picture. I learned that Mrs.
Priscilla had fully expected to meet the family party. “I sent my
sister word, yesterday,” continued she smiling, “of my intention; but
a ship-launch was too serious a business for me to interrupt, and they
well know I am not apt to take offence where none is intended.”
After dinner she proposed to me a walk; to this I had no objection; and
she took the road to the fort. The level and fine turf I trod, with
the prospect in view, beguiled the time: for on the left was the main
ocean, and on the right the river, which, at the fort, forms the bar
and the pier, useful for working the vessels from and into the harbour.
We reached the ferry-boat which led to a village on the opposite side
of the river; and we sat down. “I have had my designs in conducting
you hither,” said she; “that,” pointing to a small neat habitation,
“is my house; and you see how easy the road is which separates us.
Have you any objections to our drinking tea there? I will conduct you
home; and if the vagrants are returned, I will sup with them; for it
is a full moon, and the boatman will wait my call.” I acceded to this
arrangement, and we soon reached the house, but with some surprise
found the parlour filled with Mrs. Hatchway’s friends, and she busily
engaged in assisting the maid, to prepare a regale of fruit and tea.
The good Mrs. Priscilla received with momentary gravity her sister’s
greetings and apology. This amounted, to having forgotten, in her
hurry, to send her notice of her engagement, and intention of calling
upon her in her way home. To this succeeded her pleasure of seeing me.
“Nothing ever was more fortunate! for they expected a cart, and I might
ride home.” The company now claimed our attention. This consisted of
several persons, but the principal care of Mrs. Hatchway was directed
to a lady who had been “uncomfortable” on board the ship, being fearful
of the water. I found she was from the country, and with her husband
had a daughter of Miss Lydia’s age. A survey of Mrs. Priscilla’s
parlour pleased me; it was furnished with good prints, and a handsome
book-case; the windows commanded the sea, and a pretty garden hung
from the elevated ground to the river. I expressed my approbation of
her abode; and in the kindest manner she pressed me to try, what she
called, _country_ as well as _sea_ air. I thanked her, and acknowledged
that I thought her situation delightful. “Then sleep here to-night,”
answered she eagerly, “I will show you my little spare nest.” I looked
at Mrs. Hatchway. “Please yourself, and you will please me,” said she
with her usual good-humour. “Do, my dear Miss Flamall, consent to my
aunt’s proposal,” cried Miss Lydia; “for then I shall see Beecles
races.” This settled the business. The strangers were accommodated
with my room at Mrs. Hatchway’s house, and my trunk was sent, for
greater dispatch, that evening; and before my eyes were open the next
morning, my Y----h friends were on the road to Beecles races. They
called in their way at our door, and said their absence would not be
for more than a _week_. On the maid-servant’s delivering this message
at our comfortable breakfast table, Mrs. Priscilla laughed, and said
that her sister’s _weeks_ were not always regulated by the calendar:
she had known some, that had extended to _six_ of the common reckoning
of time, “and should either a wedding, a christening, or a funeral
intervene,” added she, “you may find this “_frolic_” longer than you
wish, unless you love quiet as well as I do.” You will not be surprised
that I wished for nothing but for letters from my Charles, and the
prolongation of my friend’s pleasures.
Duncan was made easy by my account of myself, and my new situation.
I was happy in his assured love, and we mutually agreed to wait with
patience till he could see me at G--ne. A fortnight had nearly
elapsed; when, in the place of an expected letter from my husband,
one arrived from Mrs. Hatchway. Fortune had been favourable. She was
detained in spite of herself. Lydia was to be bride-maid to her young
friend, and having had a letter from her husband, to inform her that
he was going to Leith, she had indulged her friends in their request.
Even this good news did not cheer me. I had missed receiving my cordial
for two posts. The sympathizing Mrs. Priscilla dispatched a person the
next morning to the Y----h post-office, and endeavoured to divert my
attention till the woman’s return. She brought me a letter: it had my
brother’s writing on the address. I turned pale, I suppose; for she
smiled, observing that I might have another, and still more welcome
letter on the morrow. “It is from my brother,” answered I, still
mournfully holding the fatal scroll in my hand. “Well, and you may
have good news from _your brother_,” replied she, rising. “So I will go
and get you some strawberries, whilst you are busy.”
Merciful heaven! From what unknown cause did it arise that I remained
several minutes with this letter unopened in my hand! I recollected
that I had not answered a former one; and that Philip hated writing
letters. Some unknown terror seized my spirits; and I wept. At length
I was mistress of its contents. “An _unpleasant_,” (yes, that was the
word,) “occurrence had engaged his time, and harassed his mind.” _His
ward, Duncan_, had absconded; a charge of a highway-robbery having
been lodged against him at the Bow-street office. He had been summoned
on the occasion to answer to some questions relative to the young
offender; but he was sorry to say that his evidence in his favour
could not set aside the proofs of his guilt. He had, however, acted
prudently in withdrawing from the threatened prosecution. “I have
done all in my power”, added my brother, “to soften his accuser, but
he is a determined man; and says that he cannot recede, in justice to
the community, nor to himself.” Much followed, in which my brother’s
vexation had for its object his own _reputation_, and the mortification
of having it known that he had had connexions with a highway-robber.
I did not faint on reading this dreadful letter: no: I did not
die, when death would have been a blessing! but grasping it with
convulsive force, my whole frame shivering as in an ague fit, I
remained motionless on my chair, conscious of the overwhelming tide of
misery which was bursting on my head. At last impelled by ideas too
dreadful to be recalled, and too vague to be ascertained, I hurried
down stairs. The kitchen was my passage to the garden, and the fire, I
believe attracted me; for I sat down by it, in a great-chair, which
had its station in the chimney-corner, and bending over the hearth, my
nerves relaxing; the horrid paper fell from my hand, and heedless of
my danger, I gazed on the flame it raised. The maid-servant at this
moment entered, and screaming out, that, “my gown would take fire,”
recalled me to recollection. I started, and with a deep drawn sigh,
said “let me die!” When recalled to life, I found myself in my bed. My
worthy friend was watching me: her looks bespoke distress and pity. “Be
comforted,” said she, “you are safe with me. Be composed, and trust to
my care.” Let it suffice, Harriet Flamall was saved from reproach and
shame, and like thousands of her unhappy sex, was doomed to weep the
loss of her infant, and to be thankful it lived not to partake of its
mother’s disgrace. Mrs. Priscilla Hatchway was, however, informed of
my situation; and she advised me to give her my marriage certificate,
which I had worn in my bosom. She enforced the prudence of my keeping
my marriage a secret, till Mr. Duncan appeared. His letters to me had
prepossessed her in his favour. “She did not believe he was capable
of such an outrage as that of which he was accused.” Every hour
she repeated that it was impossible; and that it required with her
more than presumptive proof to condemn any man, much more one whose
sentiments were noble and pure.
I am prolix, my dear Maclairn: I will endeavour to be less so.
Encouraged to hope, soothed to patience by this excellent woman, and,
above all, led to think with her, that I should hear tidings of my
husband from Mrs. Keith, I combated so effectually with my griefs, as
to be able to suppress their appearance; and having seen my friends
return to meet Captain Hatchway, I preferred, for several reasons,
the conveyance of his cabin to any other. We had a tedious passage,
which was highly beneficial to me; for on reaching my home, I was
congratulated on my _good looks_. My brother was on an excursion; and I
profited from his absence.
I went to Mrs. Keith’s house. It was shut up; and “_to be lett_.” Ready
to sink, I entered the opposite shop, and made my inquiries. “Keith
had been taken up on suspicion of forgery. No one could tell what was
become of his wife. Their goods had been seized by the proprietor of
the house, which was very hard, as the Counsellor who lived in the
apartments in the winter months, had bought every thing for his own
use; and had generously permitted them to let the rooms for their
benefit six months in the year.” Some comments were added to this
account: “Mrs. Keith was pitied, and the shopkeeper finished by saying
that it was a pity her husband had so long escaped justice, for he had
been the ruin of many.” A customer entered, and I quitted the shop with
aggravated distress; for I could not avoid associating the guilt of
Keith with my husband’s fate.
Two days having passed under these impressions, had reduced my
strength, and diminished my “good looks.” My brother was shocked at
my appearance, and listening only to my friends, he removed me to
Kensington Gravel Pits, with a solicitude that wounded my feelings.
More than once my secret was on my lips, but my resolution failed: I
had no opportunity for disclosing the painful cause of my sufferings,
and I hoped to die without wringing Philip’s heart. My youth, in the
mean time, resisted the attacks of sorrow: I recovered gradually; and
sensible of the extraordinary expences which my brother had incurred
in consequence of my illness, I urged him to give up the lodgings.
He insisted on keeping them another month, adding, that the air was
evidently salutary to me. I now heard Duncan named for the first time.
My brother received a visit from an acquaintance, and pleading my
inability to admit the visitor into the little parlour, they sat down
on a garden-seat under the window, the sash of which was up, and I
was screened by the blind. “Have you heard from that fool, Duncan?”
asked the guest. My brother answered in the negative. “He was soon
frightened, by what I can understand of his unlucky business,” rejoined
the stranger. “The fellow who appeared against him is too well known to
be able to hurt any man. Every one believes Duncan perfectly innocent.”
“I wish I were one of that number,” replied my brother; “but his going
off, and never writing since, looks suspicious. We traced him to
Harwich, and I have no doubt of his having crossed the sea. He cannot
be insensible to the anxiety I must suffer on this occasion. I cannot
pardon his ingratitude, for he was treated like a brother under my
roof. However, when he can draw for his little fund, I shall see his
name I do not doubt: in a few weeks more I shall hear that he has not
forgotten the little money which he may without peril claim from me.”
The conversation then turned on the visitor’s business, whom my brother
attended a part of his way to town. I was forcibly struck by what I
had heard. Duncan’s cruel desertion of me; his apparent ingratitude
to my brother; the society he had mixed in; his suspected crime, and
neglect of writing, seized upon my heart. I resolved to conceal from my
brother my connection with a reputed robber, and a man who had without
pity left me to suffer the penalty of my weakness and credulity. My
brother’s peace was to be preserved; and I was firm to my purpose.
Again I remonstrated on the expence of the lodgings. “Say not a word
on that subject, my dear Harriet, I intreat you,” answered Philip. “In
preserving you, I am preserving my own comforts. I would spend my last
shilling to see you well and _happy_; but till you have more confidence
in my affection, I must despair.” “What is it you mean?” asked I in
trembling doubt. “Not to alarm, not to distress you,” replied he with
solemnity. “Are you really well enough to return home? Are you equal
to the exertions which your return to society will demand? Can you be
cheerful, and prepared for every accident? Answer these questions. I
mean not to reproach; but _to heal_. I will not,” continued he, taking
my cold hand, “leave you in suspense. I am no stranger to your fatal
engagements with an unprincipled man. Nothing of this indiscretion
can be recalled; but in a discovery of _your marriage_ is involved
_my ruin_ as well as your own. When you are more composed, I will be
more explicit; in the mean time rely on my prudence and love. Weak
and errring as your conduct has been, I will yet trust to your reason
and principles. Let these resolve the question. Are your peace and
happiness, my success and reputation in life, to be sacrificed to a
romantic attachment to a _villain_, whose name is already a reproach to
us, merely because we sheltered him?” He quitted me much agitated, and
unable to witness my agony.
My brother’s lenity was not lost upon me. Grateful for his forbearance,
touched by his arguments, I assiduously endeavoured to appear what
he wished. My occupations were renewed; and my serenity was such,
as imposed on my acquaintance. The poor and wretched wanderer was
regarded, as one whom it was my duty never to name, never to believe
otherwise than guilty of the crime laid to his charge, nor ever to
be acquitted of having abandoned me. Sometimes I recalled to memory
his conversations relative to his early life, and the suspicions he
entertained of his not being Mrs. Duncan’s son. Among the reasons he
assigned for this opinion, was her anxiety to see him _accomplished_,
as well as solidly instructed; her never proposing any plans for his
future provision, and the silence she preserved in respect to his
resources, and her own. I once mentioned to Mr. Duncan my brother’s
account of Mrs. Duncan’s declaration. He was apparently agitated; and
I regretted my too fond loquacity; whilst he endeavoured to console
me for my indiscretion. In the variety of my painful reflections, I
sometimes conjectured that Mr. Duncan had discovered his parents; and
finding his rank and expectations incompatible with his engagements
with me, had withdrawn from the kingdom: that he had even concerted
the story which had been circulated; and trusting to a splendid name
and fortune for favour with the world, had left the name of Duncan
to reproach and infamy; and his wretched wife to sink into the grave.
These ideas prevailed for a season; and were then discarded with
disdain, as unworthy of him and myself. Tenderness, trust, and his fond
and unambitious heart had their turns. Thus fluctuating, I determined
to speak to my brother; he had said, that he would be more _explicit_
with me, when I was in a state to be treated with entire confidence;
and I reminded him of his promise, adding at the same time that I found
the doubts which distracted my mind unfriendly to every purpose of my
reason, and too much for my religious faith; I could not be resigned,
till I was convinced that I should see my husband no more.
“I have expected the application,” answered he, with calmness, “and
I am prepared for it. It is not amiss that you should be informed of
all that is known of this unhappy man. Notwithstanding our friends
carefully avoid a subject, which they well know has given me more
vexation than any occurrence of my life, something may accidentally
drop which will affect you. I have seen that my Harriet has fortitude,
and when you are acquainted with the circumstances which have convinced
me of this wretched man’s guilt, you will the more steadily pursue
that line of conduct which becomes you. I will leave you a few minutes
to yourself,” added he, unlocking his scrutoire, and taking from it
a letter, which he gave me. “Only promise me, that you will not lose
sight of your Philip, in your sorrow for a worthless husband.” He
pressed my hand to his bosom, and left the room. The letter before
me was addressed to Mr. Flamall, in the well-known characters of my
husband. I was still weeping over it, when Philip returned, and without
speaking, placed himself opposite to me with visible anxiety. The
contents of the letter were as follow.