_From Charles Duncan to Mr. Flamall._
“Sir,
“You will see me no more. My mysterious conduct will be soon fatally
explained to you. Let it suffice here, that I avow myself the husband
of your sister, and that the purpose of my soul was to have seen, once
more, my beloved, ruined wife. But I was not equal to the task of
telling her, that she must forget _Charles Duncan_. Let her not curse
him, gracious heaven! although he is culpable, _even guilty_! Lost
to honour and to happiness, still will he pray for her, and die her
faithful, though wretched
“DUNCAN.”
“P. S. The twenty guineas you advanced for my journey have been the
means of preserving my miserable existence. You shall hear from me
again when I am more collected, and in a situation less critical. I
implore from you a regard and tenderness for your sister. May the
Almighty fill your heart with compassion for her!”
* * * * *
Philip suffered my agony to be relieved by a flood of tears, without
interruption, but not without sympathy. He was visibly moved by my
condition. At length, taking my hand, he said; “I do not know, my dear
Harriet, whether I am acting right by thus indulging your wishes at
the hazard of distressing you; but if I could hope this painful remedy
might, in the end, prove efficacious, by convincing your understanding
and your principles of the folly, as well as the sin, of ruining your
health by regrets which you ought not to indulge for so worthless an
object, I would willingly satisfy your curiosity by detailing every
circumstance of this unhappy affair: being persuaded that you will no
longer judge me too severe in my opinion of this young man, nor scruple
to think yourself bound to believe that he ought no longer to engage
your thoughts, or to have a place in your heart.” “Proceed,” said I,
“let me be convinced that there is not on earth a hope for me!” “This
language is that of a girl,” replied he gravely, “my sister will be
taught by experience to think it so, and the time, I trust, is not
remote, when she will bless heaven for the desertion of a man whom she
now deplores, and she will consider his _flight_ as a blessing, when
contrasted with all the consequences which would and must have followed
his remaining in this country.”
“Long before your excursion to Y----h,” continued my brother, “I
suspected Duncan’s conduct, and also somewhat of your unhappy
partiality in his favour. I consequently observed _him_ more narrowly,
not _you_, my Harriet; for I, with all your friends, believed you
too circumspect and prudent, to be in danger from a a young man in
Charles’s situation of life, however your fancy might have been allured
to like his person. I was not satisfied with his pursuits, nor his
connections; and, above all, with his reserve in respect to these.
I was told that he gambled; and that, not with the inconsideration
of heedless youth, but with the cool intrepidity of a veteran at the
gaming-table; but I could never discover his haunts. More than once
I saw his purse more amply furnished with gold than I could account
for, yet my intelligencer had remarked that he had been of late an
unsuccessful player, and I began to believe from his change of conduct
about this period, that he had, like most unguarded young men, been
drawn in to play by a little good fortune, and then dismissed to his
sad experience for want of more money to lose. He was out of spirits,
rarely from home, and diligent in the office. I resolved, therefore,
to leave him to his own reflections, and the good fruits of repentance
for the errors into which he had been betrayed. Soon after you left
town, I happened to be with him in the clerks’ office when a person
called upon me for the payment of a small bill. A deficiency of silver
led me to ask him to lend me a few shillings; he did so; and again I
was surprised at seeing many guineas in his possession. The man had no
sooner quitted us, than I observed to him, that finding his purse so
well lined, I should not reproach myself for want of punctuality in the
payment of his quarterly supply, nor wonder at his not having reminded
me that it had been due a fortnight.” He coloured; and I added, “One
would think Duncan, you had either stumbled on a concealed treasure,
or found one in your concealed parents.” “I am not a spendthrift,”
replied he haughtily, “and I know I have at least one parent who
will never abandon me, and whose resources are infinite.” We were
interrupted. Two or three days passed: I was reserved, and he sulky;
when he surprised me, by asking my permission to be absent for a week
or ten days. I hesitated. “Am I not to be informed whither, and with
whom you are going?” asked I coldly. He replied, that he was going to
Harwich, where he hoped to hear of those to whom in future he should be
responsible for his actions: that, in the mean time, he should receive
as a favour and indulgence from me, the permission he had requested. My
clerk, Simons, good-naturedly remarked, that Charles had fagged hard
during the absence of the other clerk, and he had a right to a jaunt:
it would do him service; for he did not look well. Impressed by an
idea, that he had heard something of his relations, I gave my consent
to an absence of ten days; and at the same time paid him his quarter’s
arrears of twenty pounds. He promised to write to me from Harwich;
and I left the office to join my friends who had engaged me in a party
to Windsor. Two days elapsed before I returned home. I was prepared to
find Charles absent: and, whilst at the dining-table, I asked casually,
at what time Mr. Duncan had set out on his journey. The servant
replied, that he had left the house the same evening with myself. Mr.
Simons had supped with him at the inn, and had seen him mount his horse
before he left him. “I hope he did not see him tipsy too,” answered
I, smiling; “but by the hour, I should fear that neither the one nor
the other was fit for a journey, either on foot or on horseback.” The
servant said, that Mr. Duncan did not wait for the morning, it being
his intention to ride a stage by moon light. “And how did he manage for
his clothes?” asked I. “His trunk was sent by the coach on Monday,”
replied the lad. “There was something in this account which I did not
like; particularly his removing his things, before he knew I should
consent to his leaving the house. I expressed my surprise to Simons,
who said he was in that plot, for he well knew that I should not be
able to refuse the poor fellow, and he had set his heart upon going on
horseback; so I advised him,” continued he, “to send his portmanteau
by the stage at all hazards, and when he had your leave, I carried him
to a livery stable to look at a horse which I thought would suit him.
It was a fine animal; and the youngster was so well pleased with him,
that he hired him of my friend for the journey; and, young man like,
said, he would ride him to Rumford before he slept: so we adjourned
to a chop-house, where I supped with him, and at ten o’clock I saw
him off; although the moon cheated him, for it was raining hard, and
I thought he was a fool to seek a wet coat instead of a good bed.” I
had perceived in Simons something of that cunning, or to speak more
plainly, knavery, which for many months had rendered me uneasy. He was
a useful man, however, in the office, and I still employed him. I now
thought there appeared a secret intelligence between him and Duncan; I
dissembled, notwithstanding, and dropping the subject, applied to the
business before me. A man shortly after brought a letter to Simons. It
was from Duncan, and the purport of it was, I found, to inform him,
that finding the horse unfit for the journey, he had sent him back,
requesting him to settle the business with his friend, and to tell him
that he had narrowly escaped a broken leg by trusting to his judgment.
Simons swore, according to custom, and followed the messenger. I was
told that he had paid for the horse’s journey to Rumford, and that
Duncan would remember travelling in the dark for some time, having
been thrown from a horse too good for him. Judge of my astonishment
on receiving a summons on the following morning to appear before the
sitting justices. I found it was to be examined relatively to my
_clerk, Charles Duncan_, and to meet a person in the office, who had
positively sworn to his having been stopped on the Rumford road by
Charles Duncan, and robbed of his watch and purse.
I listened with horror to the reading of this gentleman’s deposition.
It was clear and positive in every point that ascertained the
criminality of the action, and the identity of the horse which Duncan
rode. A crape concealed Duncan’s face, and the accuser observed that he
appeared to be a “young adventurer.” Some appearance of lenity in the
manners of the gentleman, who was a man in years, induced me to relate
as much of Duncan’s story as had come to my knowledge; but I pleaded
in vain: a warrant was issued for apprehending him. You may judge, my
dear Harriet, of the state of my mind when, on returning home, instead
of finding Simons in the office, to whom I was anxious to give the
particulars I have related to you, I found a letter from him on his
desk, addressed to myself. It was couched in an insolent style. “He had
not time to settle accounts with me, but thought his long and faithful
services entitled to the consideration of using, for a very special
and pressing occasion, the trifle of cash he had in his hands on my
account.” This was about five-and-twenty pounds. He warns me to try my
influence with Duncan’s prosecutor, as matters carried to extremity
against my sister’s husband, would not tend to my credit. “Shall I
proceed?” added Philip with emotion; “need I describe my sensations!
Your marriage, and the wretches with whom you had confederated to blast
my happiness and reputation, for a time overcame me. But my sister
soon resumed her wonted power in my soul. Providence appears to have
seconded my fond hope of rescuing you from the snares that encompassed
you. Your youth and credulity here found a compassionating friend,
infinitely more able than myself to befriend you. We may rest in the
full conviction of never being molested by Duncan or Simons. Keith has
finished his career in a gaol, to which a suspicion of aiding in a
forgery conducted him. His death was occasioned by a wound in his head,
in consequence of his attempt to escape justice, and his wretched wife
is at this time a nurse at the Lock-Hospital, for which post she is
qualified.
“Such are the people, and such the lover to whom you gave up your fame
and prospects in the world! Be grateful to heaven, my dear girl, for a
deliverance from such connections so little to be expected, and give me
the only recompense I ask for the hours of anxiety you have caused me.
Let me see you under my roof, and with my name sustain the character
which becomes Harriet Flamall, and promise me never to acknowledge your
worthless husband.”
Oppressed by my brother’s kindness, and confounded by his relation of
_facts_, as I conceived, in which Duncan was so dreadfully implicated,
I eagerly engaged to preserve, for his sake, the fatal secret of my
marriage, and to live for his comfort and service. He was satisfied,
and left me to compose my spirits.
From this time it seemed to be tacitly agreed between us, not to name
Charles Duncan, and I exerted my spirits now to a cheerfulness, which,
although assumed, contented my brother; but, alas! what had I gained!
The art of concealment, and the secret of hoarding up my sorrows for
my private hours! My faded form was still attractive, and my brother
one day complimented me on having, by “_sweet pensiveness and winning
modesty_,” captivated a lover worth my notice, mentioning at the same
time the gentleman’s large fortune, independence, and hopes of gaining
my favour. I with firmness assured my brother, that, in relinquishing
the name and character of a married woman, it was my intention to
have ever before me the vows I had plighted in the face of my Maker,
and that as Mr. Duncan’s wife I would live and die. He endeavoured to
reason me out of this “scrupulous folly,” as he called it. “Urge me
not,” replied I, bursting into tears, “lest I offend you by saying
more. I would forego pomp and riches, this world’s favour, and the
accommodations necessary to my existence, for the chance of seeing him
what he once was. I would traverse the globe with him; I would share
in his misery, and partake in his toils without a murmur, could I find
him. With these sentiments to support me in my duty, I shall at once
say to any man who importunes me with offers of marriage, that I am
_Charles Duncan’s wife_.” My brother was displeased. He called me an
“infatuated woman, a romantic fool,” with other epithets, which I shall
omit. I did not resent this harshness, and a year passed without the
subject of a lover being named, or any appearing to put my constancy
to the test. At this period I was surprised by seeing Philip enter the
little closet in which I usually passed my vacant time. My Charles
had augmented its attractions by decorating it with his drawings,
and enlarging the number of the books. I instantly perceived that my
brother had an impressive manner. He sat down beside me, tenderly chid
me for my preference of this closet, and added, that he was afraid I
should want fortitude to meet the intelligence he came to communicate
in a spot so devoted to the purpose of nourishing unavailing grief. I
trembled, and would have spoke--But----