Thus passed the first transient cloud which had depressed the gaiety of
Miss Cowley’s temper; and, delighted by the contents of her father’s
letter, the glow of gratitude gave him an interest in her bosom which
she had never before felt, and supplied her with a never-failing motive
for proving herself worthy of such a father. In the following winter all
was gloom and sadness at Heathcot. Mrs. Hardcastle was at first, to use
her own encouraging words, “only slightly indisposed with a cold;” but
the malady was of that sort which, whilst it represses hope,
fallaciously invites it; and the calm and patient invalid, unwilling to
break down its deceitful promises, aided the deceiver by her endearing
smiles and uniform serenity, till her strength was subdued, and medicine
was found useless. Month had thus succeeded to month: during this period
Mrs. Hardcastle contemplated, with a foresight of that recompense she
was shortly to reach, the fruits of welldoing, by witnessing the conduct
of a child who had for so many years shared her maternal cares, and had
been so peculiarly an object of her solicitude and vigilance. She beheld
the restless, and volatile girl, stationed in the sick room, sedate,
tender, and assiduous; prompt in every soothing, kind office; dexterous
in every expedient to relieve and alleviate; patient of all opposition,
and unwearied in watching by her side. She saw her character rising into
magnanimity as the danger augmented; supporting by her fortitude the
sinking spirits of Lucy, and cheering the despondency of Mr. Hardcastle
by arguments drawn from a faith in which she herself trusted for
support. She saw the pang of anguish checked by a smile of tender
sympathy; and with the greetings of love and assumed cheerfulness, she
saw the cheek of her beloved pupil pale with fatigue and grief. Horace
could not be kept from a scene of this kind; he had been summoned home
some weeks before his mother’s case was judged hopeless; and Mrs.
Hardcastle, either too much occupied with different thoughts, or too
happy in the presence of her son to attend to those cautions which had
banished him from his home, saw, without shewing any inquietude, that
time had not weakened the affection of her children. Miss Cowley seemed
rather to invite her animadversions on her conduct, as this related to
Horace; and one day she even ventured to observe to the contented
mother, who had been gratified by some tender office in which Horace had
assisted, “that _she at least_ could not be surprised by seeing that
Horace Hardcastle was still Rachel Cowley’s _favourite_.” The smile with
which this observation was received had in it nothing for
discouragement; and Mrs. Hardcastle added, “that she hoped he would
always be the favourite with the wise and virtuous.”
A few days before she expired, she found, on awaking from a lethargic
slumber, Miss Cowley and Horace watching at her bedside. “You have been
sleeping, my dear mother,” said Horace, “and we have insisted on Lucy
and Mrs. Allen’s going into the garden for a little air.” Miss Cowley
during this time was prepared with a cordial for the patient; and she,
raising herself, was supported by her son. She took the offered medicine
in her feeble hands, and fixing her eyes on Miss Cowley, said something,
but so low, that neither of the interested witnesses of this scene could
understand it. “Oh, it was her blessing,” cried the agonized Horace,
“her _last_ blessing on”——“_my children_,” said the subdued mother,
sinking on her pillow, and convulsively holding their hands in her own.
Horace, unable to maintain any longer his self-command, hastily left the
room, and Miss Cowley silently gave herself up to tears. The exhausted
invalid again dosed; and she breathed her last sigh, without further
confirming the ardent wishes of those to whom her concurrence would have
been a sanction for that affection which both believed she wished not to
oppose, and which both as fondly hoped would have rendered her happy.
Mrs. Hardcastle’s death appeared for a time to have overwhelmed the
family with all the force of a sudden and unexpected blow; every one
wanted consolation, but none was found who could administer it. Mr.
Hardcastle was the first who was capable of exertions; he recollected
Lucy, and the feelings of the husband awakened those of the father.
Religion sheds its balm on its true votaries: domestic comfort
succeeded; and Mr. Hardcastle in contemplating the child before him,
blessed Heaven for the solace it gave to his sorrow.
Lucy was not long without discovering, that her brother had found a
sweet consolation in Miss Cowley’s sympathy and society; and she began
to wonder, that her father should have so apparently overlooked what had
so recently called forth her observation, namely, that Horace, near
twenty years old, was a more dangerous guest than when short of fifteen.
Perfectly acquainted with the motives which had led her father to submit
to his absence, she took an opportunity of remarking to her friend, that
Horace’s unguarded behaviour would soon banish him again from Heathcot;
and that she was surprised he had been permitted to stay so long, which
she solely attributed to his father’s state of mind, and his being so
much alone. “If you had been as observant of my conduct as of your
brother’s,” replied Miss Cowley with seriousness, “you would have
perceived what you call the same indiscretion on my part: for the truth
is, we wish not to conceal an affection on which our happiness depends.
Horace knows that I love him, and I know he loves me, and whether at
Heathcot or in the deserts of Arabia, we shall live for each other. I am
too young, you will say,” continued she with increased seriousness of
manner, “to decide thus positively on a business of such importance to
my future happiness. But I answer, that I am not a romantic girl. I will
stand the test of time with cheerfulness; for either I have no title to
the name of a natural being, or I am qualified to judge of Horace’s
title to my esteem and regard. I shall place before my father, as soon
as we meet, the _solid_ grounds I have for my preference of your
brother: I will leave to his judgment and liberality of mind to
determine the time when I may be supposed to know my own heart, and to
consider whether Mr. Hardcastle’s son will be any disgrace to Mr. Cowley
or his supposed wealth. But I have no apprehensions on this point. My
father is a generous minded man. He married for happiness himself, and
he would revolt at the idea of sacrificing his daughter at the shrine of
avarice or ambition. No, no, Lucy,” added she with animation, “in
attaching my affections to an honest and worthy man, I have not sinned
against that authority which my father claims; and to give me to a
Hardcastle for life will be the consummation of that parental love which
consigned me into the hands of your excellent mother. He will soon be
here; he will appeal to your father’s understanding and tried
friendship; Mr. Hardcastle will discard his scruples, and sanction, with
his consent, my right to the name I revere.” “We shall be sisters,”
continued she, fondly kissing Lucy’s cheek. “One bond of love will unite
us for life. I have no fears.”
Miss Hardcastle, fully convinced that nothing could be gained in favour
of prudence and circumspection during the influence of hopes so sanguine
in favour of love, suffered her friend’s earnestness to abate, without
opposing her fond belief by producing those difficulties which she
foresaw would arise to baffle her intentions and to disturb her
brother’s happiness. She soon quitted the room, in order to consider
those steps necessary to its security, and the conduct she had to
pursue. But Lucy Hardcastle had been taught to consider a positive duty
as liable to no appeal from inclination. She knew, that, in order to
prevent Miss Cowley’s growing attachment to her brother, her parents had
yielded up a point, on which depended their highest satisfactions. Her
mother had frequently mentioned losing sight of her son, as one of those
privations which had exercised her fortitude in a peculiar degree; and
that she could never have supported his absence from his father’s
tuition, and her own love, but from the considerations of the duty she
owed to Mr. Hardcastle, and the reverence she felt for his judgment.
With this example before her, Lucy hastily repaired to her father and
ingenuously imparted to him her own suspicions. “Disposed as I am,”
continued she smiling, “to favour those lovers, I think it my duty, my
dear Sir, to refer myself to you. I shall soon be Rachel’s confidant,
and governed as I shall be, by my affection for her and for my brother,
I may be led to oppose your will, and frustrate your plans of wisdom and
prudence. I am certain that their early attachment is confirmed and
strengthened by their respectively discovering the improvements which
time has produced in both.”
“I would rather see your brother _dead_, than the husband of this young
creature!” replied Mr. Hardcastle, rising with emotion; “or rather, let
me implore death for my relief, before I see him pointed at as the base
and interested purloiner of this girl’s affections! I know too well, my
child, the malignity of human nature. In a case like this, no allowance
would be made, by far the greater part of the world, for motives more
pure and honourable than a sordid consideration of her wealth,—her
attractive beauty, and his age of passion. The natural results of
undepraved youth and innocence would be set aside, in order to brand
that father with infamy, who thus provided for his own son, by cheating
another of his daughter. But this is not all: you know the tenor of Mrs.
Dawson’s will. My honour and reputation have hung on this child’s life
from the hour she has been under my roof; for her death would secure to
me her grandmother’s property. Your dear mother, in this single
instance, opposed her opinion to mine. On pointing out to her the
_hazard_ of receiving into our hands a child thus circumstanced, she
laughed at my fears, and asked me, whether her husband had so lived, as
to be in danger of any imputation on his integrity. ‘Be more just to
yourself,’ said she, with honest pride; ‘the virtue which has marked
your life, will be your security. You stand beyond the reach of that
malice which would dare to conceive that Hardcastle would take advantage
of the helpless innocence of an infant committed to his care.’ She urged
her promise to Mrs. Cowley, and to Mrs. Dawson, and with dignity, added,
that Rachel Cowley could be no where so secure as with _her heirs_. ‘We
will perform our duty, my dear husband,’ said she, ‘and trust to Heaven
for a recompence, of more value than her money.’ I was conquered; and
Heaven in its mercy has preserved this child’s life. But what think you
would be the conclusions drawn from Horace’s marrying her? They are too
apparent not to be seen. ‘Foiled in one expectation,’ it will be said,
‘Hardcastle has succeeded in a more lucrative project. _A marriage_ will
not only secure to his son Mrs. Dawson’s fortune, but Mr. Cowley’s
princely revenue also; and by favouring his son’s views, and entangling
the girl’s heart, he has enriched his family.’ How would you repel a
scandal of this nature, my dear child? Not by saying, that Miss Cowley
loved your brother; for that would only prove that she had been betrayed
by the insidious flattery to which she was exposed.—I have been too
heedless,” added Mr. Hardcastle, “my mind of late has been——!” Mr.
Hardcastle’s firmness yielded—he pressed Lucy to his bosom, and wept
audibly.
On reassuming his composure, he proceeded to inform his daughter, that
he had, for nearly a week, been hesitating in what manner to answer an
application, which Mr. Freeman, her uncle, had transmitted to his
consideration, relative to Horace. “You have, my dear girl, been useful
to your father; by your information,” added he, “I shall no longer want
resolution. In regard to Miss Cowley, remember that I wish not to
interrupt the confidence which subsists between you, nor will I tempt
your honesty by a single question. You know the reasons which force me
to refuse to your brother an object so worthy of his admiration, and my
tender regard. I leave to your prudence to point out the conduct you
ought to pursue with your friend; and after you have perused your
uncle’s letter, you will be prepared to mention to her Horace’s removal
from England.”
Poor Lucy felt that virtue had its conflicts in her bosom; and hastily
retiring, gave herself up to the regret of having, by her interference,
doomed her brother to an undetermined course of banishment.
The subject of the letter in question necessarily requires some
information relative to the character and situation of the writer,
Horace’s uncle. The Rev. Mr. Freeman having succeeded to a village
living, of about four hundred pounds per annum, in the vicinity of
Exeter, at an advanced period of his life, and with the peculiar habits
of a man who had for many years lived in his college, appeared, on
settling in his excellent parsonage-house, to have forgotten that “it
was not good for man to be alone.” His friends and neighbours frequently
reminded him, notwithstanding, that his house was too large for a
bachelor, and that he was _losing time_. Mr. Freeman had already
experienced the justness of this latter observation; for, with painful
regret, it recalled to his memory, that his season for happiness was
irrecoverably passed. He had been tenderly attached to an amiable young
woman at an early period of his life; and whilst his expectations were
undecided in regard to that provision necessary for her security, his
talents and conduct soon distinguished him at the university; and,
supported by mutual esteem and hope, the lovers looked forwards to
happiness. The death of the lady interrupted this calm prospect. Mr.
Freeman became a “book-worm,” “a quiz,” and a tutor in his college, who
suited no young man of spirit. Notwithstanding this character, he had,
with all his singularities to boot, acquired such a reputation for
learning, and the happy talent of communicating it, that his friends
seemed determined to pursue him to his retreat; and he at length yielded
to the plan they proposed, of receiving four pupils under his roof.
These were young men whose fathers conceived a couple of years
noviciate, passed with Mr. Freeman, fully adequate to the advantages of
being freed from the restraints of a grammar-school, for the enjoyment
of a fellow-commoner’s gown. Amongst the number of those who had
respected the “sanctified” tutor at —— college, was the Duke of J——,
then at the university. Some short time after Horace Hardcastle had
become an inmate in Mr. Freeman’s house, this nobleman’s son was also
consigned to his uncle’s care, for the twofold purposes of his education
and the preservation of his health. Lord William S—— had, from his
cradle, been extremely delicate; and in proportion as he grew up,
consumptive symptoms had appeared. Scotland had been judged too
unfriendly a climate for so tender a plant, and the duchess had serious
arguments to produce against every public seminary of learning. The
young man’s father had not forgotten his college tutor, and the mild air
of Devonshire promised an amendment in health for his son. Mr. Freeman
yielded to a solicitation thus urged; and although the pupil was not yet
fourteen, and intruded on the fixed number, he was admitted. The amiable
boy reached the priory before Horace had ceased to repent his absence
from Heathcot-Farm; and the young nobleman soon found in him a companion
more peculiarly attractive to his gentleness of temper, from the absence
of that gaiety and activity of spirit, which was so distinguished a
characteristic of Horace’s mind. Grateful to a youth, who, although his
senior, did not overlook him, as the more advanced pupils did; and who
was neither too wise for his amusement, nor too insignificant for his
associate, he attached himself to Hardcastle, with all the enthusiasm
which results from warm affections and an unperverted nature; and
leaving to themselves the young men whose attainments placed them beyond
their sphere of action, the newly arrived pupils gradually cemented
those bonds of friendship, which, with the virtuous, not unfrequently
prove the most indissoluble. When Horace was summoned to his mother’s
sick room, he had left his companion under a severe attack of the
unrelenting cough; and so serious were now the symptoms of decay, that
it was determined he should try the effects of sea-air and a voyage. A
vessel was prepared with the sole view to his accommodation; a medical
gentleman was engaged to accompany him, and a tutor was appointed for
his guide and companion. Frequent voyages and short intervals of
refreshment in more southern latitudes, were the objects of these
arrangements; and the mild and uncomplaining invalid looked forwards
with delight to the prospect of thus visiting every port in the
Mediterranean. Nothing was absent from this sanguine picture of hope,
but his friend Horace; and without him, the gay colouring sunk at once
into the flat and insipid sameness of a ship’s cabin, or was charged
with the desponding tints of never beholding him again. His father, who
was with him, soon discovered his wishes; and immediately applied to Mr.
Freeman for his good offices with Mr. Hardcastle, assuring him, that
neither the young gentleman’s time nor interest should be lost by a
compliance with his request. This proposal was the subject of Mr.
Freeman’s letter to Horace’s father; and the plan recommended, was not
only favourable to Horace’s future views, but also advantageous to his
further improvement. The difficulties which had suspended Mr.
Hardcastle’s decision, will be easily imagined: his honour silenced the
fond remonstrances of his heart; and he determined on a separation,
which would at once exclude his son from all personal intercourse with
Miss Cowley for a longer time than he conceived her father would permit
her to remain unmarried.
He lost no time in placing before his son his uncle’s proposal, and his
own entire concurrence in the plan. “In this sacrifice of my own
comforts for your advantage,” added the father, “I shall, I must be
amply indemnified by seeing you escape from the danger which menaces you
under my roof. In the duties of _friendship_, you may, my son, safely
indulge the sensibility of a warm and affectionate nature; but in the
presence of a beautiful girl, endeared to you by the sweet ties of
infant sportiveness and familiar approach, you have forgotten, Horace,
that passion and imagination are the usual rocks on which the honour and
security of a young man are shipwrecked. I know that your principles are
sound; I also know, that in the present delusion of your senses, there
is no mixture of a sordid consideration in regard to Miss Cowley’s
wealth. No, Horace, you are too generous for such views, and she is too
attractive to need them. But tell me, with what arguments would you
confute the charge so strongly to be inferred from the circumstances in
which we are placed relatively to this young lady, by her grandmother’s
will? I know Mr. Cowley, and I believe him to be a liberal-minded man;
but would Horace Hardcastle find in an _extorted_ consent to his union
with his daughter, the approbation needful for his _honour_? Recollect,
that a gift not freely bestowed, is, and must be, oppressive to a noble
mind; and the tenderness and weakness of a parent, who yields to the
importunities of a fond, love-sick girl, furnish no excuse for the man
who has fraudulently counteracted her parent’s views and expectations,
by gaining an empire over her affections. Be more just to yourself, my
son. You want not wealth to elevate you, nor firmness to conquer your
present feelings. Be not deceived by the enthusiasm which now governs
you. The good report of your fellow-creatures is of more importance to
your happiness than you believe; and from the censure which will involve
you and myself of having made a property of this lovely girl, and
cheated her unsuspecting and generous father, there will be no appeal
even to the candid.” “I will go,” answered Horace, his face crimsoned
with blushes, “I will go to the farthest part of the globe, to spare you
from such calumny. But I must love Rachel Cowley, or cease to live.
Suffer me to depart with this shield to guard my youth, with this
invigorating hope, that I may one day convince her father that I am
worthy _of her_, if not of _his fortune_. Let him, if it please him,
build hospitals with his money: I shall not want it!” “Trusting to the
effects of time and absence,” answered Mr. Hardcastle, “I will finish
this conversation, by my positive prohibition of your corresponding with
Miss Cowley, either directly or indirectly, during your absence. I wish
you to receive this command, as qualified by parental love. She is
young, my dear Horace, as well as yourself; trust to your father; you
may both change your present sentiments. Leave her to the only test of a
permanent affection—more acquaintance with the world, and more knowledge
of herself. Her situation and sphere in life will soon be very different
from what they are at present. The society and the pleasures of the
world will solicit her attention, and although I do not believe she will
ever forget her early friends, time and absence may, and will weaken the
present impressions of her mind. Trust also something to my experience;
even _you_, my dear Horace, may forget to a certain degree, this amiable
young woman. You will be engaged in pursuits, which may, without any
miracle, direct your thoughts from present objects; and you may live to
feel, that Mr. Cowley’s daughter is not necessary to your happiness.”
Poor Horace’s agitations were not concealed. “Before we part,” added the
tender father, “let me assure you, that were this young creature _any_
but what she _is_, I would select her from amidst thousands as a wife
for my son. Let this assertion content you, and convince you of the
importance I affix to the _firm_ opposition I make to your affection. Be
then _a Hardcastle_; and submit your passions to that controul which
will secure to you the blessings of _a Hardcastle_.”
A short interval was allotted for the young man’s preparations in order
to his joining Lord William. Miss Cowley’s firmness not only supported
this hour, but also her friend Lucy’s more tender spirits. She spoke of
Horace’s departure with calmness, and observed from time to time, that
he could not better fill up a year or two than by travelling. On the
morning he left the parental roof, she further manifested her resolution
and spirit. Poor Horace rose to obey the third or fourth summons which
had announced that “all was ready.” “We part,” said she, offering him
her glowing cheek, “as brother and sister—such be our adieux. But when
next we meet, Horace, this hand shall testify the faith and truth of
Rachel Cowley. _Thus_ I plight it!” She raised her eyes to heaven,
grasped his hand a moment, and then darted from the room, leaving Mr.
Hardcastle to his surprise, and to comfort his son.
A few weeks after Horace had quitted England, Miss Cowley’s tranquillity
was again interrupted. She had sent her father, with some specimens of
her own talents in drawing, her picture at full length; this was the
work of the first artist in London, and was acknowledged to be not only
a capital picture, but also a striking resemblance of her by those
friends who had seen it. Mr. Cowley, on receiving it, appears to have
given indulgence to all the feelings of nature, in beholding the
portrait of a child so dear to him, an object of delight and admiration
to his friends. He praises the design, the attitude; in a word, the
skill of the painter in the highest terms. “But,” adds he, “if such be
thy external endowments, he has had a subject for his labours worthy of
them.” He continues in this stile of gaiety to inform her, that,
notwithstanding “the hazel eyes,” which are said to be his gift, he
thinks she so much resembles her mother, that he had placed her picture
opposite to her mother’s portrait; and that he passes from one to the
other, with sensations at once pleasurable and painful. “Your arrival,
in the mean time,” continues he, “has been celebrated by a grand dinner,
to which my friends resorted in crowds. Curiosity and admiration at
length gave place to a contest between the ‘dove-like blue eyes,’ and
the ‘saucy hazel ones.’ Your champions were Captain Vernon and your old
friend Oliver Flint, whom you will remember as your favourite, although
you threw your wax doll at his head, because he said it was prettier
than Marian. As to your other valorous knight, I have only to recommend
to you, when you next see him with his cargo of sweetmeats, to caution
him to be more moderate in his zeal for your glory; for had he not been
arrack-proof as completely as he is salt-water proof, he had been a dead
man; for by maintaining your cause he has had a fever, which frightened
his poor wife into a sick bed.” This letter finishes by mentioning the
arrival of two strangers in Jamaica; namely, a gentleman of the name of
Flamall, with his nephew, Mr. Philip Flint, the posthumous brother of
Mr. Oliver Flint, the gentleman already mentioned in his letter. “My
worthy old friend,” continues Mr. Cowley, “has drooped ever since the
loss of his sons. I do not wonder that this has been the case. They had
been his support under the severe trials of losing a good wife, and
several other children. They had attained to an age in which he might,
and had reasonably hoped to find in them a support and comfort to his
grave. In one week an epidemic fever rendered him _childless_. Poor
Oliver was for a time overwhelmed by this dreadful blow; but the
constitution of his mind and body have saved him. He turned his thoughts
to remedy his grief, not to repinings for an affliction sent him, as he
said, ‘for his good;’ and he has found one in this young brother, whom
he never knew till lately. This child was the fruit of his father’s
second marriage, who died at an advanced age, leaving his young widow
pregnant. The young man’s name is Philip, and his age nearly that of
poor Oliver’s eldest son, who was also christened Philip. On this slight
conformity the good old man erected his hopes of supplying to himself an
heir and a consolation. The appearance of this young man, who is
accompanied by his maternal uncle Mr. Flamall, has renovated poor
Oliver. He is, indeed, a most promising and handsome young man, and my
friend already fancies he resembles his son: no one contests this point
with him; nor is there any one who does not think the young man worthy
of his brother’s protection. He is well educated, and his manners are
pleasing and polite, though rather too reserved and circumspect for some
amongst us. These strangers have made a rake of me for some time; but I
have refused to dine with the _heir apparent_, in order to write to you
more at my leisure. Since your picture has graced my saloon, your old
friend Oliver can talk of nothing but getting a wife for his idol; and
this morning Mr. Flamall explicitly began a negotiation for my girl,
stating his nephew’s great expectations from his sister, an old maiden
lady, whose name is Lucretia Flint. This, with Mr. Flint’s fortune, is a
_bait_, but not one for your father, my child. I have not forgotten your
dear mother: to her undivided affection, not _her money_, was I indebted
for my happiness; and, instead of years passed in contention and
wretchedness, I had the satisfaction of knowing that my wife preferred
her husband to his rival, although that rival was _her mother_. I do not
believe you have been instructed to despise a man, simply because he
stands well in your father’s opinion; nor will that father, my dear
child, bargain away your happiness, in order to add acre to acre. I told
Mr. Flamall, with more jocularity than seriousness, that I meant to see
my girl before I gave her away, and to know the value of my merchandise
before I _sold it_. Be not, however, surprised should you see your old
friend Mr. Flint; for, coward as he is, I verily believe he would cross
the Atlantic in a boat to plead with you for his darling Philip.”
Kind as this letter was, it alarmed Miss Cowley. She once more renewed
her entreaties on the subject of her father’s leaving Jamaica; and in
the most unequivocal terms declared her repugnance to any matrimonial
overtures. “Let me conjure you, my dear Sir,” urged the apprehensive
pleader, “to return to England, and to renew with me those endearing
ties of an undivided duty and the purest gratitude. I seek to emulate my
mother, but it shall be in first shewing that I am your child, and not
as a wife. Oh, let me for a time be your own Rachel Cowley!”
The father’s reply to this appeal to his heart restored Miss Cowley to
her usual cheerfulness. He good-humouredly rallies her on the needless
rhetoric she employed to restrain the ardours of a lover, apparently as
little disposed to be shackled as her herself. “From the little I have
seen of this young philosopher,” adds Mr. Cowley, “I believe he left his
heart behind him; for our notable mothers, who are nibbling at the
prize, can make nothing of him, and the girls already call him the
stoic. I was much amused the other day by Captain Vernon’s and Mr.
Flamall’s debate, in which you were the subject of contention. The uncle
insisted that his nephew had been engaged in taking a drawing from your
picture whilst I was at Oliver’s with a gay party of ladies and
gentlemen, and from which young Philip had contrived to absent himself
for a long time. Vernon doubted of this employment of the youngster’s
time; ‘but be this as it may,’ added he, with his usual bluntness, ‘I
tell you that young Flint will never do for a suitor for Miss Cowley,
whatever he may for her picture; she would laugh at him.’ Mr. Flamall
was not much pleased by this frankness, and he coldly replied, that he
presumed Miss Cowley had not made a confession of her faith to Captain
Vernon. ‘There is no need she should,’ answered he; ‘her spirit and
sense speak for themselves: and whilst all the world acknowledge her
beauty, she shews them that she will not easily be won.’ I shall spare
my pen the labour of writing the remainder of his rhapsodies; but he
finished by telling Flamall that he could recommend a wife to his
nephew, who would exactly suit him; and that was Miss Lucy Hardcastle.
His description of the young lady satisfied Flamall that the honest
captain did not think his nephew undeserving of _a good wife_, though
disqualified to manage _a saucy one_. I have, however, reason to believe
I shall hear no more of Mr. Philip Flint’s _passion_ for Miss Rachel
Cowley; therefore she may take one feather from vanity’s plume.”
Mr. Cowley finishes this letter by mentioning the steps he had taken
preparatory to quitting the island; and, with much satisfaction, informs
his daughter that he has retained Mr. Flamall as his agent: he enlarges
on this gentleman’s talents and capacity for business, and concludes
with the highest eulogium on his manners and agreeable qualities.
It appears that the honourable veteran in the service of Neptune and
Bacchus, delivered, as was usual, this packet and his sweetmeats, in
person, at Heathcot, where he passed a few days with a young creature,
who, from her birth, had shared in his warm heart an affection which he
had carried to idolatry for her mother.
His account of his patron, Mr. Cowley, by no means tallied with the
apparent ease and gaiety contained in the letters he brought; and Mr.
Hardcastle was told that Mr. Cowley had been seized with a fit whilst at
Mr. Flint’s table, which dreadfully alarmed all present: happily a
medical gentleman was one of the guests, and immediate relief was given.
“It has shaken him,” added the captain; “but we hope he will rally
again. I saw him the day I embarked; he made me promise not to say a
word of this business to you; but I did not like his looks, and I
thought he walked but poorly: God grant I may see him in my next trip!
It should be the last labour of the Charlotte. She was launched to carry
him and his angel wife to Jamaica; and if she swims safely till he is
with his daughter, she will have been a lucky vessel to me.” He passed
his hand over his eyes, and whistled away an emotion that he could not
otherwise conquer.
The captain’s apprehensions were but too well founded. Mr. Cowley lived
not to reach England. A second and third attack of the palsy proved
fatal; and poor Vernon found at his return many mourners to sympathize
with him in a sorrow legitimately founded on his knowledge of the man,
and on gratitude to his benefactor. We will pass over in silence the
effects which this melancholy intelligence produced at Heathcot-Farm.
Miss Cowley was roused from the deepest dejection of spirits by the
events which succeeded to the first shock. Mr. Steadman summoned her and
Mr. Hardcastle to London; and with precautions, which he judged
necessary, placed before the orphan a copy of her late father’s will,
which, with all its requisite documents, had been formerly sent to him
by the executor, Mr. Flamall.
The contents were, indeed, calculated to astonish and afflict his
daughter. She was named as the successor to his fortune in the usual
terms. His property stood answerable, however, for the provision of his
two natural children and their mother. These children were boys, the
eldest not yet ten years old. To each was bequeathed five thousand
pounds; to the mother three hundred pounds per annum. To the survivor of
the boys this property devolved, unless the mother lived till the
children had both reached twenty-one, in which case her annuity was to
be divided between them. To Mrs. Allen two thousand pounds; bequests to
some domestics, and hundred-pounds rings to several friends; amongst
these Counsellor Steadman, Mr. Hardcastle, and Mr. Oliver Flint were
named. Mr. Flamall, with a thousand pounds legacy, was named as the
guardian of his two sons, and appointed agent for the trust of
superintending his concerns in Jamaica. An income of five hundred pounds
per annum was annexed to this trust; and provision was made for Mr.
Flamall’s residence at whichever of the plantations he chose for his
abode. The important clause next follows, and in these words nearly:
“Having had the most unequivocal proofs of the integrity of those
trustees named by Mrs. Dawson, for the security of her property in
favour of Rachel Cowley, he still leaves to their wisdom the entire
management of the trust in their hands; but it behoved him to shew to
the world, and to his daughter, that he had neither relinquished his
rights as a parent, nor been unmindful of the duties annexed to the name
of a father; and, not doubting his child’s ready obedience to his
commands, he had, with the concurrence of the parties most nearly
concerned, chosen her a husband in the person of Philip Flint, &c.” On
the celebration of this marriage Mr. Flamall’s jurisdiction terminated,
as far as it related to Miss Cowley. She was immediately to enter into
the full and unconditional enjoyment of her fortune when she became Mr.
Philip Flint’s wife.
The penalty of a refusal to comply with the terms thus briefly
specified, was a minority, which reached to her twenty-fifth year; and
in case she married any other man, save the aforesaid Philip Flint,
without the consent of Mr. Flamall, the whole of the Jamaica property
was tied up for her children’s benefit; and in case of no issue,
devolved to his two sons. He further enjoins his daughter’s obedience to
this _his representative_, even as it regards her place of residence:
stipulating, however, that he has conditioned for her remaining in
England, not only while she bears the name of Cowley, but also under
that of Mrs. Flint, having received the most satisfactory assurances
that Philip Flint will not live in Jamaica. In a word, Mr. Cowley’s will
firmly makes Mr. Flamall the sovereign arbitor of Miss Cowley’s fate
till she becomes his niece; and the harsh and dictatorial language of
the law was exhausted to sanction and confirm this excess of parental
authority.
Miss Cowley, with indignation, pronounced the will a forgery; and she
produced as evidence for this opinion her father’s character, his
unlimited affection for her, his confidence in Mr. Hardcastle, and his
letters, in which Philip Flint had been named. Her friends admitted her
reasoning, but the will was legally executed and witnessed by Oliver
Flint, Mr. Cowley’s _valet de chambre_, and two of the most respectable
gentlemen in the island. Juba, the faithful Juba, had carried Rachel
Cowley in his arms. He had long been a free man, and he had written the
first letter to England of his beloved master’s death; in which he dwelt
with comfort on the calmness and clearness of the deceased man’s
faculties till the last moment. She persisted in her opinion, and with
great firmness said, she would seek redress in a court of Chancery,
ordering the counsellor to enter a caveat to the will immediately. The
dignity which she assumed, the acuteness of her observations, and the
absence of those fears which the gentlemen were prepared to expect, gave
them at once to understand that the client was not a minor in good
sense. The counsellor was struck with a character so superior to what he
expected in a girl not much more than eighteen; and he told her
candidly, that his opinion and Mr. Hardcastle’s entirely agreed with her
own. “I have gained,” continued he, “some information respecting this
Flamall. He was, I find, one of those men who in the practice of the law
are its disgrace; he is expert in all the tricks and chicanery of his
tribe; and your property is too valuable a trust to be wrested from him
without a struggle on his part. The means of justice are slow, and we
must contrive to counteract his villainy, not to dispute his right to be
_a villain_. Have patience, my dear Miss Cowley, I have more than once
caught a rascal in his own toils. A false will cannot easily be produced
without confederates; something may transpire, for rogues are rarely
faithful to each other. Be satisfied that you are at liberty to refuse
the husband he has so carefully provided for you. You want nothing from
Jamaica, and in a few years you will be mistress of your father’s
fortune, and in a situation to support your brothers in their
difficulties with a man certainly disqualified for their guardian. We
will know more of him, and appear his dupes for a season; he will only
rob you with the more avidity from finding he is suspected.”
Miss Cowley assented to this advice, and determined to be governed by
her zealous friend; secretly hoping, that the restrictions of her
father’s will, to which she appeared disposed to submit, would at least
secure her from the solicitations of lovers; and thus silence Mr.
Hardcastle’s scruples in regard to his son.
Before she left Mr. Steadman, she saw her formal rejection of Mr. Philip
Flint dispatched to her new guardian. Counsellor Steadman wrote this
letter, and Miss Cowley’s attestation of its being dictated by her,
satisfied her, that she had crushed the hopes of the insolent pretender
to her hand. Her natural cheerfulness returned, and Lucy found her
friend the better for the little journey. But this season of
tranquillity lasted not many months; a letter from Mr. Flamall, which it
is necessary to transcribe here, will assign the cause of new anxieties
at Heathcot-Farm. Mr. Flamall, who seemed to consider Mr. Steadman as
the only friend of Miss Cowley, and, as a professional man, the proper
medium through which his authority was to be announced to the heiress,
thus writes to him:
“Bound as I am by the duties of my appointed trust, and prompted by my
veneration and gratitude to fulfil in every point Mr. Cowley’s
intentions, as these related to his daughter, I think it proper to
remove Miss Cowley from her present residence. From the period of Mrs.
Hardcastle’s death, her father had this intention; and I have frequently
heard him regret, that his delay, and her reluctance to visit Jamaica,
had postponed a resolution he thought indispensibly incumbent on him to
execute. In his last illness he requested me to make it my first concern
to place his daughter with a lady qualified to protect and guide her. I
have, in consequence, written to my sister, Lady Maclairn, on this
subject, and you will prepare my ward for her removal to Tarefield, the
place of my sister’s residence. I am not discouraged by Miss Cowley’s
refusal of my nephew. She does not know Philip Flint, who will, I am
confident, convince her, and her friends, that her father was not less
attentive to her happiness than to her fortune, in selecting him as her
protector for life. More on this subject does not become me to say, less
would be injustice to a man whose merits are acknowledged wherever he is
known. I will not, however, pursue this subject further at present than
by observing, that Miss Cowley may be led by her knowledge of Mr. Philip
Flint’s connections in England, to consider more favourably of her good
father’s _wishes_. In the mean time, my nephew has cheerfully acceded to
_mine_; and flatters himself, that by postponing his voyage to England
for some months, he is not only gratifying Miss Cowley’s delicacy in
this hour of filial sorrow, but also offering her an homage which will
not be unacceptable to her, as it will be of use to her interest; Mr.
Cowley’s large concerns requiring an inspection, and an arrangement
which, in the first pressure of business, is more than I am equal to.
The retirement in which Sir Murdock Maclairn’s family lives, will not,
in the present state of affairs, be irksome to _my ward_; the society of
an accomplished woman will, I hope, compensate her for the temporary
suspension of more unconfined amusements. Taking it for granted, that
you will still hold the trust committed to you by Mrs. Dawson’s will, I
shall annually remit to Sir Murdock Maclairn the same sum which Mr.
Cowley assigned for his daughter’s maintenance with Mr. Hardcastle, from
the age _of infancy_. Being willing to shew my respect for Miss Cowley’s
wish, as this relates to Mrs. Allen’s continuance in her service, I have
prepared Lady Maclairn to receive what she might otherwise judge an
useless appendage in a house regulated as Tarefield-hall is.” Mr.
Flamall concludes by informing his correspondent, that Miss Cowley’s
fortune is very ample; that he has to encounter the obstinacy of the
boys’ mother, who will not be parted from the children, nor suffer them
to remain in their father’s house. Mr. Philip Flint had, however,
compromised matters; and the mother and children were placed by him in
the family of a Mr. Dalrymple, a Scotchman, whom he had known at the
university, in Edinburgh, and who kept a school in Kingston, with
reputation. The boys were handsome, promising children; and he had no
fears for them, but such as arose from the ignorance and excessive
fondness of their mother, whom he always thought unworthy of the place
she had held in Mr. Cowley’s heart. It was, however, his intention to
send the children to England for education, with his nephew, if he could
prevail on the mother to consult their real good. Statements of effects
in a general way, and details of his conduct, as regulated by the dying
words of Mr. Cowley, in regard to the negroes on the plantations, to
whom he had been a father, finish Mr. Flamall’s letter.
Mr. Hardcastle, judging of the effects of this letter on Miss Cowley,
from the sorrow with which it filled his anxious bosom, and justly
apprehending the danger which might result from his “_child’s_” removal
to a family devoted to Mr. Flamall’s views, strenuously concurred with
Mr. Steadman, in advising Miss Cowley to take such steps as would at
least secure her person from Mr. Flamall’s controul. But she was not to
be moved in her resolution of complying with his orders. “The future
happiness of my life,” said she, “depends on my compliance with this act
of usurped authority. He will find,” added she, with an air of triumph,
“that in the hands of Providence the vilest instrument is made
subservient to the purposes of mercy. I must quit Mr. Hardcastle’s
house; I have for some time _wished_ to do so. Yes, I have wished it. I
will convince that world which Mr. Hardcastle so much fears, that Rachel
Cowley has not been influenced by those who have been her protectors, to
prefer Horace Hardcastle for her future guardian. I will shew my
independence, and maintain my claims to a choice which virtue sanctions.
It is of no moment where I pass this term of my banishment from all whom
I love,” continued she, melting into tears. “These people will soon
discover, that I am not a girl to be trampled on, and their own
advantage will secure to me civility. When I am five-and-twenty years of
age, I presume the _world_, as well as the laws of my country, will deem
me a free agent; and I should be the first to laugh at an attachment
that could not stand my trial of its permanency. It is possible, that in
the first instance Mr. Hardcastle’s scruples will yield to his sorrow
for my absence, and my own firmness, to some censures of his wisdom and
circumspection; but we shall both find consolation in those principles
which require the sacrifice of present security and happiness, to a more
lasting and greater advantage.” Mr. Hardcastle, unequal to the conflict,
retired, not daring to trust his integrity with so irresistible a
pleader.
Soon after, the following letter was in his hands; its contents will
evince to the reader, the solicitude of Miss Cowley’s friends at once to
ascertain the safety of her removal from them.
“_To Counsellor Steadman._
“Bishops-Auckland, Durham.
“MY DEAR FRIEND,
“My short residence in this part of the world, will unavoidably subject
the intelligence you require to errors, notwithstanding my zeal and
diligence. The truth is, that, as I have only the voice of the parish of
Tarefield and its environs for my authorities, I am forced to place
before you the history of a family at once peculiarly marked as the
object of a fond partiality, and of inveterate hatred. I leave to you to
sift and resift the documents thus obtained: for my history includes a
number of years and facts which are still the topics of conversation in
this neighbourhood.
“Flamall was, as you have heard, for some years a practitioner in the
law; and succeeded his father in the business of an attorney, with the
credit which that father left him, who was an honest and an able man.
His sister, now Lady Maclairn, was left to his direction, and, to the
surprise of old Flamall’s connections, to her brother’s generosity. She
was young and remarkably handsome, had been carefully and liberally
educated, and was a virtuous and elegant young woman; but from some
proofs of her brother’s intentions, of making her subservient to his
ambition or vices, she sheltered her own innocence by accepting the hand
of old Mr. Flint, then in his seventieth year; and in the full blaze of
beauty, not being more than four or five and twenty, she appeared as a
bride at Tarefield-hall. Mr. Flint at this period had four children.
Oliver, his eldest son, was settled in Jamaica, had married there, and
was the father of a family. Lucretia, the present despot at the hall,
was single; but something older than the bride. Percival Flint, the
second son, had just finished his academical studies, and had quitted
Oxford. Mary Flint, the youngest of the family, was then about
seventeen, and in one word, a _paragon of perfection_, for such my
authorities proclaim her. Domestic feuds and discontents still kept
their ground, in spite of the young mother-in-law; who, it appears, was
little calculated to maintain even her own rights: she sunk into a nurse
to her husband. Percival Flint left his father’s house secretly, and for
some years, whilst serving his country as an officer in the marines, was
supposed by the neighbourhood to have fallen a victim to misery. Mr.
Flamall had an active part in all the transactions at this period. He
was useful to the infirm father of the family, in managing his business;
and his ill treatment of his own sister, gave him favour with Miss
Lucretia Flint. Love now engaged in the struggle for power. A new
curate, of the name of Howard, appeared at Tarefield. Miss Lucretia made
love to him; and he made love to the beautiful Mary Flint. Here again I
could fill volumes with the praises and blessings still given to this
matchless pair! After many trials, and the utmost cruelty from the
jealous sister, the lovers married. Mr. Flint’s death is the next event.
He left a will, which utterly excluded Percival Flint and Mrs. Howard,
his darling child, from any portion of his property beyond a shilling.
The Jamaica estate became his eldest son’s, and Miss Lucretia became the
mistress of Tarefield-hall, with a large sum in money, some say, not
less than thirty thousand pounds. The young widow had her provision of
four hundred pounds per annum, for her life, on the Tarefield estate,
and her name was not even in the will but in order to ascertain this
claim. A new wonder succeeded to this. In a short time after the
funeral, Mrs. Flint declared herself pregnant; and to the astonishment
of every one, Miss Flint received the intelligence with joy, and
observed, it was an event for which Mr. Flint had prepared her. She was
happy; for it would now appear, that her father had chosen her for the
stewardship of that fortune destined to be shared with a child who had
not offended him. The odious title of mother-in-law was forgotten, and
she called Mrs. Flint her _friend_ and _sister_: by this _latter_
appellation they still call each other. Anxious for the preservation of
the infant, Miss Flint removed her sister, whose health was in a very
precarious state, to London. There Philip Flint was born; I need not
add, that this posthumous child is the young man who pretends to Miss
Cowley’s hand. I have suppressed the affecting stories of Mr. and Mrs.
Howard’s difficulties, and their untimely death. They left a daughter,
who is the idol of her parents’ partial friends: till lately, she has
lived with a wealthy farmer, where also boards her uncle Percival. She
is now, I am told, noticed at the hall, and I believe she is under Miss
Lucretia’s protection. But to proceed.
“Soon after the birth of Philip, Mrs. Flint chose a second husband, and
married Sir Murdock Maclairn, with whom she became acquainted during her
residence in or near London. The baronet was poor, and Mr. Flamall was
for a time averse to this union; and for the reasons my Irishman
assigns, namely, ‘that Flamall knew of no standard by which to
appreciate honour and intrepidity.’ _Observe_ here, that the Duke of ——
gave me _this_ observation, who formerly knew the baronet. Miss Flint,
whose best actions are viewed only in one direction by the circle of her
irritated judges, was however useful to the poor widow Flint on this
occasion. The union was effected by her mediation, without an open
rupture with the domineering brother. ‘But she took care of herself, for
she wished to attach Mr. Flamall, and conditioned for Sir Murdock and
his lady, living with her at Tarefield, by which means the lover had a
pretence for his visits.’ I shall pass over this lady’s supposed
frailty, and the motives assigned for her not marrying the man whom she
favoured. These are contained in the following hints: ‘_They knew one
another too well for that folly, &c._’ I have even continued to suppress
the current report of the hall being haunted by the unquiet spirit of
old Mr. Flint, ‘who knows the will produced, was never made by him.’
Compassion for Lady Maclairn has not been worn out. Her conduct to her
unfortunate husband during many years infirmity of mind, nearly
approaching to insanity, has obliterated the remembrance of her neglect
of Mr. and Mrs. Howard, and every one concurs in believing, that, to her
love and unremitting tenderness, the poor baronet stands indebted for
his present amendment in his health and faculties. She has one son by
her second marriage. It is enough that I say this young man is the
reigning favourite here; for ‘Malcolm Maclairn is in no favour with Miss
Flint, or his uncle Flamall.’ I suspect he has more of his father’s
blood in his views than suits his dependant fortune; for he has been
from his childhood constantly attached to Percival Flint, and Miss
Howard, the orphan child of Mary Flint, who is the admiration of the
parish, and the cherished object of compassion.
“It is no unpleasing nor unprofitable reflection, my good friend, to
trace in my gleanings relative to this family, the pure and genuine love
of justice with which the heart of man is endowed by his gracious Maker.
Neither the wealth nor station of Miss Flint have been able to screen
her from the odium of those about her. Percival Flint has more homage
paid him than if lord of the manor-house; and with the stipend annexed
to an invalid captain of marines, a wooden leg, and his niece Howard in
his hand, confers an honour on every cottage he enters. The farmer, at
whose house they live, has acquired an influence and authority in the
parish beyond what his opulence would give him; ‘for every thing has
prospered with Mr. Wilson from the hour he sheltered Mr. and Mrs.
Howard.’ Such is the belief here.
“To conclude. It appears that Mr. Philip Flint has been carefully
educated, and is a young man of spirit. The usual comments on him finish
with, ‘Aye he is too good for those to whom he belongs! they could not
spoil him; but he will never be worthy to carry his brother Malcolm’s
shoes.’ You will translate these expressions to this young man’s
advantage, for they bespeak his worth.
“Depend, however, on one thing as certain: Sir Murdock Maclairn is no
fit instrument for cunning or baseness. His wife is an unoffending,
depressed woman: I am told she is highly accomplished. Miss Howard is
now I find with her aunt Miss Lucretia. The captain occasionally visits
the hall. The baronet is regaining his health; and Malcolm is a second
Æneas. Whatever be the result of your measures, recollect that Miss
Cowley is within my reach; and prepare her to expect a steady and
vigilant protector
“In your sincere friend,
“GEORGE WOODLEY.”