Mr. Hardcastle read the above letter to his attentive hearer: he waited
for some moments for her observations on its contents; but finding she
remained silent, he said, “My dear child, recollect that you are not
obliged to comply with Mr. Flamall’s orders.” “I have never for an
instant supposed myself in his power,” answered she calmly. “This
account of his connections, however, gives me satisfaction, because it
will serve to remove from your mind all fears for my personal safety. It
is of no importance to me what are the characters of this Flamall’s
relations at present, it is sufficient that they appear neither
dangerous, nor interested in using me ill; for the rest I am prepared.”
“Be also prepared to be just,” replied Mr. Hardcastle. “Mr. Woodley says
his information rests on public rumour and public opinion. Your father
knew Mr. Philip Flint and Mr. Flamall: suppose, for a minute only, that
his will was the result of that knowledge, and that the man he
recommends to your notice is one that is worthy of you; without binding
yourself to any conditions, you ought to see this young man whenever he
arrives, and to listen dispassionately to whatever he has to plead, both
for his honour and his pretensions. Consider him only as Oliver Flint’s
brother, and as standing remote from Mr. Flamall and the family at
Tarefield. His affinity to worthless people, granting it be so, is no
proof of his worthlessness; and surely the estimation in which he is
held even by your father’s report of him, entitles him to a fair hearing
whenever he appears at Tarefield.” “I shall, whenever that happens,”
replied Miss Cowley, “receive him without resentment or caprice, and
soon convince him that my resolution is unalterable.” “And what answer
am I to make to this letter?” asked Mr. Hardcastle, producing a renewed
application from a young baronet in the neighbourhood. “If you will have
the goodness to transmit my answer to Sir George,” replied Miss Cowley,
“you will oblige me; it is a brief one: I am an engaged woman; and
should not this silence him, he will prove that he is not a gentleman,
nor a man of sense.—To what purpose should I conceal from him, or the
world,” added she, throwing her arms around Mr. Hardcastle’s neck, “an
attachment in which I glory? To what purpose refrain from telling my
father, and my friend, that I love Horace Hardcastle? He knows that I
love him, and have loved him for years.” “My dear child!” said the
subdued Mr. Hardcastle, tenderly returning her embrace, “endowed as you
are, I would with pride acknowledge you as my daughter were you
pennyless; but circumstanced as I am, I dare not listen to your
pleadings. I am too old, and too tenacious of a good name, to risk it by
a compliance so evidently in favour of my son’s fortune: and you are too
young, and too inexperienced, to know whether that compliance would
secure to you the happiness it promises. I will imitate you in
frankness: regard me as your best friend, not as Horace’s father. Leave
to time the discussion of a subject of which you are at present
disqualified to judge. Horace, like yourself, is young, I advise you to
avoid entering into any engagements with him till more acquaintance with
life shall have decided his character and rendered you a better judge of
his merit. Remember also, that should you persist in cherishing the
sentiments you now entertain of this young man, that you cannot give to
your friends any apology for your preference more ostensible, than that
of placing no temptation in the way of his integrity. It will be the
only wealth he can bring to the account of yours; and although many will
say it is nothing in the scale they judge by, _some_ will be candid
enough to confess, that virtue knows no inequality of condition. But let
me say yet a few words more,” added he; “and think you are listening to
your _mother_, to that being who trained you to be what you are.”—He
paused for a moment.—“She would tell you, my dear Rachel, that there is
no period of a young woman’s life, in which she is less qualified to
judge for her own happiness, than the one in which you are at present.
You are under an influence which renders your judgment weak.
Unacquainted with vice, and with all the affections of nature and
innocence glowing in your bosom, you give to imagination an office with
which it ought never to be trusted; and to the lover it selects the
qualities of your own pure heart. For a time, this delusion passes; but
what is often the conclusion? Sometimes, a too late conviction that what
had been cherished as a supreme _good_, is a certain _ruin_; and still
as frequently, that what had been called a permanent affection, is
discovered to be nothing more than a flight of youthful inclination. I
may surprise you by saying, that, without any imputation on your
principles, or degradation of your understanding, you may cease to love
Horace Hardcastle.” “Never!” exclaimed the impatient Miss Cowley. “We
are not the children of folly, nor the slaves of passion! Read that
letter which I received from your son, and then judge of the basis on
which our hopes rest. I have promised Horace to respect his father’s
honour, and to preserve his, and I will never write to him till I have
your consent.” “I am satisfied,” answered Mr. Hardcastle, hastily rising
to quit the room. “Oh hear me!” cried Miss Cowley; detaining him by his
clothes: “as a _sister_, as to my _early friend_, surely now and then I
may be indulged.” “You shall want no information of his safety,”
answered the retreating Mr. Hardcastle, interrupting her and instantly
retiring. “Inflexible man!” said she, bursting into tears. “Ah, would to
Heaven that mother to whom he referred, lived to confute his arguments!
She only knew Rachel Cowley—she only knew her Horace.”
Relieved by this effusion of sorrow, her spirit took its natural bias,
and though disappointed in her wishes of gaining permission to write to
her _brother_ Horace, it may be at least conjectured, that the
opposition she had been unable to conquer, did the lover no injury; for
it is most certain, that she attributed Mr. Hardcastle’s conduct to a
pride and scrupulosity far removed from good sense, and deficient in
kindness to her.