Miss Cowley lost nothing of her firmness in relating the above
conversation to her friend Lucy. “I must think Mr. Hardcastle too
rigid,” said she, “in prohibiting all correspondence between me and
Horace; but I will obey him as my father. I leave you, my dear Lucy, but
it is to defeat malice. The honour of Mr. Hardcastle is not less dear to
me than my own, and I will prove to the world that I am qualified to
judge, and to determine. I have now duties before me that will give
solidity to my mind. My father has left two children besides myself, and
convinced as I am, that Flamall is a villain, I will omit no occasion of
detecting his artifices. Sheltered under this roof, I can never do this;
but by bending to his authority I may make him tremble. Should I fail in
this purpose, I am still secure; for Horace will not want my father’s
wealth to make him happy; and when I am of age, it will depend on you to
determine whether Mrs. Dawson’s legacy to her grand-daughter is to be _a
curse_.” Poor Lucy, unable to reply, only wept, and saw with bitter
regret her friend’s preparations for leaving Heathcot. A letter from Sir
Murdock Marlain hastened her departure; and Mrs. Allen and Miss Cowley
were escorted to London by Mr. Hardcastle a few days previous to the
baronet’s arrival, and took up their temporary abode at Counsellor
Steadman’s.
Few of my readers will refuse their sympathy to the dejected and
faithful guardian during this anxious period. With a father’s
apprehensions, Mr. Hardcastle saw youth and beauty torn from his
protecting care; and with anguish of soul, did he now contemplate the
traits of his pupil’s mind, and the charms of her person; but of this
person no more will be said, than applying to Rachel Cowley the poet’s
interrogation,
Can Virgil’s verse, can Raphel’s touch impart,
Those finer features of the feeling heart,
Those tend’rer tints, that shun the careless eye,
And in the world’s contagious circle die?
_Rogers’s Pleasures of Memory_.
Having now brought my readers to the point in which my history may be
said to commence, I hasten to place before them a correspondence, which
will better serve my purpose than any talents I possess. I shall content
myself in future with supplying the few breaks I find in the narrative;
and leave the reader to judge of my discernment in thinking the
unstudied language of truth and nature better than any I could
substitute in their place. Miss Cowley shall speak for herself.
LETTER I.
_From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._
TAREFIELD, JUNE 24th.
The short note which your father has, before this, delivered to you, and
which I trust you have destroyed, my dear Lucy, as a proof unworthy to
be preserved of your poor Rachel’s little advancement in self-knowledge,
shall, if it be possible, be rendered useful to me as a warning against
presumption. But although I have been taught by experience not to think
too highly of my wisdom, yet I mean not, Lucy, to give up the reins to
folly. You will have no more despairing rhapsodies from me. The question
has been decided, and reason tells me, that in a difficulty which admits
of no other alternative but that of either laughing or crying, it is but
to take that which will least disagree with my constitution. You have,
my dear Lucy, called me many times a twin sister of my favourite
Beatrice. Whether you meant to compliment me as having a portion of her
wit, or meant to repress in me the superabundance of her spirit and
flippancy, remains with you to settle. I am contented with the
resemblance, and I will, if I can, preserve a light heart, and _her_
disdain of fools and knaves. I will, however, effect my purpose of
breaking through the web of mischief which now entangles me, without
wishing “I were a man,” or “eating Mr. Flamall’s heart in the
market-place;” a more severe punishment will only satiate my vengeance.
He shall _live_ to feel the stings of a wounded conscience, and to see
me _happy_.—But again Heathcot rises between me and my heroic
intentions! Alas, my Lucy, it will, for a time at least, defeat every
purpose of wisdom! I must weep! Its beloved inmates are before me! I see
them silently glancing their humid eyes to my vacant place at their
peaceful table; and, with looks of sympathy, pitying each other for the
absence of their fondled, cherished Rachel. Who will now, my Lucy,
defend you in your walks from the terrific cows? Who will now guard you
from the wasp’s approach? Who will now explore your path in your
evening’s ramble, and secure your timid footsteps from the tremendous
frog? Alas! you have no Rachel Cowley to guard and to laugh at you! She
is, and well may I say, alas! and alas! far remote from these her
accustomed and sweet duties! She is too remote, also, to hear the gentle
and persuasive admonitions of her Lucy. Who is there _here_ to repress
with a smile my too volatile spirits, “to divert my petulance and check
my pride?” Where am I now to seek that friend, whose approbation, like
the dew from heaven, tempered my rough elements with her own simple and
mild virtues? We were formed, Lucy, to be each other’s aid and support.
We are made for Heathcot and contentment. Will Mr. Hardcastle persist,
think you, in thus defeating, as it appears to me, the designs of
Providence? Oh no! nor can he long remain unconvinced that my father was
incapable of defrauding his child of those rights of nature which he
granted to his slaves. He cannot, Lucy, persist long in prohibiting
Horace from writing to me. He must perceive the injustice, as well as
severity, of his present conduct. Never to write to the companion of my
youth, to a _brother_ endeared to me by a thousand and a thousand fond
remembrances of pure and unimpassioned affection! Surely this is being
too rigid! Such is not Mr. Hardcastle’s mind. He will relent in
compassion to himself. In this hope only can I find a relief from my
present state of mind. I cannot, Lucy, support my plan of conduct with
fortitude whilst I find your father thinks meanly of me; and is it not
obvious, that he believes me weak and childish? Why am I not to be
confided in? His honour is my own; Horace’s disgrace would be my
destruction; and, again I repeat it, I would not now marry your brother
were the _world_ your father so much dreads, to solicit me to be his
wife. No, Lucy, Horace Hardcastle shall have no accounts to settle with
my new _guardian_! Farewell, I cannot proceed. Mrs. Allen’s blessing and
your Rachel’s must not be omitted. She is contended with me, and bids me
tell you that I am a very good girl. Will not this please you? You
smile.
LETTER II.
_Miss Cowley, in continuation._