Finding myself somewhat the wiser for a few hours repose, I will profit
by the unavoidable delay of my yesterday’s letter to add to its bulk,
and to pour into your patient ear a larger portion of those thoughts
which I know not what to do with till they are communicated to you. I
shall therefore inform you, that I lost no time in giving Sir Murdock
Maclairn a specimen of that damsel’s _temper_ whom it had cost him so
many wearisome miles to seek. But I will be modest, and tell you also,
that I had been spirited up to this undertaking by Counsellor Steadman;
for as he has no son to beguile me of my heart, and is too old himself
to wish for more of it than he has, he was determined, without
consulting your father, to see whether I could fight my own battles.
Thus prepared, I asked the courteous baronet, before my dear counsellor,
when he meant to commence his journey to Tarefield. A solemn bow
prefaced his reply.—“He was at my directions on that point.”—“Indeed,”
answered I, smiling, “you surprise me! I suspect my new guardian has
ill-chosen you for his substitute. I fancy he would not altogether
approve of your complaisance to your _prisoner_.” He fixed his eyes on
my face, but was silent. “I mean not to bribe you,” continued I, “for
you appear too indulgent to need it; but I do wish to make our journey
to Tarefield pleasant; and that cannot be unless we travel as good
friends. By a will now substantiated as legal, and called _my father’s
will_, Sir Murdock, I am committed to the controul of a man, who, till
within, a few months, was a stranger to that parent I deplore, and to
whose name and office was affixed a post at Mr. Cowley’s writing-desk.
It ought not to surprise you, therefore, if I think it necessary to act
with _caution_ under these circumstances. I am an entire stranger to Mr.
Flamall’s character and principles; and yet I am ready to accept of your
house, Sir Murdock, as an asylum proper for me. But, understand me:
motives absolutely remote from Mr. Flamall’s power and authority over
me, have induced me to give up a protection under which I have been safe
and happy from my infancy. I trust to you _voluntarily_, for I believe
you to be a man of honour. To Mr. Flamall I leave the provision he may
judge necessary for his _master’s daughter_ whilst under your roof. If I
am to give credit to my partial friends, I am not capricious; but I am
very jealous of my independence. Lady Maclairn, as well as yourself, Sir
Murdock, must be told that I have _decidedly and firmly refused the
husband_ provided for me by my father’s will. I expect to be exempted
from all importunities on the subject of Mr. Philip Flint. These would
not only tend to make my residence with you unpleasant, but also short;
for I shall without delay convince Mr. Flamall that Rachel Cowley’s
person is not included in his _extraordinary_ trust. I have only to add,
that I am ready to set out whenever you please, and shall with
cheerfulness attend you to an abode which I promise not to disturb by
any discontents.”
Sir Murdock, who had not for an _instant_ taken his eyes off me, started
when I ceased speaking, and for _several_ moments appeared extremely
agitated; his countenance varied with the oppression within, and he
paced the room once or twice in profound silence. At length, with
collected firmness, he said, I had surprised him. “I am not prepared to
answer Miss Cowley’s suspicions of Mr. Flamall,” said he, addressing the
counsellor, “but I know that I have had no sinister views in coming
hither. I have no designs either on her person or property; nor can I
easily conceive that Mr. Flamall has. We were strangers till very
lately, to all that regards this young lady. The proposed alliance was
transmitted to us, as an argument in favour of the plan now under
consideration. It produced the effect Mr. Flamall wished, it conquered
our reluctance to receiving under our roof a stranger to our habits of
life. These are so retired, that we naturally judged they could not be
agreeable to a young lady; and we should have persisted in our refusal,
had not Mr. Flamall pointed out to us the propriety of the measure he
recommended. If Miss Cowley, or Miss Cowley’s friends, be not satisfied
with what I have asserted,” added he, spreading his hand on his chest
and colouring, “I would not for all the riches in the world have her
under my protection; but I have yet to learn, that Sir _Murdock
Maclairn_ has been judged a fit agent for dishonour!” His eyes were
again turned on me, they instantly softened, and I saw he trembled. “Say
no more, my good Sir,” cried I with my usual eagerness, and taking his
hand, “I bless Providence for conducting me to you, under the necessity
which forces me to quit Heathcot. I will love Lady Maclairn for _your
sake_, and tell her, that I am grateful to you for hearing me with so
much patience.” Never shall I forget him, Lucy, when with a countenance
expressive of the utmost sensibility, he said to Counsellor Steadman
with solemnity—“She will be safe as the child of my bosom. She will be
guarded by a vigilance equal to your own and Mr. Hardcastle’s. As a
deposit sent by Heaven, I will receive her.” Do you know that I was so
affected that I wept, and repented of having urged him to this
explanation. Mr. Steadman assured him, that he was perfectly satisfied,
and the conversation gradually became less interesting. I mentioned with
diffidence my friend Mrs. Allen. “My wife will rejoice to find you bring
a companion with you,” said he; “she fears that you will think Tarefield
very dull. My bad health has produced a love of home in her, as well as
myself, that will not easily be overcome.” “Be under no fears on that
head,” observed I, smiling, “I am one of those profound philosophers who
are never alone.” He smiled in his turn at my vivacity. “You will like
my wife, Miss Cowley,” said he, “she is the gentlest and the best of
women. One so peaceable, that she will not quarrel with you for your
barbarity to her son. I am not yet at home,” added he with more
cheerfulness, “therefore not yet _tongue-tied_; but permit me to assure
you, that Philip Flint is not undeserving of your good opinion, though
he may be too presumptuous in his hopes. I have, however, nothing to do
with this affair,” continued he; “having from his cradle strictly
adhered to one rule of conduct, namely, that of leaving him to his
tender mother’s care, and the direction of his more immediate
connections. Happily his education has not been neglected. But I was
unequal to the duties of a father, even to _my own Malcolm_.” His poor
head mechanically sunk, and he took, greedily, three or four pinches of
Scotch snuff. We finished by settling the hour of our departure; for I
found he wished to leave London.
My next letter shall place before you more particularly this
_interesting_ Sir Murdock Maclairn, the originality of whose person and
manners has so powerfully excited my compassion and curiosity, that I
cannot but bless fortune for throwing him in my way. He is no common
character, Lucy; and the peculiar sadness which from moment to moment
pervades his countenance, is to me inexpressibly touching. I should have
detested a stupid laughing face for _le compagnon du voyage_, that
conveyed me from _my Heathcot_; and as the next best thing to being
happy oneself, is making others so, I forgot in my endeavours to make
Sir Murdock comfortable that every milestone was to me a _memento mori_.
It is yet rather problematical, whether I shall like his lady as well as
I do him. But I know not how it happens, that I am less disposed to fall
in love with my own sex than with the other. I have loved, dearly loved,
men old enough for my _great-great_-grand-father, but rarely have I been
attached to _old ladies_. Must we acknowledge the truth, Lucy? We may as
well; the poet has spoken it: “most women have no characters at all.” So
farewell, and be sure to love even the follies of your own Rachel
Cowley, for they are not borrowed, at least, my dear girl. Supply for me
kind words to Sedley.
LETTER III.
_From the same to the same._
Your father’s wisdom in hurrying you away to Barton-lodge, instead of
permitting you to remain at Heathcot, like another Niobe, dissolving in
tears, is so like him, that it neither surprises me nor Mrs. Allen; and
if the cheerful mistress of the most cheerful mansion contentment ever
found, cannot comfort you, I shall be angry and chide my Lucy.
You tell me your father smiles, and refers you “to Rachel’s pen” for all
that relates to Sir Murdock Maclairn’s first interview in town; “_he_
(Mr. Hardcastle) being too jealous of the baronet’s favour with me, to
be impartial.” In reply to Mr. Hardcastle I make him one of my best and
most saucy curtesies; and tell him that I understand perfectly the cause
of his _discretion_ and _humility_. He is like many other sinners,
willing to compromise matters with conscience, and to tempt others to do
that which he dare not do himself, in order to share the gratification
of wickedness at a less price. How often have we seen him check his
mirth and spoil a good story, by saying, “this is folly, neither the
weaknesses nor the frailties of our fellow-creatures, my children, are
proper subjects for mirth:” and yet he can lay a snare for me. However,
I have neither his charity nor benevolent toleration, and think folly
fair game. But I have not folly to laugh at, in the subject before me;
yet, Lucy, in the dearth of all rational amusement, in a separation from
all whom I love, do you think I can want an excuse for my pen, should it
offend charity? Self-preservation is a duty no less obligatory than
self-government; and as I am cut off from the banquet of wisdom, have I
not a right to cater for myself? “Certainly:” and if I can live upon
worse fare, and can be contented with what is wholesome, though not
delicate, will any one blame me? “No:” well then, this privilege being
granted, please to understand, that neither my compassion nor good
nature are yet starved out; for were that the case, Sir Murdock Maclairn
would be the most unsuitable dish for the cravings of my hunger. It is,
however, most assuredly true, that this gentleman’s first appearance
produced on me not only surprise, but the most powerful incitements to
be _wicked_. Figure to yourself a very tall large-boned man, meagre as
“pining atrophy;” high cheek-bones, which still more hollowed his sunk
features; a complexion jaundiced by sickness and tinged by Scotch snuff,
which he takes in immoderate quantities; a long crane neck, which is
tightly bound with a narrow black stock; a few scattered hairs, which
still maintain their carroty colour, tyed in a queue; a sunk, though
broad chest, and a plaintive voice, in which however are cadences to
please the ear whilst attending to an articulation slow, and sometimes
laboured. Add to this picture, an abstracted manner, and an air of
sadness; and you will not be astonished that I should for a few minutes
fancy Malvolio present, and that I looked for “his yellow stockings and
cross garters.” The eagerness with which he gazed upon me strengthened
my imagination, and I did not dare to smile, lest I should hear him say—
“Thou canst not chuse but know who I am:
If thou entertainest my love, let it appear by thy smiling.——
Thy smiles become thee well.”
At this moment my eyes encountered those of Sir Murdock’s, and my heart
smote me; for in language more touching than sounds of harmony could
impart, they said, “Pity me, for I am the child of sorrow; respect me,
for I am acquainted with grief.” I blushed, and forgot Malvolio.
For several days, however, I could not reconcile myself to the
_keenness_ and peculiar attention with which these large blue eyes
surveyed me. An expression in them of a famished look (I cannot better
define its eagerness) yielded, as he continued to gaze on my face, to a
melancholy softness, not unfrequently heightened by a tear; but I found
that he was subject to an absence of mind, which it appears has resulted
from many years bad health and low spirits. This, with his ceremonious
demeanour, and the no inconsiderable degree of his national accent,
render him peculiarly singular. Not expecting much amusement on the road
with a companion to whom you may speak half a score times before he is
sensible you expect an answer, I took care to provide myself with a
book; and, by chance, I robbed the counsellor of Macpherson’s Ossian.
The united libraries of the ancient and modern world, could not have
better supplied me with an author calculated to rouse the attention of
Sir Murdock. I was tempted to read aloud some passages, and he listened
with a feeling that surprised me to the sorrows of Malvina. “Have you
never read Ossian?” asked I. “If I have,” replied he, “I have forgotten
him during an indisposition that left me nothing but a capacity to feel
my own wretchedness.” A deep sigh and the depression of his head
silenced me. He soon urged me for more of my book; but I was grieved
that I had introduced to his acquaintance a work so powerfully
calculated to “awaken fancy, and to touch the heart” of the poor
baronet.
I cannot describe to you the enthusiastic bursts of feeling and
admiration which followed every sublime passage I selected; and his
tears flowed to the pathetic touches of the poet. “I will read no more
to you,” said I, with good humour and closing the book: “Ossian is, to a
mind like yours, a bad writer.” “There is a joy in grief, when peace
dwells in the breast of the mourner,” answered he in a plaintive tone.
“It may be so,” replied I, “but the mourner ought to remember, ‘that
sorrow wastes him.’” “I do not attribute my faintness to grief,”
observed Mrs. Allen laughing, “but to downright hunger; and I must beg
to stop at the next stage for something more substantial than Ossian.”
Sir Murdock instantly began his apology for his omission at the last
inn. “I forgot,” said he, “that every one could not like myself fast
twenty-four hours without inconvenience. Early habit has made
abstemiousness of no account with me,” added he, “I have fasted
six-and-thirty hours formerly, without experiencing any considerable
diminution of strength.” “Have you never thought such a disregard to the
wants of nature pernicious?” asked I, surveying with compassion his lank
figure. “I had then other cares,” answered he; “my soul, like that of
Oithana, was not as careless as the sea which lifts its blue waves to
every wind, and rolls beneath the storm.” He fixed his eyes on my face,
and spoke no more till we reached our destined post-house. Here Mrs.
Allen’s orders were quickly obeyed, and we pressed him to take some
refreshment with us; and to judge by the voraciousness of his appetite,
he must have exceeded his usual time of fasting. We were, however, too
well pleased with the effects of ham and cold chicken on him, as well as
on ourselves, to trust to his memory for a repetition of the cordial;
and Mrs. Allen undertook the management of us for the remainder of the
journey. The replenished baronet became more and more conversible as we
proceeded. He had even transient gleams of cheerfulness, and finding
that I persisted in keeping back the “tales of the times of old,” till
he, like other poor mortals, eat three meals a day, he contented
himself, and amused us by describing in glowing colours the grand and
picturesque scenery he remembered in the western isles of his beloved
Scotland; and with evident delight he traced a similarity of manners and
customs between his country and ancient Greece, marking with precision
the common features of resemblance that had struck him between the
heroes of Ossian and Homer. From this learned dissertation he
condescended to talk of France, in which country he had passed his
youth. He praised my accent, and seemed pleased that I knew the
language, speaking with rapture some passages from Racine. “Do you also
understand Italian?” asked he. I replied, “As _a school-girl_.” He
smiled most graciously—I wish you could see him smile, Lucy! and with a
suppressed sigh he said, “It may serve to fill up your time, my dear
Miss Cowley, to accept of the assistance of ‘_a school-boy_’ in this
language; there was a time, when it was as familiar to me as my mother
tongue, or the French; but my memory has been many years _lost_ to me as
a source of pleasure.” A reverie succeeded to this observation, and Mrs.
Allen and I insensibly retraced our steps and got to Heathcot-Farm. We
talked of Lucy Hardcastle; when, to our surprise, the good baronet
interrupted us by observing, that our friends at Heathcot had an
advantage of which it was probable they were not aware. “Heathcot,”
added he mournfully, “will never recede from your mind whilst you are at
Tarefield.—This is my fear: yet still I think you will be pleased with
my Harriet. She is as gentle and pure-hearted as your dear Lucy. She
will be miserable, if she fail in making you comfortable.” You will
supply our answer. He continued to talk of his wife, and told us, that
to her persuasions he had yielded reluctantly to undertake a journey
which had separated him from her more hours, than for many years before
he had been minutes: “but she thought,” added he, “that it would be
beneficial to my health and spirits; and these are of value to me,
because essential to her happiness.” He spoke with animation of her
faithful love, and added, “She is now counting the hours till she sees
me.”
When arrived within five miles of Durham we left the road, and pursued
our way through a flat country, unmarked by any thing cheerful; and
reached Tarefield-hall at about eight o’clock in the evening of our
third day’s journey. The house, as we approached it, struck me as having
been originally built in that style of architecture for which we are
indebted to William the III. and Dutch taste; but as each successive
proprietor conceived his own to be as good, and had money for its
indulgence, it exhibits at present samples of all: turrets and chimneys:
high roofs and flat ones; latticed bows and Venetian windows, and wings
added to wings.
I find, however, many good-sized rooms within; and when we get
acquainted with the five staircases, and as many thresholds, we shall, I
believe, have seen all that is curious in the manor-house, commonly
called Tarefield-hall. I must not, however, omit as its beauty, a noble
avenue of elms and horse-chesnuts, the latter in full bloom, and which
embellishes the dull scenery around. This avenue is flanked on each side
by a rising plantation of some extent, and is devoted to modern
improvement; the walks are neat and trim, and it is filled with shrubs.
Now mark me, Lucy: here I am at Tarefield; and here does my history
finish, unless you are good and tractable. Horace was not even named in
your last letter.—This will not do. You had better not provoke me: I
have rich materials before me, but I will have my price for them. Take
in the mean time the kiss of peace from your