LETTER IV.
_From the same to the same._
Your dear letter, in which I find you _can be reasonable_ and good, was
delivered to me yesterday, by a gentleman who lives in this
neighbourhood; the Mr. Woodley, our Counsellor’s correspondent. He is, I
find, land-steward to the Duke ——, and resides at Bishop’s-Auckland, the
nearest market town from hence. He was frank and cordial in his offers
of service, and we soon settled our terms of amity. He will be our
postmaster, and from this time you may swell your budget at your
pleasure, and send it to Counsellor Steadman’s. Our servants will carry
mine to Mr. Woodley’s, for we have daily intercourse with the market.
But now for your reward. It shall be ample, for I wish to encourage
young beginners; and being positively convinced myself, that you may,
without breaking any one commandment in the decalogue, fill a page with
intelligence relative to my _brother_ Horace, I do hope to convert you,
and strengthen your faith in my tenets. A mistaken and punctilious
observance of an injunction, which your father’s _fears_, rather than
his _reason_, have given you, would be downright sinning against
friendship; so “look to your ways and be wise.”
It was evident, that some ceremony had been judged necessary for the
reception of the heiress; and I was received with much form and some
parade in the _best parlour_. But as nature had not been consulted in
these arrangements, she chose to spoil them; for poor lady Maclairn,
instead of remembering her compliments, rushed into her husband’s arms
and wept. It was no longer _Malvolio_, Lucy! No; it was the toil-worn
_Ulysses_ soothing his faithful Penelope. The picture was complete; for
an old spaniel was licking his feet at the moment. I cannot take a more
favourable time for giving you a sketch of Lady Maclairn’s person; for
whilst her beautiful black eyes were still humid with tears of joy, and
her delicate face suffused with the mixed emotions of contentment and a
recollection of her neglect of the strangers, I forgot she was Flamall’s
sister.
I should judge Lady Maclairn to be nearly fifty years old; she is of the
middle size and elegantly formed. Her beauty is of that sort which I
have heard called _pure English_; namely, hair approaching to black,
black eyes, and a complexion of the finest texture and colour. Her
features are small and regular. She is extremely pale, but not with the
hue of sickness; and it behoves Lady Maclairn to think aright, for every
feeling of her mind is accompanied by a soft blush on her face. This,
with a certain timidity and peculiar gentleness of manners, renders her
appearance more feminine and youthful than matronly; yet she is
graceful, and speaks with propriety and judgment. So far my conscience
acquits me of malice.
She had no sooner finished her fluttered welcome, than she presented to
me the Brobdingnagian, Miss Lucretia Flint, who, in a stiff green damask
gown and petticoat, might have conveyed to a soberer imagination than
mine the idea of a mountain clothed in the livery of spring; but on
raising my eyes to measure its elevation, a stern countenance of
“Burdoth’s” sort intercepted my curiosity, and I caught only a glimpse
of its snowy summit. She condescended to bend, and offered me her
glowing cheek, which I approached with fear and trembling. In order to
recover myself, I begged Sir Murdock to introduce me to his son, who had
modestly kept at a distance. He made his bow; and we began to chat on
the little occurrences of the journey. “You must have found it very
tiresome,” observed the stately Miss Flint, fixing her eyes on the
contented baronet, “I am sure I have pitied you, Miss Cowley.” “Pitied
me!” repeated I, with an air of astonishment, “I wished our journey had
been as long again! and could Sir Murdock have forgotten the road to
Tarefield, I would have kidnapped him, and made the tour of England.”
The saver of links and torches was silenced, and I talked with Malcolm
Maclairn of a country and a route which he appeared to know perfectly.
Miss Flint at length with much gravity asked how long we should have to
wait for supper. Mrs. Allen requested permission to retire to her room
before it was served, pleading a slight sense of fatigue. The courteous
mistress of the mansion accompanied us to the destined apartments, and
with the utmost solicitude for Mrs. Allen’s accommodation, urged her to
have a maid-servant to assist her. This she declined; and I returned to
the family party with her ladyship, well knowing that Mrs. Allen’s
_whim_, not the _head-ach_, was at the bottom of the business; for she
will have it that the spoiled child does not sleep unless she places the
pillow.
Malcolm Maclairn is the image of his mother; but he is glowing with
health, and his manly countenance is embrowned by air and exercise: I do
not believe that Sidney’s Arcadia has a handsomer shepherd than this
village beau.
In a few minutes my attention was called from Malcolm, by the appearance
of a beautiful apparition, which gliding softly by me, told Lady
Maclairn that supper was served. She was retreating with the same light
foot, when she hesitated, and courtesying to Sir Murdock, she said with
gentle accents, she was rejoiced to see him. “Thank you, my dear Mary,”
was his laconic reply, at the same time taking her hand. As the
beautiful phantom passed me, she blushed, and quickened her pace. “Good
Heavens!” cried I, “why, Sir Murdock, how has it happened that you did
not prepare me for the sight of that angelic creature, now gone out of
the room! I I never beheld so lovely a girl!” “She is indeed, a very
beautiful creature,” answered Lady Maclairn in an under-toned voice.
“She is Miss Flint’s niece, and lives with her here.” We moved to the
supping room; and I eagerly looked for the niece, recollecting Mr.
Woodley’s history. “Do we not wait for the young lady?” asked I. “Oh,
dear no,” answered Miss Flint, commencing with a hot lobster, “Mary does
not sup with us.” Malcolm pursed up his rosy lips, as if to whistle, and
his knuckles gave the tune of “The Babes in the Wood.” I became tired in
a minute, and as _dry_ as the dry toast I swallowed. Willing to reserve
my petulant humour for this ungracious aunt’s sole use, I retired to my
room as soon as the cloth was removed.
I found, as I had suspected, the indefatigable Mrs. Allen still engaged
in arranging her _pet’s_ clothes. Before I could begin my lecture she
eagerly asked me whether I had seen Miss Flint’s orphan niece. “I never
was more ashamed of a mistake in my life,” pursued she; “but after you
left me I began to unpack what I knew you would want in the morning.” A
maid-servant entered to take my orders for supper; she mentioned several
things, but I requested a sandwich and a glass of table beer: these were
brought and placed on the table. Some little time after, some one tapped
at the door, and the prettiest girl I ever saw in my life entered with a
small waiter, on which was a tart and some cream. “I have ventured to
intrude, Madam,” said she, “in the hopes that you may be induced to add
something to your supper.” She glanced her eyes to the sandwich, which
had remained untouched. “Permit me to assist you,” added she, placing
her dainties on the table, “let me try to uncord that box whilst you
take some refreshment.” Thinking from her dress that she was a domestic,
I complied and sat down to eat my supper: during this interval I looked
at her with admiration; which soon changed to pity, when I saw how
delicate she was, and what hands I had employed. “I beg,” said I, “you
will cut the cord, you seem no more equal to it than myself. You are not
strong, my poor child; your labours, I trust are light here.” She
blushed, and her sweet eyes filled with tears. “My feebleness is a
misfortune,” replied she, “which I owe in part to the tenderness with
which I was reared. I lament it, although my station in this family
imposes no labour on me: I am Miss Flint’s niece.” I made a thousand
excuses. “Indeed, Madam, you have given no offence,” said she, wiping
her eyes. “On the contrary, I envy the condition of those in every class
of life, who are able to fill up usefully that station to which
Providence calls them; too much care, too much tenderness have, I fear,
unfitted me for mine.” She again dissolved into tears. “I should not
have said thus much,” added she, “for I have nothing to regret, but
being a burden to my relations. Your residence here, however, would soon
inform you that Mary Howard lost every thing at the death of her
mother.”
“My dear young lady,” answered I, endeavouring to sooth her, and now
observing that she wore a black cotton gown, “you must not despair; your
loss has probably been recent; time will do”——She interrupted me. “Oh,
no!” cried she. The chamber door opened, and the chamber-maid hastily
said, “My dear Mary, you forget how time goes; your aunt will be
enquiring.” The poor girl took the friendly hint and hastily withdrew. I
now employed the maid to untie the trunk, and, with my praise of Miss
Howard, mentioned something of my error. “No wonder,” said she, with
honest indignation, “dressed as she is! But she is Mr. Howard’s child
for all that, and would be so in rags. Such relations! say I: I would
weed in a ditch rather than owe my bread to such.” A bell sounded, and
the girl withdrew, saying, “You will soon see, Madam, that I am right.”
“Good God!” continued the anxious Mrs. Allen, “what will you do, my dear
child, in a house where _a niece_ envies the condition of a servant, and
where a servant is kinder treated than _an aunt_?” “Do!” replied I, “why
I will make those who are in it _blush_.” She shook her head, and I took
it into mine that she had not met with proper deference. The storm of
passion was rising, Lucy; but I was pacified by Mrs. Allen’s assurance
that she had not been overlooked, and I found there had been no
difference made in the accommodations prepared for the heiress and her
_friend_. It was well; for, is she not my friend? Did not my dying
mother give me to her? Did not yours bid me cherish her? and when I
fail, may Heaven abandon me! Let these people dare to be impertinent,
you will soon see us at Heathcot; at present, however, my anger flows
only in one channel. My first employment here shall be to teach Miss
Flint a lesson, and to shew her that Rachel Cowley abhors oppression.
I will finish this three day’s journal by sending you a description of
the damsel, for whom I mean to draw _my sword_ should it be necessary;
you will say it has an edge; so much the better when employed to correct
cruelty.
In stature, Miss Howard is about my height, but in symmetry and
proportion of form, so completely Grecian that you must look for her
model in the gallery at Florence. To perfect the resemblance the more,
she wears her light-brown locks, nearly flaxen, braided up and fastened
round her head, whilst a black ribband confines the redundancy of the
ringlets from covering her snowy forehead; her eyes are the darkest blue
I ever saw, and, perhaps, to their colour it is owing that I never yet
saw eyes so expressive at once of spirit and softness: at one moment
they make their appeal to the heart by the imploring look of
infant-trust and confidence; at another, they bespeak a soul within,
equal to the duty of checking insolence; but these emanations are
transient, and a melancholy expression of tenderness, rather than of
sorrow, more commonly beams from them. To what shall I liken her
complexion? I can find nothing but a white rose newly refreshed by the
dew of heaven: its delicate smoothness and modest blush exactly
correspond with Mary’s skin; for its tints would confound the painter to
imitate; her smile would convert frenzy to peace, though lost on Miss
Flint’s flinty heart; and her voice would soften the tigress when robbed
of her young.
I know what you will say: “This is a sketch in Rachel Cowley’s style,
when compassion guides her pencil. It is a thousand to one that this
poor girl is any thing more than a pretty one; her youth and depressed
fortune have lent their aid to an imagination that always employs vivid
colours. We must place Miss Howard’s picture by the side of Miss
Flint’s.” Do so, Lucy; the time may come, and I hope will come, when you
shall recant, and the triumph of truth shall be that of your