LETTER VI.
_From the same to the same._
Since my last, I have had some conversation with Mr. Malcolm Maclairn,
which, as it interested me, will make the subject of my present
lucubrations. He returned home last night from an excursion which almost
immediately followed my arrival here. I met him this morning in the
garden, and he joined me. After civilly apologizing for an absence from
home so soon after I was his mother’s guest, he said, his father had not
been for many years in a state of health which admitted of any
interruption by business. “But,” added he, with seriousness, “with what
satisfaction do I now devote my time to his ease and comfort, when I
compare his present condition with the sufferings of his mind that I
have witnessed! This morning he was not only curious to learn the
success of my little journey, but conversed with me on the subject of it
with precision and interest. In time his long habits of seclusion and
indolence will yield to the natural energy of his character, and the
activity of his mind. I have cherished this hope, Miss Cowley, from the
hour I was capable of reflecting on the nature and operations of my
father’s malady. I never could believe he was what he was called, nor
that his case was incurable lunacy. The event has justified my opinion.
After many years of suffering under the most afflicting hypochondriacal
attacks, he was suddenly seized by a violent fever, which for many days
baffled medicine, and repressed every hope; the crisis was favourable.
We were prepared to expect not only extreme weakness in his bodily
powers, but also that debility of mind which inseparably belongs to a
state of nearly renovated existence. He remained for a time a mere
infant; but we perceived that with his increasing strength, his mind was
clear from those gloomy images which had so long obscured it. He
continued to gain strength; but unfortunately his memory, too faithful
for his advantage, represented the scenes which had passed. He became
painfully susceptible to a sense of humiliation the most unfriendly to
his perfect recovery. No arguments could prevail on him to appear, even
before the servants of the family, for a considerable time, lest he
should terrify them; and his persuasion was so strong that he was
disqualified to appear in society, that my dear mother ceased to
importune him on the subject. Unsupported, and I may add, friendless as
we are on the side of connections, no efforts were made to combat
opinions which were more the result of extreme delicacy and habitual
indulgence, than of a still disturbed imagination. I was convinced that
my father wanted only a stimulus sufficiently powerful to rouse his
mind, and to recover his native powers of acting. About this time, we
received Mr. Flamall’s letters, with his plan of your becoming an inmate
at the hall. My father was extremely averse to the proposal. He
affectingly drew a picture of himself, and with tears appealed to his
wife to determine whether he was a fit object for the observation of a
girl who had no acquaintance with misery, and who would shun him as an
object of dread and disgust, or laugh at his eccentricities. Miss
Flint’s wishes were answered with firmness. ‘He should quit Tarefield.’
I had arguments more potent.—Let it suffice for the present,” continued
Malcolm with emotion, “that _I know Mr. Flamall_; and that my father
knows him to be a villain. I urged, and seriously urged, that by his
rejection of the proposal Flamall had made, you might fall into less
honourable hands; that he might, by an apparent acquiescence circumvent
designs, which, as originating in a mind devoid of every principle, must
be liable to suspicion. ‘You may not,’ added I, ‘be able altogether to
redress the grievances which this young lady will have to endure under
the controul of such a guardian; but under your protection she will be
secure. Convince Miss Flint, and let Mr. Flamall understand, that you
are no longer the ‘idiot,’ ‘the lunatic,’ they have proclaimed. At no
period of his life was Sir Murdock Maclairn better qualified to become
the defender of innocence. My arguments prevailed, and his journey to
London to receive you, was determined on. My poor mother’s spirits sunk
into terror. She resolved to attend Sir Murdock, and urged with many
tears, the danger of his going by himself; but I was resolute. It was
indispensibly requisite to renew in my father’s mind a confidence in his
own strength, and to permit him experimentally to feel that he was a
rational being, and fully competent to the care of himself and of you.
He departed alone; and with a solicitude and terror which I will not
attempt to describe. I followed his carriage. I had the comfort of
finding on the road, that although the singularity of his manners
excited curiosity, no one called in question his faculties of action, or
suspected he had been deranged. I lodged at the same coffee-house in
which he did, and slept in the next room to him. I followed his
footsteps, and watched his return from Counsellor Steadman’s by means of
a young man who was in his office. From this gentleman I also learned,
Madam, some particulars relative to your situation at Mr. Hardcastle’s,
and, with this information to appreciate justly your character, and that
of the friends from whom you were to be separated. I reached the hall
not more than two hours before your arrival, with the unpleasant
conviction on my spirits, that you would experience under its roof many
privations of your accustomed enjoyments. But I also knew, that nothing
would be omitted on my mother’s part to render your banishment from your
friends as easy and as secure as possible.—This mother,” continued
Malcolm, “you must love; for she merits your esteem, and you are just.
No language I can employ can describe her conduct as a wife or a mother.
Judge then of her gratitude to you, for the humane and delicate
attention you give to a husband, for whose sake and for whose comfort
she has lived! You will no longer be surprised, my dear Madam, by the
singularities of Sir Murdock, or at the retirement in which we
live.—Observe those grated windows,” continued Malcolm, directing my
notice to two in the attics, “in that apartment did my mother, like an
angel of peace administer every tender, soothing balm to the desponding
and disturbed imagination of her beloved, idolized husband! There it
was, Madam, that I perceived from time to time the emanations of a mind
which neither sickness nor sorrow could entirely extinguish. There it
was, that I saw the spirit of a Maclairn struggling with affliction, and
nobly sustaining its claims to the meed of virtue!”—He spoke with an
animation which proved his affinity to his father.—“Need I,” pursued he,
“recommend to Miss Cowley the continuance of those acts of kindness
which have already produced the most flattering hopes to my dejected
mother’s spirits. She tells me Sir Murdock delights in your society, and
that he talks of you as a blessing sent to comfort her, and to heal
him.” “God Almighty grant it may prove so!” said I, with fervour. “To be
an agent in such a work would make a prison pleasant to me! But I find
nothing at Tarefield,” added I, “to put my philosophy to the trial. I am
perfectly contented in my banishment, except on one point; and I bespeak
your good offices, Mr. Maclairn, to remedy this grievance. Contrive to
conquer Miss Flint’s dread of my being an improper associate for her
niece. From the precautions that are used, I should have thought those
grated windows to have been poor Miss Howard’s boundaries.”—“She is
another of my dear mother’s cares,” replied Malcolm with eagerness——“But
see, Lady Maclairn approaches.” He bowed and turned towards the gate,
whilst I quickened my steps to meet her Ladyship. “I come a petitioner,”
said she with cheerfulness; “my husband wants to see you, and to have
your recommendation of another book. I dread lest he should become too
importunate; but only give me a hint, and I will prevent his intruding.”
“Let me at once,” answered I, taking her hand, “tell you, in unequivocal
language, that my enjoyments at Tarefield are so dependent on Sir
Murdock, that _I_ shall have no spirits, but in proportion as I find
myself useful to the return of _his_. From the first day we met, I
promised that we should be mutually useful to each other. He shall teach
me wisdom, and in requital I will endeavour to cure him of his
indolence.” “God will reward you!” said her Ladyship, with emotion.—“The
endeavour alone,” answered I, “will be a recompence; yet I am on the
point of shewing you I can be selfish. I entreat you to assure Miss
Flint that I am a very harmless young woman, and that she may with
safety permit her niece to be familiar with me.”—“Would to Heaven,” said
she, “it was in my power, Miss Cowley, not only to oblige you in this
request, but also to convince you of my own opinions, as they relate to
this amiable girl! But I can only deplore her aunt’s harshness of
temper. I have neither the authority nor the influence necessary to
remedy the evil. Lucretia must be left to the bitter experience which
will result from her temper; and Miss Howard must be satisfied with
knowing, that she is not the only one under this roof who suffers from
its caprices. I am this poor girl’s friend, but I cannot lessen the
oppression under which she lives, although I abhor it.” The Baronet
appeared, and I thought his wife was not displeased by the relief his
presence brought her. He gladly accepted my invitation to breakfast, and
it was no sooner finished than he became so engaged with a book as to
resemble a statue.
You say you do not yet know where to find me, should you be favoured
with the gift of the renowned _Puss and her Boots_, and take it into
your head to _step_ from Heathcot to Tarefield. Conceiving that, in the
fancy of the moment, your imagination had conquered the difficulty of
the staircases and thresholds, I will in my turn, fancy you are now in
my _domicile_. My apartment forms the south wing of this irregular
building, in which are two specious parlours, which command the east and
south, by which means I have the avenue and the garden for my solace.
But on discovering that Lady Maclairn had, from indulgence, a more
peculiar privilege in the appropriation of these rooms to her own use, I
have insisted on their being regarded as _hers_; and I have erected my
throne of independence on the second floor, where the rooms are
correspondent, only divided into three. It is in the south room you must
look for your Rachel Cowley: but you may, if it please you, imagine you
are still at home; for all in this _sanctum sanctorum_ is _Heathcot_. My
work-table, the drawings we did together, Horace’s biographical
chart—_all_ present to my mind those
“Friends of reason, and my guides of youth,
Whose language breath’d the eloquence of truth;
Whose life beyond preceptive wisdom taught,
The wise in conduct, and the pure in thought.”
To gratify Sir Murdock, who by no means relished my preference of the
second floor for my domain, I have placed my books and the piano-forte
in one of the parlours, which has wonderfully domesticated us to that
room. He is too well bred to intrude on my private hours; but he often
induces me to shorten them, for there is a pleasure which belongs to
sympathy; and when I see the poor baronet’s eyes brighten at my
approach, I feel the gaiety which I often assume, settling into
contentment. Have I said enough to satisfy your curiosity? Will it not
be my own fault if I am dissatisfied with a prison regulated by order
and neatness, and inhabited by people who wish to make it pleasant? I
promise you, Lucy, that I will be all you wish me to be; but I must have
intelligence of our dear wanderer. Neither Tarefield-hall, nor
_Heathcot_ itself, would content me, without this indulgence; and, to
say the truth, I would rather be the “Wet sea-boy” in Lord William’s
yacht, “even when the visitation of the winds takes the billows by the
top,” than dwell in a terrestrial paradise. But this is the romance of a
girl! and as Solomon, from the next room, is glaring his large eyes on
me, I will profit from the admonition they give me, and close this
letter and my own eyes for the night. Heaven will, in its mercy, receive
the petition I offer for all that is dear to Rachel Cowley, for in that
confidence do I live.
P. S. Mrs. Allen bids me tell you that she finds Tarefield has a worse
report than it deserves. It is haunted only by _one_ unquiet spirit, and
that may be said of nine hundred and ninety-nine houses out of a
thousand. She has, by her usual address, found the means of quieting
this nuisance as it approaches her; for Miss Flint affects to have a
great veneration for Mrs. Allen’s judgment, particularly in physic, in
which she is or seems to be an adept. I heartily wish she may be
converted to Mrs. Allen’s creed, of being “good to all,” it would do
more for her weak _nerves_—could you but see this woman!—than a course
of valerian and bark.
LETTER VII.
_From the same to the same._
Obedience in most cases is the best test of love; and as you _command_
me, my Lucy, to continue faithfully to detail all the _minutiæ_ of my
domestic comforts, till you are certain I want only you, I will continue
to please you. In time you will, I presume, wish for other subjects; and
I beg you will point out to me the means of attaining any more important
than my present one. What think you of my studying heraldry, for the
purpose of amusing you? I should have a good preceptor in Sir Murdock;
he frequently descants very learnedly on armorial bearings, and with
much philosophical precision traces the influence of “_blude_,” from the
father to the son, for centuries past. According to Sir Murdock’s
favourite hypothesis, every cardinal virtue depends on having “_gude
blude_” in our veins; but a truce with nonsense. I believe the good
people I am with will please me in all essential points. They have
already forgotten that I am a _stranger_. Miss Flint has put aside her
damask gown and laced suit, and I saw her this morning walking in the
garden, in a _dishabille_ not far removed from dirty negligence. By the
way, the baronet now exhibits a new wrapping gown with Morocco slippers;
and as we walk before breakfast, he usually continues to take that
repast in the parlour with us. This hour is gradually becoming useful to
him, and his wife also, for she appears to enjoy it as much as he does.
I am now convinced that I have innocently occasioned to Miss Howard the
privation of her morning exercise. I caught a glimpse of her to-day in
the garden, and instantly availing myself of the opportunity, took a
direction which led me to her. When remote from the windows, I at once
entered upon the subject of my fears, and told her that I had been vexed
and disappointed by not seeing her in the avenue. “I must not abridge
you of liberty,” added I, “and unless your aunt becomes more reasonable,
I shall lose my temper. What can be the humour she gratifies by opposing
my wish to enjoy your society?” The poor girl was confused—“You are very
kind, Madam,” replied she, “but my situation here does not admit of the
honour you wish to confer on me. I have to learn many things, and my
time is necessarily engaged by my duties. I have unfortunately been
reared with too much tenderness for the station of life to which
Providence has destined me, and it is sometimes difficult for me to
forget.”—She could not proceed.—“Say rather,” observed I with
indignation, “that it is difficult for you to bear, unmoved, a cruelty
which disgraces your aunt, and will destroy you.”—“Indeed,” answered
she, with an alarm which surprised me, “your generous nature and
sympathising temper have misled you. My aunt is not cruel: she thinks I
want a discipline to fit me for the world and a low condition of
fortune. Perhaps she judges right. In the mean time, I would not, on any
account, give her room to imagine that I am discontented or ungrateful
for the shelter she affords my helpless youth. But I must leave you,”
added she, whilst her eyes swam in tears. “I have walked an hour, and my
aunt likes to see me exact.” You will believe that this short interview
was not the _exact_ preparation I needed for the scene I witnessed at
dinner. Her aunt actually sent her from table with the soup and beef,
neither of which she had tasted, because she had not done her allotted
task. God, I hope, will forgive me for the thought that half choaked me,
and which would have finally choaked Miss Lucretia, had it been
successful. I was so angry with Lady Maclairn, that I believe she
perceived it; for nothing escapes her observation. After dinner we were
by ourselves; and, in the most unqualified terms, I noticed Miss Flint’s
want of humanity and good manners to a girl whom she was bound to treat
as a daughter. “I am astonished at your forbearance,” added I; “for
these instances of her unfeeling temper put me into a fever.”—“You are
mistaken,” answered she with seriousness, “if you suppose I suffer the
less for being patient. I am as sensible as you can be of the improper
treatment Miss Howard has to support: but I know I am more effectually
serving her by being silent, than I could be by opposing her aunt. You
know not this woman so well as I do; nor the necessity which forces me
to witness her harshness and severity to this sweet and innocent girl. I
must be passive, Miss Cowley. Yet there is a fault in Mary. She has been
taught to dread Miss Flint. She is too much under the impressions given
to her mind when with her uncle, to perceive that there is in Lucretia’s
temper a jealousy in regard to the affections of those about her. With
less timidity, and more apparent contentment, she would remove from her
aunt’s mind the suspicion which interposes between her niece and every
act of kindness her natural generosity would prompt. She believes Mary
detests her.”—“Good Heaven!” cried I, “she must so believe, for her
conscience accuses her of deserving to be hated!—But, you say, Mary has
been taught to dread this aunt. Are Miss Flint’s _tender mercies_
calculated to rectify her opinions? And would you wish to see a girl at
_her age_ practise an address which would contaminate the rectitude of a
mind at _any age_, in order to gain favour, and to sleep and eat in
peace? I should see this girl trampled upon without pity, were I to see
her for one moment smile and _lick_ the hand which oppresses her!”—“Ah,
my dear Miss Cowley,” replied the agitated Lady Maclairn, “in this
sentiment are contained the genuine feelings of nature, and the language
of an untried spirit. May you never know the pressure of those
circumstances in life which leave the principle vigorous, and fetter
down the power of exerting it!”
Miss Howard entered the room. Her eyes were red with weeping. She
brought Miss Flint’s request that we would take our tea in her
apartment. In the humour I was in, I would as soon have paid a visit to
a felon in Newgate! I sent my negative, and left the room abruptly. You
will perceive that your Rachel Cowley had lost sight of wisdom. Tell me
not, Lucy, that I am an enthusiast: I will maintain, to my dying day,
that there is language which hypocrisy can never speak. Lady Maclairn is
a _Flamall_! not one line in her face corresponded with a feeling of
mine. I told my tale to Mrs. Allen.—What a contrast! The glow of
indignation, the look of pity, with which she listened to my story, made
me thankful that a slight cold had kept her in her room at the dining
hour.
I had scarcely recovered my _sang froid_ before Lady Maclairn, with a
countenance as placid and gentle as the pleased infant’s, entered to
_chat_, and enquire about the rebel tooth which had teazed Mrs. Allen;
and, with a calm and easy good humour, she asked my permission for Sir
Murdock’s visit. “I am going,” added she, smiling, “to bring Miss Flint
into good humour; and if I should be so fortunate as to succeed, Mary
shall have a holiday and walk with you.” I could only bow: but in spite
of nature this woman subdued me; for she checked a sigh that I could not
resist, and left me, to send in my guest. Sir Murdock finding I was “at
home,” joined me; and, to smooth my own ruffled features, and gratify
him, I went to the harp. I have however, prescribed for myself as well
as my patient; the _penseroso_ in music having more than once betrayed
him into tears and myself into sadness, by sounds which came
——“o’er his ear like the sweet south
That breathes upon a bank of violets.”
Two or three songs of Horace’s are now locked up; and the baronet is
contented with being roused to cheerfulness by Scotch ballads.
Let me know in your next letter how many months Rachel Cowley has been
at Tarefield. Mrs. Allen’s calendar says not more than one—can this be
true? Poor Horace! how tedious must be to him the account of time if he
computes it as I do! How many precious hours which Providence has given
us, have been, and will be still lost to the account of happiness!—A
happiness, Lucy, which would not have interfered with a single duty, nor
invaded on the rights of a single human being!—Good night!
Well, I will be good, and endeavour to be patient. I will eat, and
drink, and sleep, and forget not only my own cares, but cease to feel
and be angry at the sight of oppressed innocence. I will grow fat, and
say with Miss Flint and her tribe, “What! are not the poor and
friendless made for our use?” I will do any thing rather than grieve my
Lucy; but you have, my dear girl, your whims and crotchets to correct,
as well as I my petulancies and opinions to govern. What has given you
the notion that I am starved at Tarefield? Please to understand that
Miss Flint prides herself on the goodness and abundance of her table;
and although she has not yet acquired a relish for a dinner of herbs
seasoned by love and peace, she has an excellent appetite for the
stalled ox. Consequently, as the song says,
“Each day has the spit and the pot,
With plenty of pudding and pie.”
Therefore be assured, that if to “pine all the day is my lot,” it is not
because I am hungry or ill fed. No, no: it is the sovereign will of Miss
Lucretia Flint, that there should be no want of any thing at Tarefield
but _contentment_; and as she can live without it, why should not
others?
Yesterday morning Mrs. Allen and myself, escorted by the baronet,
encountered Malcolm in our ramble before breakfast. He was in rustic
attire, and had a scythe slung on his shoulder. He joined us with a face
glowing with health and exercise; and with the utmost cheerfulness
accosting us, he said he had been working two hours in the meadow. “It
is not remote,” added he, “and if you love nature’s perfumes, Miss
Cowley, I advise you to lengthen your walk. You will find the poets need
not the aid of fiction to heighten their description of a _hay-field_,
whatever they may do in describing hay-makers. Were I poetically
decorated, I would offer you my arm, but in this trim.”——I interrupted
him by bidding him lead the way, and be content without rivaling a
birth-night beau.
We soon reached the field, in which were, with a number of people at
work, the proprietor, farmer Wilson, a neat comely looking man, and
Captain Percival Flint. They advanced to meet us; but I perceived an
instantaneous change in the baronet’s countenance, and I thought the
salutation between the captain and him more ceremonies than cordial. Sir
Murdock, however, introduced him to us; and then, with a forced smile,
he asked him why he had so long deserted the Hall. The captain said he
was sorry he had understood the family to be too much engaged to admit
intruders, as it had prevented his visit of congratulation on his return
home; and that he had himself been on an excursion for some time since
that period. Sir Murdock’s brow cleared, he gave his hand,—“You must be
more neighbourly,” said he, “and help us to reconcile the retirement of
this village to these ladies.” He bowed, and I began to talk of Miss
Howard. I finished my panegyric with an assumed complaint of her
idleness, and begged he would come to the hall, were it for no other
purpose than to exert his authority and oblige her to walk out. “She
used to be fond of walking,” replied he pensively; “but the want of a
companion of her own age, has, I fear, depressed her spirits and
activity.”—“Probably,” answered I; “but only second me and I will engage
she shall forget crossstitch and meditation in a month.” He smiled,
whilst a deep sigh escaped him. I know your reverence for a black coat,
Lucy, and this predilection will not, with you, be disgraced by a
prudish prejudice against a red coat. With me a bare suit of
regimentals, unspotted by the wearer’s conduct, and unsullied by time
and inattention, are credentials I must respect. The neatness of this
veteran son of Mars, marked with me the gentleman; and I lost no time in
my observations. He is even now too fair for a hero; but the fortune of
war has indented a scar over his left eye-brow, which gives manliness,
if not dignity, to his countenance; for it certainly lessens the effects
of a mild expression, and apparent want of health, by no means
corresponding with a military man: a wooden leg, however, it must be
allowed, does, and the captain’s fame as a soldier has reached the
village, where he is regarded with admiration and respect: but his
manners are so placid and gentle, that I could not help fancying a cross
and a rosary would have converted his portrait into the interesting and
war-subdued hermit. So leaving you to finish this sketch, either as an
anchorite, or a half-pay captain of marines, I shall continue to inform
you of the impression which his past interview with me has left. We were
such good friends before we parted that I ventured to tell him, that the
sight of a military beau was a phenomenon which had not entered into my
calculation of the pleasures to be found at Tarefield, and that his
appearance had put my prudence and discretion quite off their guard,
insomuch, that I dared to make an assignation with him for the evening.
“You cannot, as a soldier,” added I, “refuse my challenge; but I warn
you I shall bring into the field a _second_, in the person of Mary
Howard.” He laughed, and replied with gaiety and gallantry, that he
accepted my terms, although the time had been, when he should have
conditioned for _others_; but that I might depend on his punctuality.
On our return home I mentioned this arrangement to my companions. Sir
Murdock, delighted with his morning walk, said he would be of the
evening party; but instantly recollecting the difficulty of my
engagement, he asked me, by what stratagem I intended to free the poor
captive Mary from her cage. I was not quite prepared with an answer to
this question; and could only reply, that I trusted to fortune and my
own ingenuity for success.
The gaiety of the baronet amply indemnified Lady Maclairn for having
waited for her breakfast. She was treated with the detail of our walk
and with quotations from Thompson’s seasons; and with the contentedness
of the hour, and a good appetite, he rallied me on my advances to the
captain, telling his wife of the appointed rendezvous, and of my plot to
reach Captain Flint’s heart by means of his niece. Would you could see
Lady Maclairn in moments like these! Why have I not Ithariel’s spear?
For nothing less potent can reach the genuine features of this woman’s
mind! This morning, for example, she was ingenuous and unconstrained,
her sweet eyes contemplating with delight the cheerfulness of Sir
Murdock, when in a moment I saw her countenance change, and her eyes
cast downwards, from the effects of these words: “My Harriot, you must
be of our party; you must intercede for poor Mary.”—“You know it is not
in my power,” answered she, with evident distress. Sir Murdock’s gaiety
sunk in an instant; but I interposed my influence, and with assumed
spirits said, I would trust to no one for the deliverance of Mary but
myself; and that I had already formed my plan of action. Do you not
think Lady Maclairn is somewhat obliged to her guest for these timely
helps? I suspect she feels her obligations of this sort sometimes too
sensibly.
But to return from this digression. I need not tell you that from the
first hour I entered into this house, I took care to mark with a
_decided_ precision, my absolute independence, in respect to Miss
Flint’s will and pleasure. In every compliance, in every act, I have
shewn her, that I look to Sir Murdock and Lady Maclairn as the
regulators of my conduct, and as the heads of the house. But I found it
was necessary either to declare open war with Miss Lucretia on the
occasion before me, or to try her ladyship’s mode of _bending_ to the
despot. The lesson was a new one, and I felt an inclination to make an
attempt in the art of flattery. So prepared, I met Miss Lucretia at
dinner: fortunately she was in a pleasant humour; and giving a gulp to
my pride, I praised her skill in carving, and told her the story of poor
Mrs. Primrose’s white satin gown, and the unlucky goose-carver’s
disgrace, in the best manner. I succeeded; and my next manœuvre was to
overlook the poor girl who silently sat beside me, patiently expecting
to have her empty plate supplied. My unusual politeness was not lost,
for I also talked of Jamaica. Upon this ground, I presume, she called
for a glass of rum and water, “half and half,” and drank to all friends
there. Even this went down my proud stomach in a glass of wine, and I
became so _agreeable_ that she invited me and the circle to drink tea in
her apartment. Our cheerful acceptance of her invitation was followed by
a recollection of her dress, which was not _en règle_, and she left us
to prepare the silver tea-board, and to make her toilet. I was delighted
to find Sir Murdock had enjoyed this scene: he told his wife I was a
plotter, and bade her beware of my Circean-arts. She smiled, and said I
needed no auxiliaries, otherwise she would readily join my standard,
seeing it was my design to lead tyranny captive.
On entering Miss Flint’s drawing-room, I perceived that Mary had been
permitted to put on her Sunday muslin gown; and to her native charms and
holiday suit, her youthful fancy had given the finish by placing some
moss-roses in her bosom. She was seated in the remotest of the bow
windows, with a huge mass of canvass before her, and was plying her
needle with all dispatch to get up the lost time. The endless roll of
carpeting was now displayed. Miss Cowley could not but praise the
design; and she heard that _three_ years would finish the furniture of
the room in crossstitch, without _one comment_ that could offend. Can
you wonder that Mary was allowed to fetch her bonnet, and to join the
walking party after tea? Will you not rather wonder at my success in
this new trial of my talents? But between ourselves, I begin to suspect
that the art of wheedling, is one of our natural prerogatives. You
cannot imagine with what dexterity I employed my untried weapons! It was
well they served me; for during the demurs and difficulties Miss Flint
opposed to my intreaties, I felt my forbearance was like Acre’s courage,
not indeed oozing out at my fingers’ ends, but with every breath I drew;
and had she not consented when she did, I should have lost my
hard-earned laurels. You will not, however, fail in congratulating me on
my triumph over myself. But mark me, Lucy, I mean not to twist and turn
at the orders of that prudence which is so often practised for wisdom.
It is necessary for my purpose that Miss Howard’s friends should know
more of me before I can effectually oppose Miss Flint’s will; but when
they do understand that Rachel Cowley can no more live under the same
roof with an oppressed orphan, than Miss Lucretia shelter one, without
feeding her spleen, and qualifying her malice for the bread she bestows,
farewell wheedling and coaxing! My road will be plain, and if perchance
I encounter any of Miss Lucretia’s frowns in my way, I shall laugh at
them.
This poor girl hangs on my spirits. I will reserve for my next letter
the account of our evening walk. You will lose nothing by my going to
bed; for I am weary, and somewhat of your petulant