LETTER VIII.
_Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._
We found the party in the hay-field augmented by all farmer Wilson’s
family, namely, his wife, with a Mrs. and Miss Heartley, their boarders
and lodgers, to whom Malcolm introduced us with an eagerness of
good-will and pleasure which was flattering to me. The tender greetings
between those ladies and Mary, evidently proved that I had communicated
more of joy and gladness than I had foreseen, by my interference; and as
this was the case, I took my share of the general satisfaction, which
appeared like the sky, _cloudless_. Mrs. Wilson soon restored us to
order, by leading us to seats under a hay-cock, and began to distribute
amongst us a syllabub milked from the cow, with some fruit and cakes.
Sir Murdock, who had appeared placid, though silent, suddenly turning to
his son, desired him to change seats with him. This request was indulged
with alacrity, and he placed his father next Mrs. Heartley. “How often
of late,” said the poor baronet, surveying her with a melancholy air,
“have I wished to have the opportunity of telling you, that Sir Murdock
Maclairn esteems and reverences you for your unremitting kindnesses and
consideration for his Malcolm. Yet now I am near you, language fails me;
I am oppressed by my feelings. Recollections too painful for me meet
this hour of peace and restored happiness.” He took her hand and burst
into tears. Mrs. Heartley, with much emotion and confusion, said
something of her hopes of being still favoured with his good opinion,
and of her satisfaction at seeing her worthy neighbour. He caught the
last word of her incoherent speech. “Yes,” replied he, “I hope we shall
be _neighbours_ as well as _friends_! My sufferings are terminated.
Witness this hour of peace! Witness the mercy which has sent me an angel
of consolation!”—He gazed wildly on my face; and sinking his head
between his knees and hands, he murmured out “Matilda! sainted, blessed
Matilda!” I was alarmed.—“It will be momentary,” said the agitated
Malcolm, in a low voice, “be not disturbed!” He was not mistaken, for in
a few minutes Sir Murdock’s serenity was restored; and he asked Miss
Heartley, in a manner which marked that he had no consciousness of his
late disorder, some questions relative to her brother who was in the
East-Indies. She replied; and the baronet, with renewed cheerfulness and
an expressive smile, said, “And what excuse will you make to ‘this dear
brother,’ when he knows you have monopolized a heart which he ought to
share?” A deep blush was the only answer to this question, which
awakened my curiosity. I was however called from further observation by
being asked for a song; but willing to make the conversation more
general, I alledged that I was too angry to sing; and, with assumed
resentment, I reproached the captain’s want of discretion as well as
courage in bringing into the field so many witnesses of my weakness, and
so many guards against his own. “You wrong your gallant, by your
suspicions, Miss Cowley,” answered Mrs. Heartley, with ease and spirit.
“But what will he answer to my reproaches? He has been my slave these
twenty years and more, and yet had the audacity to conceal this
assignation from me. I am indebted to my friend Mr. Malcolm for the
intelligence of my danger; and I now see it,” added she, laughing; “yet,
woman to the last, I will maintain my rights to him against youth and
beauty.”—A certain mode of expression, with the correct gaiety and ease
of her manners, soon attached me to this lady’s side; and in our walk
home she apparently slackened her pace, the more unnoticedly to converse
with me.—“You will think me very deficient in the rules of good
breeding,” said she, when entering the road to the hall, “on finding
that I neglect to pay you my respects at Sir Murdock’s house; but I do
not visit the family. My avowed affection and long intimacy with Mrs.
Howard, and my still longer acquaintance with Captain Flint, have laid
me under indelible disgrace with Miss Flint. Lady Maclairn’s situation,
and the circumstances of distress under which she has lived, have
precluded all approaches to her of a personal kind. You will therefore,
I trust, accept of this apology for my not waiting on you and your
friend. Yet,” continued she, smiling, “you must not imagine me a woman
too obscure for Miss Flint’s notice. In her zeal for her neighbours’
good behaviour, she has thought proper to single me out as an object to
be feared and shunned by all modest women. There is, however, a conduct,
Miss Cowley, that will refute malice and silence slander, without
calling out either resentment or reproach. Mine is such as has done more
than was needful for my justification, for it has disappointed an angry
woman in her purpose; and my neighbours have always judged me according
to that rule of Christian charity, ‘which thinketh no evil.’ They have
also gone farther than this precept will justify, for I believe they
think I must be _good_, because Miss Flint hates me. Malcolm’s
attachment to me and my children has also its share in keeping alive
Miss Flint’s animosity. From a child this young man has been regarded,
by myself and the family at large with whom I reside, as a cherished and
favoured guest. This circumstance has, I much fear, been unfavourable to
Miss Howard; it has certainly abridged her in her freedom. She is not
permitted to visit her uncle, because he lives under the same roof with
me; and she dares not speak to either Alice or myself, when accident
throws her in our path, if she has a servant with her. My poor girl
murmurs at this refinement in cruelty, and strenuously pleads that I
ought to inform Captain Flint of this harsh prohibition; but I forbear,
in the hopes that time will relax Miss Lucretia’s heart; and in the
interim Mr. Maclairn favours the girls in writing. Miss Howard’s account
of Miss Cowley produced the wish to see her,” added she smiling. “This
we have effected; and I have only now to add, that if in your seclusion
from the world you should feel disposed to relieve the dull monotony of
your hours by a walk to us, we shall be gratified.—I was formerly
acquainted with your friend Counsellor Steadman. When you write to him,
ask him whether he has forgotten Henry Heartley, and whether he thinks
his widow a proper associate for you.” I expressed my confidence in her
worth. She smiled, and thanked me. “But,” added she, “it is necessary
you should know the woman who, at my age and with my appearance,
cautions you to keep, as a _secret_, from Miss Flint, even the harmless
recreation of this evening. Our meeting Mary would not be allowed to be
accidental on her part, and I doubt she is severely treated by her aunt.
She conceals from her friend Alice every instance of this kind, but
Malcolm is not so reserved with us, and we are miserable on her account.
The captain hopes to soften his sister’s heart to a sense of justice at
least, and has given up the comfort and prop of his life to the
fallacious expectation that Miss Flint will love and provide for the
future support of this poor orphan. I did not in the first instance
oppose his plan of conciliation. His sister offered to take her; and he
yielded her up to her promises of being her friend and protector; but if
he knew Miss Howard’s situation she would not remain an hour at
Tarefield-hall. Poor Mary understands this perfectly; and with an
heroism which does her credit, suffers without complaint, rather than
return to be a burden on her uncle. I need not recommend to your
favour,” continued she, “this innocent and helpless girl. We are told
that you pity her, but be cautious in what you say to her uncle. His
mind has been broken down by sorrow and the injuries of fortune, his
feelings are become irritable, and his spirit will not brook further
insult. Perhaps this gentle creature may find her aunt has a heart. Time
must be allowed her to work a change in so obdurate a mind; it is her
wish to make the trial complete; but a year and more has been lost
already in the attempt, and I have my doubts of her ever being easy or
happy where she is.”—“Mrs. Allen and myself,” observed I, “were much
struck by the mode in which this young and amiable creature was treated,
even before we had been a day at Tarefield; but Miss Flint soon
explained to me her system, and left me nothing for wonder, though
sufficient for abhorrence. But, my dear Mrs. Heartley, do me the favour,
if it be possible, to explain to me Lady Maclairn’s conduct. I wish to
esteem her. Wherefore is it, that with a temper so mild and gentle, I
see her passively yielding up her dignity in her own house, and
witnessing in silence her sister’s treatment of an unoffending girl, who
has a just claim even upon _her ladyship_ for protection.”—“Poor Lady
Maclairn,” replied she, “is inured to suffering. She knows she can
effect nothing, but by an abject submission to Miss Flint. Many causes
have contributed to break down her spirits; but none have lessened her
principles of virtue: she is an estimable woman, and much to be
pitied.”—We were interrupted by Mary’s running towards us to take leave
of Mrs. Heartley. She threw her arms around her neck, and, fondly
kissing her, said, “Now you will believe that I am comfortable! One day
in a month like this would be happiness! You see I have now a dear, kind
friend!”—Our general adieux followed; but again Malcolm deserted us for
the plea of business at Wilson’s.
Whether it was owing to my dose of flattery, or to the rum bottle, I
will not decide; but certain it is, that Miss Lucretia received us with
good humour. She was more than commonly loquacious; and I, with the
patience of a Lady Maclairn, listened to the history of her sprained
knee, which had spoiled her for a walker. This disastrous subject gave
place to her inviting me to take an airing with her the following
morning, when she engaged to shew me a very “pretty country.” But this
was nothing, for I was even proof against a long story in which her dear
brother Philip was the hero, and I was led to approve of his conduct by
a direct interrogation. “Was not his behaviour noble?”—I forgot the
tale, but I recollect he saved a young woman’s being thrown from her
horse. I had, however, my measures to keep, and we retired for the night
in perfect good humour. What a simpleton I have been in not at first
beginning to manage this woman by my address! She would fetch and carry
like a spaniel were she but flattered. But more of this hereafter. You
must know more of Mrs. Heartley and her fair daughter Alice. Mrs.
Heartley is more indebted to an air of fashion and dignity, for the
attractions of her person, than either to her features or shape. Her
face would be called homely were it not lighted up by her dark and
expressive eyes; and although I believe she is defective in her shape,
she moves with grace, and is what you would distinguish by the title of
an “elegant woman.” Her daughter would at once be thought by the
admirers of half-starved, pale-faced beauties, as too nearly approaching
to the dairy maid; for contentment and health have given Alice an
_embonpoint_ beyond the prescribed rules of fashion. She is a clear
brunette, and her damask cheek has a _rouge_ which thousands vainly
strive to imitate. A pair of large hazel eyes give life and spirit to
her round and dimpled face, and when she smiles (and Alice has yet to
learn that smiles and laughter are vulgar) she is a perfect Hebe; and
Mrs. Allen wished Bunbury had seen her, as he would not have omitted to
give this laughter-loving nymph in his charming group of rural beauties.
She tells me that I have not been just to Alice: perhaps I have not; and
that I should have been more lavish of my praise of this handsome girl,
had she not been by the side of Miss Howard. But again I pronounce this
young creature to be nature’s master-piece! I had not before seen her
animated by pleasure or exercise, nor could I have believed her delicate
features capable of expressing the vivacity she discovered. She seemed
to tread in air, and, whilst with winning smiles and captivating grace,
she drew around her the people who were at work, the greater part of
whom she called by their names, I could not but apply to this innocent
enchantress the lines given to the charms of the mischief-making Armida.
“In wavy ringlets falls her beautious hair,
That catch new graces from the sportive air:
Declin’d on earth, her modest look denies
To shew the starry lustre of her eyes:
O’er her fair face a rosy bloom is spread,
And stains her ivory neck with lovely red:
Soft breathing sweets her opening lips disclose,
The native odours of the budding rose.”
I could not forbear uttering this rhapsody to the captain as he stood
near me, whilst Mary was receiving the honest admiration of her humble
friends. He smiled, but a sigh succeeded. “She is fair and lovely,” said
he with emotion, “and as good as she is fair, and as innocent as she is
lovely;—but so was her mother, Miss Cowley; yet she found this world a
hard pilgrimage!” He turned away from me, and joined his niece. I will
now bid you farewell.—Mrs. Allen joins in my blessings for your
repose.—Yours,