LETTER IX.
_From the same to the same._
Your letter of Thursday, my dear Lucy, is in my hands twenty-four hours
sooner than I expected it; but good news cannot travel too fast, and I
sit down as blithe as a bird to thank you for the contents of an epistle
which has renewed my spirits, and which will render me the “best
creature in the world with Miss Lucretia;” for whose summons I am
prepared in order to take an airing, and which allows me only time at
present to tell you, that I am happy to find you do not any longer think
your compliance with your brother’s request, is indispensible on the
ground of duty. Why should he not be indulged with the sight of my
gossiping letters from hence? Erase, expunge what you please; but
gratify him with the details which you find amuse yourself. Let him see
that his sister contrives to make in this dull portion of her life,
those exertions which prevent her mind from stagnating. Do not think you
err by deviating from the _letter_ of your father’s harsh law, whilst
you so carefully adhere to the _spirit of it_. I would no more tempt my
Lucy to sin, than I would sin myself. Horace knows that I am not a
spiritless, whining, love-sick girl; but he well knows what I have to
sustain in my separation from you, and in my removal from Heathcot. Have
no fears, I beseech you, as to the final event of such an attachment as
the one which binds me to Horace Hardcastle. When he ceases to be worthy
of my esteem and affection, I shall despise him; and when I forget
myself, he will despise me. Neither your father’s scruples, nor the
maxims of the world will lesson the ties which unite our hearts; of this
be assured.——I am summoned, the coach drives up.
LETTER IX.
_In continuation._
It was not to the fault of the weather, my dear Lucy, that Miss Flint
could attribute her return home with a head-ach; nor do I attribute my
fatigue to the morning airing; but I begin to find out that I am not yet
quite proof against provocations: read, and judge. The mistress of the
vehicle with much cheerfulness received me into it, and observed most
graciously, that it was time for Miss Cowley “to see a little about
her.” In consequence of this intention she gave the servant his
directions, and we proceeded not more than a mile, before “Miss Cowley”
discovered that Tarefield-hall had not been more unfortunate in the lack
of taste in its first projector, than it has been since in its lack of
cheerfulness and contentment; for gradually descending from the heath,
we came in view of the village, and a country, by no means
unpicturesque. My attention to the valley in sight, through which
meanders a branch of the river War, was interrupted by our approach
towards a large house, which still wore the relics of Gothic
architecture, and past magnificence. Upon enquiry, I learned that it was
still called the “Abbey,” and was the residence of “_one Wilson, a
farmer_.”—“What a striking monument it offers,” observed I, surveying
the venerable mansion, “of the lapse of time, and the vanity of human
greatness!”—“Yes,” replied Miss Flint, “it is enough to make one sick of
this world, to see such a house in the possession of an _upstart_, who
would have had his post in the stables had one of the “_Ingrams_” still
been its master. But this family is happily extinct. _Happily_, I say,
for I am certain they could not rest in their graves, if they knew who
lorded in the Abbey at this day! But it is to be hoped these people will
have their turn! I have heard they got this estate in a shameful manner!
Wilson’s uncle I believe was an arrant rogue, and the beggar on
horseback is exemplified in his heir.” This subject having considerably
discomposed the placid features of my companion, I prudently dropped it;
and she, pulling the check-string, bade the driver stop at Mrs.
Snughead’s gate.
It was not difficult to discover the ease and opulence of the rector of
Tarefield parish, from a view of his neat and genteel abode, which
fronts the road, and has a flower-garden, with gravel walks before it.
We stopped at the gate; the servant was ordered to go the kitchen way,
for enquiries respecting the lady’s health. “I shall not go in,” said
Miss Flint, “for we should spoil the gravel, and give Mrs. Snughead a
fever-fit for the day at least; besides, she would not amuse us with her
tiresome details of nervous fits, and sleepless nights.” A maid-servant
from the front door appeared, her feet shod with two flat pieces of
board, who, shuffling to the carriage, brought her lady’s compliments,
and hoped that we would enter the house. “Not now, Martha,” answered
Miss Flint. “When do you expect your master home?”—“Madam has had a
letter this morning,” replied the girl, “and the clerk is to tell the
young gentleman, that Mr. Snughead will do duty on Sunday
himself.”—“Well that is good news, Martha,” observed Miss Flint, “and I
hope your mistress is in spirits.” “Poor lady!” answered the girl in a
tone of pity, “she has never held up her head since her poor son Mr.
Banks left us; she is quite broken down, Madam! I wish you would have
the goodness to see her. The kitchen is quite in order,” added she,
glancing her eyes on the untrod path to the house. “Poor soul!” said
Miss Flint, “I could not comfort her, Martha, and I am pressed for time.
Give my love to her. Drive on, William.” Thus concluded the _friendly_
call. “You have had a good escape,” observed she, settling her large
person more at ease. “We should have been detained an hour with Mrs.
Snughead’s lamentations about her son. I pity her husband most
sincerely, for he has for twelve years and more had the plague of a
wife, who is hourly dying, if you credit her, and whose death he dreads;
for her jointure of five hundred pounds per annum, pays for her board,
though in my opinion, not for his life of mortification and continual
fear. When I see such marriages as these,” continued she with an air of
self-complacency, “I bless my good fortune in having escaped matrimony;
not that I think there are none happy but those who are unshackled, for
I am persuaded there are many happy matches; and that a young woman
cannot do more prudently, than to secure to herself an honourable
protection, and a worthy man. When I was young, I was too useful to my
poor father to think of changing my condition. I was my father’s only
comfort during a period of his life rendered miserable by the conduct
and ingratitude of his children; particularly his favourite daughter,
Mrs. Howard, whom he brought up with too much fondness and indulgence.
His second marriage was an absurdity; and he soon found that it added
little to his domestic enjoyments. It did not require the spirit of
witchcraft, for me to foresee what did result from so unequal an union
as my father’s with this young bride; but I could not desert my post
even then with satisfaction to myself. The mother-in-law was a mere
child in the knowledge proper for the mistress of a family; and I soon
discovered, that my father had only added to my cares by placing at his
table an indolent woman, who only married him in order to live at her
ease. However, I will be just to Lady Maclairn; as my father’s wife, she
conducted herself with discretion and modesty, and I have in return been
her constant friend.”
Her marriage with Sir Murdock was a foolish business! Mr. Flamall
strongly opposed it; but Harriot was always romantic! He predicted
_then_, that the baronet would be crazy; and well he might, for he had
symptoms of insanity which no one could overlook. But a title, though
without a groat, flattered Mrs. Flint’s vanity, and I had only to
reconcile matters, and to think of preventing the evils of this
connection as it related to my dear Philip’s security. “You may judge,
Miss Cowley,” continued she with augmenting seriousness, “of my
affection for a brother, whom, from the hour of his birth, I considered
as consigned in a peculiar manner to my guardianship and care. His
mother’s second marriage enforced these duties on my heart; to shelter
him, I was determined to offer my house to Lady Maclairn as a residence
at once honourable and prudent for her. Thus has it happened, that I
have had for years a lunatic under my roof. Besides this, I boarded the
whole family at so moderate a sum, that with a better regulated economy,
Lady Maclairn might have saved something for Malcolm’s exigencies, for
Philip was entirely my charge; but I cannot imagine how she manages her
purse, it is never beforehand, and I doubt, Malcolm will take care to
prevent all accumulations. Idleness at his age is a melancholy prospect!
I wish Harriot may not live to repent of her confidence in this young
man. But now I am on the subject of my family, I will add a few words in
explanation of my conduct, as it relates to another object of my care.
Were you, Miss Cowley, acquainted with all the insults and injuries I
have sustained from Mary Howard’s parents, you would only wonder to find
her under my roof. But when I received her, to relieve my brother
Percival from a burden he could ill sustain, I meant not to train her up
to any expectations but such as resulted from her mother’s imprudence.
She it was who entailed poverty on her child; and I shall fulfil my
duty, in teaching her to be useful and industrious; lessons she never
would have learned but for me. I know she has complained to you of my
severity, as she and her friends call my vigilance”——“Never, Madam,”
said I, interrupting her, “your plan of conduct needed no explanation
with me; and Miss Howard neither directly nor indirectly has accused you
of doing wrong in my presence.”—“Well,” answered she, with great warmth,
“on this point I am perfectly at my ease, provided she tells you at the
same time, that her parents brought my dear father with sorrow to his
grave, and that my peace and happiness were destroyed by their perfidy.”
She spoke, and looked so like a fury, my dear Lucy, that I was
absolutely silenced by dismay. “But let us change this topic,” continued
she, softening her voice, “for one more agreeable to you, and less
painful to myself. I think I need not say to Miss Cowley, that I acceded
with joy to my dear brother’s prospects of an alliance with you. I must
however observe that your worthy father, not only evinced his affection
for you in his choice of Philip, but the prudence of a man solicitous
for the prosperity of a rising family. On the score of merit and
conduct, Philip needs not fear any competitor for your favour. His
fortune will be ample and solid, for I consider myself as only his
steward. Mr. Flamall’s proposal of your residing at the hall, was a
matter I heartily concurred in; and in order to give Lady Maclairn more
consequence in a family you have honoured by your presence, and to which
you will belong, I resigned my authority in it, and became, like
yourself, a boarder; paying at the rate of six hundred pounds per annum
for the accommodations of myself and servants.”—I was going to speak, in
order to spare her any further display of her consummate prudence, but
she proceeded.—“I have said nothing of the person of your ‘_intended_,’”
said she, with a most gracious smile. “This is his picture drawn when he
was about eighteen.” She presented me a miniature of the young man,
which to say the truth was strikingly handsome. “Nature has been liberal
to your favourite,” observed I, examining the portrait. “He is much
improved in his person,” said she with eagerness, “since that age. There
is not in England a finer made man! I am certain you will allow this
when you see him.”—“I hope to be disposed to render justice to Mr.
Flint’s merit in every point,” answered I, “for this consideration he
has a right which he may claim; but, my dear Madam, I conceived, that
you, as well as the rest of Mr. Flint’s family, understood that I had
declined the conditions of my father’s will: I was explicit with Sir
Murdock. Mr. Flamall, and consequently your nephew, know by this time,
that Rachel Cowley is not to be transferred like her father’s negroes
from one master to another. I have no resentment against Mr. Flint. His
pretensions to me are too ridiculous for a serious examination; and if
he have a just title to the character he bears, he will scorn, as I do,
an interference so offensive to his honour, and so humiliating to his
self-love. I could say more on this subject,” added I with spirit, “but
it is unnecessary; and I request I may be spared from renewing it. Lady
Maclairn has avoided it; and you, Madam, when you know more of me, will
give me credit for a frankness in my manner of treating it, which is as
_decisive_ as _it is firm_. Mr. Flamall is my _scorn_, and I wish by
hearing nothing more of _his nephew_, to respect Mr. Philip Flint as
your brother, and Lady Maclairn’s son. When I marry, it will not be a
husband of Mr. Flamall’s appointing.” The rising and deepening tints of
Miss Lucretia’s fiery cheek, prepared me for her speech. “I would advise
you, Miss Cowley, as a friend,” said she, “to be cautious of provoking a
man of Mr. Flamall’s character, by using a language of this kind to him,
whatever may be your intention in regard to the duty you owe to your
deceased father’s will.”—“My father’s will,” exclaimed I, “will not be
violated by my rejection of Mr. Flamall’s authority, which, in every
instance, I despise!”—“It is because you do not know him, I am very
certain,” answered she with suppressed rage. “You are mistaken, Madam,”
replied I with firmness, “I _do_ know Mr. Flamall. It is himself, who
from the false estimate he has made of his talents, forgets it was
necessary for him _to know_ his benefactor’s daughter, before he
hazarded a scheme which will end in his defeated ambition. My residence
at Tarefield is the prelude only of my designs, to shew this man, that
he can do no more than be subservient to _a Cowley_: this I will make
him, and it may be he will acknowledge this. _I only_ understood the
secret of teaching him to know his place and duty; my father assuredly
did not.”—“You astonish me,” said she, “by your violence and prejudice
against Mr. Flamall; you even insinuate suspicions against his
honour.”—“_Honour!_” repeated I with a look which seemed to silence his
defender; “the honour of Mr. Flamall cannot suffer.” The remainder of
our road was passed without a single word being exchanged. She retired
to her own room, on arriving at the hall. At dinner, Mary said her aunt
had gotten a head-ach and could eat nothing. I suspect she drank the
more, for before supper the dear girl joined us, saying her aunt was in
bed and asleep, having been much fatigued, and out of spirits.
The evening was too inviting not to tempt us out. Not a breeze ruffled
its serenity; the moon shed her silver radiance o’er the tranquil scene.
Mary, light of heart, bounded before us like a sylph. Sir Murdock
spouted Ossian with enthusiastic delight. Your Rachel’s spirits had been
disturbed, and to compose themselves they made an excursion—no matter
where,—since they found repose. Lady Maclairn and Mrs. Allen, wisely
judging that star-gazing and quoting, might not suit them so well as
walking, proceeded to meet the truant Malcolm, in which purpose they
succeeded; and we walked till a late hour. Amongst the various
conjectures which my ingenuity has suggested in my endeavours to fathom
the real character of Lady Maclairn, I began to suspect that she had
some intention to circumvent her brother in his plans of securing my
father’s property for _his_ favourite. She has hitherto most diligently
adhered to the conditions I exacted, rarely mentioning even the name of
her son Philip, whereas she frequently descants with fondness and
eloquence on the merit and conduct of her “dear Malcolm,” “her prop,”
“her boast.” I had even infused into Mrs. Allen’s mind something of my
own suspicions, when on our return to the house after meeting with the
young man, chance gave to me a secret which has quite overset this
opinion of Lady Maclairn’s policy. Something which escaped Mary, whose
arm I had taken, in the gaiety of her heart, produced from me the
question, “Is then Mr. Maclairn a lover?”—“Yes,” replied she, “he has
courted Miss Heartley a long time.” “Do Sir Murdock and his mother
approve of his attachment?” “Oh dear, yes!” answered she, with innocent
vivacity, “How should they do otherwise? She is one of the most amiable
girls in the world, as well as the most virtuous and prudent of her sex.
Besides, Malcolm and Alice have loved each other from their childhood,
and they will never cease to love.” I was answered and satisfied. So you
see, Lucy, these freaks of fancy happen _elsewhere_ as well as at
_Heathcot_. I think in another century parents may discover the force of
sympathy, and will think of some remedy for the mischief it may do
whilst their children are in the cradle. It is a wretched business, when
poor unfortunate beings, whose wealth is unequal, take it into their
heads to yield to the attraction of sympathy. It is still worse, when
the scale of fortune is empty on both sides. Might not the now useless
sash worn by children round their waists, be usefully worn over their
eyes till they are properly _married_? I speak only of those neglected
children, who, left to nature’s lessons, are so apt to receive
impressions from beings as devoid of instruction as themselves; for I am
aware, that young people _properly_ educated for the world they are to
live in, want no mufflers. They may be trusted with the use of their
eyes; or should it happen that a beam of light dazzles them for a
moment, a coach-and-six, a diamond necklace, or a sounding name, will
restore them to the true point of vision. But I must be serious. What
pains and penalties, my Lucy, does the folly of man give to the
pilgrimage of this life! Not satisfied with the allotted portion of
trial deemed by Providence for our _benefit_, or to travel in a road
prepared by infinite goodness for our feeble powers, we seem to be
diligent in obstructing it when smooth and level, with thorns and briars
of our own seeking. Your good father, my Lucy, with all his wisdom,
dares not make his children happy,—and, why not? Because Miss Cowley
ought to marry a man as rich as herself. Where does Mr. Hardcastle find
this law? In a world he despises.—“Is it not late, my dear child,” asks
the sympathizing, Mrs. Allen, looking compassionately on my tell-tale
eyes. It is time to forget the world at least.
Yours, ever,