LETTER X.
_From the same to the same._
_Unbending dignity_, Lucy, has been a match for sullenness. I have
conquered; and Miss Flint has broken silence, and held out the olive
branch. But hold, it was not that unbending dignity you may suspect
which produced peace, it was in sober truth my _folly_ which did the
business; for as she could not always look grave when others laughed,
she forgot her anger and laughed with the rest. As I have measures to
keep, I was in nowise ungracious in my turn, and all discord was buried
by my reading to the collected circle, the comedy you sent me. Before we
parted, Miss Flint mentioned her intention of going to church the next
morning, and I readily engaged to accompany her. You must have been
surprised, that I have not mentioned to you our having been in a church
since I have been here, but the absence of the rector had slackened Miss
Flint’s zeal, and the baronet and his lady preferred their own prayers
to Mr. Snughead’s. Mrs. Allen likes their form of devotion, and having a
head-ach, has remained quiet to profit from Sir Murdock’s sermon. A
little of the still fermenting leaven, as I suspect, induced Miss Flint
to disappoint my expectations of a ride with her niece; on my enquiring
for her, she said with a haughty air, that Mary preferred walking with
Warner, her woman. We soon reached the church, and I followed my stately
conductress to a pew in the church, in which was another equally
distinguished by its size and decorations of lining and cushions. We had
scarcely seated ourselves, for Miss Flint performs this business with
peculiar caution and regard to her dress, before the Abbey family
entered, escorted by Malcolm: and they took the adjoining pew. I
instantly rose, and paying my compliments, asked Miss Heartley for the
captain. She told me he was with Miss Howard, and following them. I
again took my seat. “Why! where, in the name of wonder!” whispered Miss
Flint, “did _those women_ become known to you?” My answer was prevented
by a harsh and strong voice, which rapidly began the service. The
captain’s entrance with his niece again discomposed Miss Flint’s
features, and the confessional prayer was lost to her whilst she was
chiding Mary for her delay. She meekly said, Mrs. Warner could not walk
fast, and retiring to a remote corner of the pew, composed herself with
seriousness to the duty before her. A sermon on the deceitfulness of
riches, begun and finished in less than ten minutes, concluded Mr.
Snughead’s task. I again acknowledged the _women_ in the next pew for my
acquaintance, with a frankness and cordiality, which still more
surprised Miss Flint. “I find my brother the captain,” observed she
fixing her eyes on him; “needs not any introduction to you, Miss Cowley;
otherwise”—“Oh dear, no!” answered I, “Sir Murdock has anticipated you
in your obliging intention. I have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Flint
in my walk.” Thus saying, I joined Mr. Heartley, and left Miss Flint to
the care and compliments of the rector at the church-yard gate. She with
much dignity mounted into her coach; I followed. The captain was coldly
asked whether he and Mary walked; an affirmation was given: then turning
to the obsequious divine, she invited him to take an airing, and to dine
also, at the hall. Some excuse was pleaded, which I did not hear.
“Phoo!” replied she, “there is no end of such whims. You will make an
arrant slave of yourself.”—“Well, I submit,” answered he, leering at me,
“I cannot be in better hands than yours.” “We will take a circuit home,”
observed Miss Lucretia; with much complacency, “Miss Cowley is yet a
stranger to the country, and you will contribute to recommend it.” He
bowed. Now, Lucy, knowing, as I do, your predilection for the cloth, I
mean to be on my guard how I lessen your partiality for the black coat
you so peculiarly favour: yet, truth is truth, and though I mean not to
reproach you for your want of taste, I must tell you there is no
comparison to be drawn between Mr. Sedley and the reverend Mr. Snughead;
to be sure, our curate has some qualifications, with which in the
opinion of the simple souls at Heathcot, he might rise to an
archbishopric without disgrace to the pastoral crook; but in some
particulars, he is a mere cypher compared to the rector of Tarefield
parish. “Proofs, proofs,” methinks I hear you call for. Well, be not
angry, you shall have them, I advance nothing without proofs, nor any
thing in malice. I honestly allow that Sedley is handsome; but his
beauty is of that kind which will never make his fortune; for people in
general do not much care to admire graces of any kind which they can
neither rival, nor like to copy. Now, I have a notion that Mr. Snughead
was, in the days of his youth, which by the way is on its wane,
universally allowed to be irresistible, and that he answered exactly to
what some ladies denominate “a sweet pretty man, a neat dapper fellow, a
teazing mortal.” His features are still small and regular, and his
complexion, naturally fair, is thought less delicate than in the days of
his youth, still good; his teeth are white and even, and have suffered
nothing from neglect. But either from a scurvy trick of nature, or from
his neglect of fasting (I say nothing of praying), he is become so
corpulent, that were one to encounter him on all fours, instead of the
two limbs destined to support him, one would take him for a tortoise;
you well know that I am no enemy to _en bon point_; whenever I see it
with a cheerful countenance, I regard it as indicative of a contented
mind: but unhappily, Mr. Snughead’s opinions are diametrically the
reverse of mine. He lives in open and perpetual war with this incroacher
on the sympathy and elegance of his person; and by the cruelties he
hourly inflicts on himself, suffers a martyrdom, from which even the
mortified Pascal would have shrunk; for I think it may be presumed, that
by not eating his soup Pascal’s penetential girdle was bearable; but
poor Mr. Snughead cannot be at his ease either full or fasting. He
imitates in barbarity the fell Procrastes, for his cloaths are made by a
measure that has never been enlarged since the day of his gentility, and
his unfortunate person, like the victim to the iron couch, is doomed to
suffer under ligatures as painful as the rack. He seems momentarily in
danger of suffocation, and I could not, without pity, hear him so often
complain of the “melting weather,” nor view unmoved his hand
instinctively raised to his cravat in order to relieve his respiration.
But Mr. Snughead’s stoical firmness consoled me, and I next examined his
dress. But what pen, my Lucy, can do justice to the elaborate neatness
of this canonical beau! Who can describe the glossy black robes, the
polished shoes, the dazzling whiteness and texture of his linen! In what
language shall I convey to your imagination the honours of his head, his
tight, perfumed, well-powdered curls! I despair, you must even fancy
perfection. The frequent application of a well-scented, delicate cambric
handkerchief to his face, gave me an opportunity of discovering that it
was not his tight lacing which had impelled his hand to his throat, but
the desire of exhibiting this precious relic of former beauty; for
although somewhat in shape dropsical, it yet retains its whiteness, and
is properly distinguished by a sumptuous amethyst ring encircled with
brilliants. I was diverted from further observation, by his abruptly
addressing me with, “Well, my pretty young lady, what say you to our
north roads? Is not this a very pleasant one? What do you think of that
prospect in view?” I coldly replied, that the village looked pleasant;
and turning to Miss Flint asked the name of it. She mentioned it, and
observed to Mr. Snughead, that _Greenwood’s_ plantations were
flourishing. This person was, I discovered, the clergyman of the parish
in view, and not in the number of Miss Lucretia’s _elect_; but as Mr.
Snughead had not succeeded in showing me his wit; he returned to the
charge. “You will soon be pleased with your situation, I hope,” said he,
taking my hand, “and we shall hear you acknowledge the happiness you
will meet here, without travelling further; a road which so many young
ladies take, to find the temple of Hymen.” I withdrew my hand, and
answered him with one of my petrifying looks, as you have named my
honest contempt of _puppyism_. “When do you expect your brother?”
continued he unmindful of my frowns. It was not determined, was the
concise reply, and a silence ensued. Again the civil Mr. Snughead began.
“I hear wonders of Sir Murdock’s health and amendment,” said he,
addressing Miss Flint; “they tell me his journey to London has quite
renovated him.” “It has produced exactly the consequences I predicted,”
replied she, with a toss of her head. “He is now as much too _high_ in
his spirits as he has been depressed; _now_ he is always in motion and
busy, and as a proof of his amendment, he has in his walks with Miss
Cowley met the _Heartleys_, and as I suppose, introduced them to her, as
neighbours of mine and Lady Maclairn’s”—“Always in the wrong, poor man!”
said he: “perhaps he told you, Miss Cowley, that they were duchesses
incognito, for he knows them not himself. However, my dear _Madam_,”
continued he with a more respectful manner, “I think you should be on
your guard, and never walk with Sir Murdock without another companion.
There is no dependence to be placed on a man whose mind is so unsettled
as the poor baronet’s.” “When I perceive Sir Murdock acts either like a
madman or a fool,” answered I, “it will be time enough to avoid him;
hitherto, I have seen no indications of an unsettled mind.” “Perhaps
not, _young lady_,” answered he with tartness, “neither your age nor
experience, I presume, have given you the opportunity of understanding,
that there is very frequently a wonderful shrewdness and cunning in
madness.”—“I have observed no inconsistency in Sir Murdock’s mind,”
answered I, with seriousness, “nor has he discovered to me any of that
cunning you speak of, which I conclude may, and must be detected, if the
person’s mind be disordered. However,” continued I, assuming a careless
air, “if in any instance there can be found so much of _method_ in
madness, as to evade all examination, it entirely confirms the received
opinion, that madness and wit are closely allied. Folly under this
supposition appears to me to be worse than lunacy, for that is
incurable.”
I am rather disposed to think that something in my too honest face
proclaimed what I thought; I felt it glow, and I was out of humour: Mr.
Snughead of course had the advantage of me, for with much officiousness
he endeavoured to be _agreeable_. _I was the rebel Rachel Cowley_,—I
could not help it, Lucy. On reaching the hall, I followed Mr. Snughead’s
steps, on whose arm Miss Flint leaned; and I overheard the puppy say,
“Proud enough in conscience!” “Inconceivably so,” was the reply. Yes,
Lucy, I am proud, I disdain the civility that can simper at the conceits
of a Mr. Snughead, and despise the impudence of any clerical man, who
forgetting himself, and the respect that is due to his profession,
fancies his _dress_ is to enforce respect from others. What right has a
reptile of this class to the tribute which all pay to a Sedley? No, no!
I am too provident “to cast pearls before swine.” You know my infirmity,
Lucy; I have now taken a rooted antipathy to this Mr. Snughead, not only
as he is a contemptible creature, but because he irritated me to anger.
I was vexed and out of humour with myself. The kindly greetings of the
collected family were lost upon me, and I was on the point of quitting
the room, when luckily, I observed Sir Murdock’s cold and ceremonious
bow to the intruder. A placid and contracted air yielded to a suffusion
of his Scotch “_blude_,” which for a moment mantled in his cheek: this
moment was of use to me, I recollected myself. My gaiety succeeded to
this little triumph, and even Mr. Snughead was treated with _civility_.
An excellent dinner was a temptation I should have supposed this
gentleman had been proof against; I will not say that he eat like an
epicure, but most assuredly he eat more than his waistcoat allowed, for
he suddenly complained of a most violent pain in his stomach, and Miss
Flint prescribed a glass of rum. My tender heart melted, and I was just
going to recommend slackening his waistcoat, when I saw him have
recourse to the remedy. He breathed more freely, and attributing his
indisposition to the extreme heat of the day, perfected the cure by
untying his cravat. But I am doomed to be incorrigible on certain
points! I have not been able to get rid of my antipathy for this animal.
Now attend to the conversation. “I hope you found Mrs. Snughead’s health
improved on your return home.” This was a question from the lady of the
mansion, who, till the cloth was removed, had not found time to talk. “I
cannot flatter myself! She is, my lady, still very ill, very ill indeed:
I am in constant anxiety, and have too much reason to fear that she will
shorten her days by yielding to her complaint, which is _merely_
nervous. She is never out of the apothecary’s hands, and it is my
opinion, medicine does her more harm than good.” The unfeigned sorrow
with which Mr. Snughead delivered this opinion, induced Miss Flint to
take the part of the comforter. “She will soon be better,” observed she,
“I have no doubt of it, now she is rid of her constant plague. You will
see her spirits will mend in a short time. But what have you done with
young graceless?” “I saw him embarked for the West Indies,” replied Mr.
Snughead; “he was highly delighted with his uniform, and having gained
his point, nothing would do but the army for Banks, and that
predilection was, I fear, strengthened by his mother’s opposition to
it.”—“He has been unfortunate in his destination,” observed the captain,
“and will have a bad climate to encounter; it has of late been fatal to
thousands.”—“He must take his chance and trust to Providence,” replied
Mr. Snughead, with great gravity; “prudence and sobriety at his age, may
preserve him, and I hope he will consider this, and be wise.”—“Wise!”
echoed Miss Lucretia, “he must act otherwise, in that case, than he has
hitherto done, and associate with those wiser than himself. However, I
commend him for his spirit; for nothing is so ridiculous as to see a
young man tied to his mother’s apron-string! And after all,” continued
the tender-hearted spinster, “none of us can die more than once;
therefore it is a folly to think of what may happen or not happen to Mr.
Banks.”—Malcolm, who had during this conversation been biting a cork,
with eyes flashing resentment, now burst into a sarcastic laugh. Lady
Maclairn instantly rose, and observed, that the heat of the room
incommoded her. A look of supplication directed to her son did not
escape me. Every one agreed that the garden was preferable, and we left
the table. I retired to my room. From the window I soon after saw the
party sauntering in the avenue, but as Miss Flint was not with them, I
supposed she had also chosen her apartment for a _tête-à-tête_ with Mr.
Snughead. I therefore hastened down stairs to join my friends, when to
my surprise and vexation, I found the _tête-à-tête_ party quietly
enjoying themselves on the garden-seat close to the door I had to pass.
I could not escape them without rudeness. “You have done wisely,”
observed I languidly, “in being stationary.”—“I think we have,” answered
Miss Flint, inviting me to occupy the vacant place by her side, “and I
advise you to follow our example.”—I urged that I was going to the
avenue.—“You look fatigued,” observed she with kindness, still pressing
me to sit down, “and your friends will return soon, for I am certain we
shall have thunder.”—Not disposed for any exertions, I took the seat,
and with truth acknowledged that I had the head-ach. My silence, or
stupidity, if it must be so, probably led Miss Flint to pursue the
thread of the conversation which I had interrupted; for, turning to Mr.
Snughead, she said—“But, as I was saying, Mr. Snughead, is it not your
duty to prevent Wilson and his people from instantly occupying the only
pew in the church open to strangers? It is really ridiculous to see such
people so misplaced!”—“I have no authority to prevent them,” answered
he. “The whole chancel is attached to the claims of Wilson, as the
proprietor of the abbey lands. It was merely owing to accident he was
not my patron for the living instead of yourself, for his uncle would
have purchased it of your father; and Wilson might, if he pleased, place
his servants in your pew; for, in fact, you enjoy it by favour. But why
do you not speak to your brother the captain? He certainly ought to sit
with you on _every account_. He should not brave public opinion at
church. It is, to say no more, indecorous to see him pass you with those
_ladies_, and make the whole congregation stare, as they do, at his
gallantry.”—“He would be disappointed of his aim if they did not,”
answered Miss Flint, with anger; “it is to brave me, that he so far
forgets decency——.” “You judge too severely of your brother,” observed
the rector, in an assumed conciliatory tone; “it may be, and probably
is, that the lady exacts this homage to her power. The poor captain is
not the only one of his class who finds passive obedience and
non-resistance an important duty, _without_ the pale of the church as
well as _within_ it.”—“Who is now severe?” cried the facetious Miss
Lucretia, tapping Mr. Snughead’s shoulder; “but you married men do right
to fancy your shackles no worse than those of your more fortunate
brethren. In the mean time tell me what is your opinion of Mrs.
Heartley’s _discretion_, in availing herself of such an introducer as
Sir Murdock for getting acquainted with Miss Cowley? Pray may I ask,”
continued she, addressing me, “how often you have met this _fashionable_
and _easy_ lady?” “Once or twice in my walks,” replied I, desirous of
continuing the conversation, “and I must confess that she pleased me by
her manners; she is a well bred woman, has a cultivated understanding,
and is entertaining.”—“Your opinion does justice to your candour, _young
lady_,” observed the coxcomb near me. “She has, I am told, a good
address, and can be very pleasant. I am not surprised that you were
pleased with her; youth ought not to be suspicious.”—“It appears
fortunately for my sagacity,” replied I, laughing, “that Mrs. Heartley
imposes on all ages. This will keep me in countenance, should the
conclusions I have drawn from her appearance be erroneous. I took notice
that all the females on the benches rose and curtseyed to her as she
passed through the aisle at church.” “So they would to Wilson’s dung
cart,” answered he, laughing and shewing his large white teeth, “for the
same return. They have _Madam_ Wilson’s skimmed milk in their mouths,
and her Christmas plumb-pudding in perspective; and for these they would
bend their knees and their necks ten times a day, although they are so
insolent to their betters.”—“You forget,” observed Miss Flint, “that
they owe some civility to the _village doctress_.”—“True,” answered he,
“I forgot their obligations to Mrs. Heartley’s James’s powder and her
worm-cakes, but I owe her no gratitude on that score; for if she go on,
my surplice fees will be diminished, and the sexton will starve.”—“You
are the drollest of mortals!” cried the exulting Miss Flint, “but a
truce with your wit. You well know my motives for removing Mary from
Wilson’s. I had solid reasons for thinking the society she had in that
house improper for her. I wish to caution Miss Cowley, without offending
her. Are you not convinced that, if Sir Murdock had been a rational man,
he would have judged, as Lady Maclairn and myself have done, that Mrs.
Heartley and her daughter had no claims to Miss Cowley’s notice?”
“Upon my word you perplex me,” replied the sapient divine, passing his
clay-coloured hand over his violet face, “I know so little of these
ladies! nothing indeed, but from report. My wife from the first had your
scruples. I know not any _genteel_ family that visits them. They say the
mother is a very _lively_ woman, and no one can dispute the charms of
Miss Alice! Our young man, Banks, was one of her admirers; but his
mother did not approve of the intimacy between him and Harry Heartley.
This gave offence, and the ladies overlook their pastor. I should
imagine Miss Cowley would act with prudence, to be on the reserve with
ladies who do not visit at the hall.”—The straggling party approached
us, and our conversation finished.—To my great relief, I found that Miss
Flint only waited their return, to bid adieu to the captain; pleading
her engagement, and the moon, for passing the evening with “poor Mrs.
Snughead.”—The carriage which was in waiting immediately appeared, and,
with much formality, the Reverend Mr. Snughead took his leave.
All nature seemed to respire more freely as well as myself, after Mr.
Snughead’s departure. The evening was indeed an Italian one, and Lady
Maclairn contrived to impart to it the charms which so often embellished
those at Heathcot. We had a regale of fruit in the avenue, and every one
was freed from constraint, and disposed for enjoyment. No, your poor
Rachel was not in harmony with the scene. My spirits had been exhausted,
and I felt unusually languid. I found a luxury in tears, and I sauntered
from the circle. I could not check my imagination: it fondly traced our
happy days. The regales of strawberries in the root-house; our
Bacchanalian revelries under the mulberry trees, where we retaliated the
mischief done to our frocks, by smearing Horace’s face with the
impurpled juice; our dear father’s plots and contrivances, at hide and
seek, and our mother’s tales of wisdom and wonder! Oh, days of innocence
and of peace! how soon departed! whilst the remembrances of your pure
joys serve but to heighten the contrast of those hours of my existence
which are now lost to me! What has Rachel Cowley in common with such
beings as those who have tormented her to-day, thought I! There are
those who maintain, that in order to love virtue, we must know vice: but
far be from me such experiments! I want no hideous contrasts to shew me
her genuine work! I have witnessed that all her “paths are
pleasantness,” and all her purposes gracious! What, under her benign
influence, has been done with that turbulent self-will which, when a
child, menaced me with destruction! of that ignorance and presumption
which would have rendered me pernicious to my fellow-creatures! “What
had I been, Lucy, had I not been sheltered in the very bosom of virtue?
and am I a companion for a Miss Flint, or a Mr. Snughead?”
I was roused from a train of thoughts like these by the sweet Mary. She
approached me. “Are you indisposed, my dear Miss Cowley? You look
fatigued,—take my arm: we will retire to the house.” I raised my tearful
eyes; the very image of pity binding up the wounded foot of the pilgrim,
met them. I recollected myself. I remembered it was _Mary’s_ holiday;
and that my dejection clouded her hour of satisfaction. I pressed her
hand, and joined my friends with assumed alacrity. She understood me,
and I was recompensed for my exertions. Gaiety gave place to a rational
conversation. Captain Flint talked of America, and my spirits settled
into composure; but I have been too busy to-day for sleep, and you have
to read my nightly labours. It is now the hour when the disturbed
spirits are recalled home. I will obey the voice of chanticleer, and go
to bed. Sleeping or waking, I shall ever be your affectionate,