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,

RACHEL COWLEY.