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,

RACHEL COWLEY.

NOTE TO THE READER.

Finding nothing important to my history during the course of several weeks’ correspondence, so punctually maintained by Miss Cowley, I have suppressed a few letters, to avoid the censure of prolixity.

Amongst the causes assigned in her letters at this time for her dejection of mind, she mentions the absence of her friends from the Abbey, who, it appears, were on an excursion to Hartley-Pool, a bathing-place not very remote from them. She dwells, however, with much more inquietude on the condition of Miss Howard. She observes, that her uncle’s absence has still more lessened these observances of civility which Miss Flint had practised. Her indignation daily augments, by perceiving Lady Maclairn’s increasing reserve on the subject of Miss Howard’s unworthy treatment.—“To what purpose serve her downcast eyes and varying colour,” writes Miss Cowley, “when at table she hears Miss Flint tell the servant, that _Mary’s_ plate needs no change? The very footman blushes. Why does she not insist on every one’s equality at her table? Surely, Lucy, the Gospel does not recommend with the spirit of peace, an insensibility to oppression! It is, however, too much for me to witness; and I am determined to have some conversation with Captain Flint when he returns. Something shall be done to mitigate this poor girl’s sufferings. I suspect she dares not complain to her uncle. I will do it for her, and trust to the event. I disdain that humanity which shrinks from active service, and can quiet its feelings by exhalting its sighs in _useless pity_ and _fretful censures_.”—“But,” adds she, renewing her wonted spirit, “I am called to order. My dear Mrs. Allen is sounding in my ears her direful predictions in regard to girls who love scribbling better than sleep, and sentiment better than roast beef. As pale faces bring up the rear of the evils she has mustered to frighten me, I will be docile, though to tell you the truth, her brow of tender solicitude has subdued me. How often have I drawn on her treasures of health! how often has she relinquished repose in order to watch over my infant wailings, and sickly frowardness! Never shall a care reach that bosom on which my head has rested, if I can prevent it! So I will go to bed. What an age it is since you have had letters from Horace! Ah! Lucy, you must pity Rachel Cowley, for she is discontented with herself, though always your

RACHEL COWLEY.”

CHAP VII.

A Letter dated in October, and addressed to Miss Hardcastle, is fortunately recovered, and the thread of the narrative, which I found was broken, is by that means preserved. Trusting that my readers are by this time satisfied that Miss Cowley can tell her own story; and are convinced that no labours of mine could better tell it, I cheerfully resume my humble office of copyist.