LETTER XI.

_From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

I send you, my dear Lucy, with my thanks to Counsellor Steadman for his letter, one which I have received from Mr. Flamall. You will find that I have an enormous account to settle with him on the score of _gratitude_; for the kindhearted gentleman, not having yet smoothed the way for my _sweetheart’s_ appearance, has sent a double portion of _sweetmeats_, and withal, many compliments on my _sweet_ and gentle temper, which, it appears, fame has celebrated in the island of Jamaica. I would divide with you this tribute of praise, were it not the first my unparallelled gentleness and patience ever received; but I will be generous notwithstanding: and as we have here as many preserved limes, &c. as would satisfy the cravings of half the boardingschool misses in London, I have desired all mine may be sent to Heathcot: you will dispose of them in due measure to your neighbours. My friends and neighbours returned to the Abbey last night. To-morrow I shall pass the day at Mrs. Heartley’s, when I shall give her the counsellor’s letter. I do most seriously assure you, that my late indisposition has disappeared. Your accounts from Italy were the specifics for the worst part of it; and without detracting from the good effects of the new curricle, I must attribute my cure to your prescription. Lady Maclairn’s anxiety has not been less than yours, my dear Lucy, on the subject of medical advice; but I knew the medicine I wanted—it was not in the apothecary’s shop. The curricle is, however, still in favour, for it amuses Sir Murdock, and he is proud of being charioteer. You cannot imagine with what tenderness and attention I am treated by Lady Maclairn. I cannot help loving her; but I wish also to reverence her. It hurts me to see her sink herself and her talents, in order to soothe and keep quiet a woman who might be taught to respect her. She never offends or disappoints me but when I see her forget Lady Maclairn, and act the part of a mere cringing dependent. I find she has by dint of coaxing and tears, obtained permission for Mary to go with us to the Abbey to-morrow, in order to see her uncle. Mrs. Warner, Miss Flint’s favourite servant, communicated these glad tidings to Mrs. Allen, and concluded by saying, “Aye, they will never understand my lady’s temper. Miss Howard should have gone without asking leave, and Lady Maclairn should have commended her for taking it for granted she had a right to go to see the captain. Miss Flint is not the better for being indulged in her temper. I do my duty; she knows I am faithful, but she knows also that I will not be her slave. It often vexes me to see Miss Howard so much afraid of her! Why not say from the very first, ‘I will go and see my uncle, Madam.’ Instead of this, there are pleadings and tears, which have gained after all, only leave to stay a few minutes with the captain. As to Lady Maclairn, there is something to say. The golden-calf will have its worshippers still; so she must bend the knee: but poor Mary has no such hopes, and she is a simpleton not to shew more spirit.”—This woman is well-intentioned to Miss Howard, and, I believe, contributes to her comforts; for she asked Mrs. Allen to lend her Evelina to read to Mary whilst she worked. She usually sits with her in a little parlour appropriated to Warner: Miss Flint preferring being alone in her _lair_. I shall not finish this letter till I have seen my friends at the farm, having to write to Mr. Steadman.

_Saturday Evening, Nine O’clock._

Not chusing to part with the serenity I have brought home with me, I have left my friends in the parlour in order to finish the day happily with you. Perhaps there was also a little discretion at the bottom of this intention when first suggested. I wished to avoid Mary’s first greeting from her aunt, whose orders she had disobeyed; but on inquiry, the lady had retired for the night before we reached the hall. Miss Flint’s sleeping draught is sometimes potent, I suspect; and Mrs. Patty, our maid, never fails to say on these sudden drowsy fits, “Ah, poor lady, she is much to be pitied! for there is nothing like the sleep God sends.” Leaving, however, Miss Lucretia to enjoy any repose she can purchase, I will prepare for mine by an hour’s chit-chat with my Lucy. We sallied forth this morning for our visit to the Abbey. Never did summer bequeath to her boisterous brother October a more delicious one! Mary was of the party; but she was not in spirits. Jonathan, Miss Flint’s footman, followed our steps. I had my project in my head; for I had determined that this exertion of Miss Flint’s power should not pass unnoticed. We had not proceeded more than half our road to the Abbey, before we were met by the captain and the Heartleys. Mary’s philosophy forsook her on perceiving them. “How unpardonable I am,” said she, “now I have no pretence for going farther with you! I must return with the servant.” You may conclude that this observation was conveyed to the captain’s ear. He coloured, and with some quickness in his manner turned to the servant, saying, “You need go no farther. I shall take care of Miss Howard.” The man bowed, and retreating, seemed yet to hesitate. “Inform your lady, Sir,” added the captain with dignity, “that my niece passes the day with me and her _friends_, and that I shall call on her soon.” Jonathan, with a lower bow, quickened his pace.

“Indeed! indeed!” cried Mary, “I must not disobey orders, my aunt will be disobliged!”—“I will be answerable for that,” replied the captain with gravity; “but in your attention to your _aunt_, Mary, do not forget your _uncle_, nor what is due to yourself.” It was some time before this little cloud passed; but it was dissipated by the time we reached the farm, and Mary’s welcome from Mrs. Wilson apparently banished Miss Flint and her _orders_ from her thoughts.

I do not remember mentioning to you the noble apartments which Mrs. Heartley occupies in the Abbey. But her taste has given to them an appearance of comfort, light, and cheerfulness, which in my opinion more than supplies the absence of the magnificence, which gave the finish to dark and richly carved wainscoting and bow windows, half glazed with painted glass. A good selection of books, in handsome glass-cases, gay chintz furniture, and an excellent musical instrument, assuredly suited better the assembled party, and are much more congenial with the love of neatness and order of the present inmates of the house. But should it happen that any of the departed spirits of the “Ingram” race still hover near the spot of their glory, they must, if they be placable, acknowledge, that although cumbrous greatness is fallen, hospitality still retains her empire in the house; and that those vices which ruined themselves and half the county, are buried in the fallen fabric of Gothic ignorance and superstition. After dinner we had music, which at least vied with the lute and virginal of former times. The Heartleys, I find, are all gifted with a taste for harmony. The mother is an excellent performer on the harpsichord; and her daughter shews that skill in the science so necessary in the teacher, to produce a pupil like Alice. Mary was pressed for a song. “I have forgotten all I know for want of practice,” said she with a suppressed sigh. “I will sing with you, my love,” replied Mrs. Heartley, “and we shall manage very well.” She was encouraged, and timidly sung the little ballad of Prior’s, “In vain you tell your panting lover,” with taste and expression. “Bravo, my sweet Mary,” observed Mrs. Heartley with a smile, “you have not forgotten that song at least. You would recover in a month all you have lost.” Elated by this commendation, she turned towards me, and with eagerness observed, that Henry Heartley had taught her not only to sing that song, but to admire the poetry and composition; “for,” added she, “Henry was an Orpheus, even in his cradle! I have heard Mrs. Heartley say, that she used to quiet him when a baby, by playing upon the piano-forte. How happy we used to be when he was here!” Mrs. Wilson’s calling her away prevented Mary from proceeding on a subject which seemed to have placed her heart on her lips.

I forgot not to deliver the counsellor’s letter to his old favourite; Mrs. Heartley ran it over with apparent satisfaction, and give it me to peruse. “I will thank him myself,” said she, “for this proof of his remembrance; I needed none of his candour and justice. He knew me before I was a wife, he knew me as one, and he _knows_ that Heartley’s widow lives to honour his memory, and to perpetuate his virtues in his children.” She pressed my hand with emotion, and smiling through the tears which escaped her, observed that she was yet selfish and weak.

I will not say that we became noisy after tea, but it is certain that we were childishly gay. The delighted Mrs. Wilson, followed by the young people, made the circuit of her domains. The dairy, the cheese-chamber, the poultry-yard were explored, and poor Malcolm was left a while in captivity in the pig-stye, for his daring crime of attempting to give Alice a green gown. By means of that secret intelligence at which you so wickedly laugh, Mrs. Wilson and myself were old friends in half an hour. She found out that Miss Cowley was not a fine lady; and Miss Cowley discovered that the farmer’s wife was worth all the fine ladies that have ever swarmed as butterflies of the hour. She brought to my mind the very image of the good woman before Rhadamanthus, and I doubt not but she could as satisfactorily demand his passport; for though she has not a daughter to produce as a notable housewife, yet she has made as many cheeses as her counterpart, and will trace as numerous a progeny to bless her memory.

She seconded my motion for the family to walk home with us, and it was agreed to, with certain limitations as to the time and extent of our demands; which were forgotten by each in their turn.

At length we set out on our return home; a cloudless sky, and a full-orbed moon not only favoured us, but there was a serenity in the air which is seldom found in so advanced a season, and which seemed to favour the still lingering leaf as it trembled on its parent stem. There is something in a calm autumnal evening which so resembles the closing in of a well-spent life, that it naturally leads the mind to contemplation, nay, to a _pensiveness_, though not melancholy, which “loves not noisy folly.” Our gay spirits yielded to the influence of the objects around us. We sauntered, rather than walked, and insensibly the party separated, and our chat was broken into several divisions. Mrs. Heartley and myself, with the captain, had even lost sight of our company, which had advanced before us. Mr. Flint with enthusiasm supported the opinion of a plurality of worlds; and I sung a verse of Addison’s sublime hymn.—“The spacious firmament on high.” My companions partook with me in the pious fervour of the poet; and we moved so slowly, that had not the sound of an horse’s feet accelerated our steps, the traveller might have thought us statues, or ghosts. An angle in the road was in our path, and on turning it, Mr. Snughead appeared. He paid his compliments to me with a familiarity which even startled me. “This is fortunate!” cried he, stopping his horse and endeavouring to dismount, “now my incredulity is corrected! for will you credit me, when I tell you that in listening to the seraphic strains you sung, I said,

“Can any mortal mixture of earth’s mould Breathe such divine inchanting ravishment?”

But I am convinced, and you must sing again.” I instantly concluded that Mr. Snughead had not dined _en famille_: retreating therefore from his impatient horse, I observed with good humour, that it did not appear that his horse had heard of the convention—“no song, no supper,” and was not disposed to loiter on his road. “I am already too late,” added I, “but at your next visit at the hall, I will sing.” This prudence on my part was rewarded; he recollected himself, bowed to the captain, and wishing me good night, spurred his horse.

Poor Miss Howard on losing sight of her uncle, felt all her terrors return. “What would her aunt say to her? and what was she to say to her aunt? She would not believe her.” Mrs. Allen engaged to stand as witness; and Malcolm encouraged her by saying, “My mother will plead your cause, never fear.” But I verily believe the poor girl felt it, as a respite from violence when Warner told her that Miss Flint was asleep.

Mrs. Allen sends her blessing, and your Rachel Cowley remains your affectionate Sister and Friend.