LETTER XII.

_Rachel Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

You will, my dear Lucy, when you have read this letter, commend me for my caution. “I am well, and all here are well, thank God for it!” Do not however fancy that I have not had an escape, although the curricle has not been overset, nor have I had a cold and sore throat in consequence of my night walk.

In my last I mentioned that poor Mary had suffered from being out so late; but that her aunt wisely recollecting that Sunday was the captain’s visiting day, graciously admitted Mrs. Allen’s evidence in favour of the poor culprit; and that our Sabbath was a day of peace as well as rest. I heard nothing of colds or rheums that day.—On Monday, Mary was kept hard at work upon the odious carpet. I rode out with Sir Murdock in the morning of the following day, and on our return found your dear letter. All was peace, in consequence, in your Rachel’s bosom. But at dinner no counterfeiting could conceal from me the disorder which Lady Maclairn took such pains to hide. It is incredible to conceive, what a command of features this woman has acquired! But I detest her when she dares not speak with frankness. There is a tremulous play of the muscles round her mouth, and a slowness in her utterance that mark the struggle within. On enquiring for Miss Flint and Mary, who did not appear, we were told that Miss Flint had a most oppressive nervous head-ach, and that Miss Howard had gotten a sore throat.—On Wednesday, both the invalids were worse; for the aunt was uneasy on Mary’s account who was feverish. “Sir Murdock was, however, to be amused.” He might fancy it would turn to a putrid sore throat and be alarmed. It is a pity, thought I, whilst Lady Maclairn made all these excuses for imposition, that nature had not given you a different complexion! I was certain, Lucy, that there was some mystery in this business. Warner kept close, and Mrs. Patty said that Miss Howard kept her bed. I do not love mischief; therefore, to amuse my good baronet, who appeared somewhat discomfited by the sudden change in the weather, and his lady’s frequent desertion of him in order to attend the sick, I engaged him to settle us in our winter quarters, and to make shelves for the books lately sent me from town. Two days incessant rain were thus passed; and we learned that the valetudinarians were recovering.—On Sunday, Mrs. Allen and myself went to church in the morning; and I was requested to say to Captain Flint, that Mary had been indisposed with a _cold_. “He will find her altered,” added her ladyship with one of her unlucky blushes; “she has been very ill.” I asked her whether there had been any appearance of danger in the case. “No,” replied she, “but her aunt has been much distressed on her account. They mean to dine below to-day, lest the captain should be uneasy.”

I delivered my commission with the same precaution it was given me, and whilst I was satisfying Mary’s friends on the subject, Mr. Snughead passed me with a supercilious bow, without taking off his hat. On entering the parlour we found it heated by a large fire; it was really suffocating. Miss Flint, huddled up in wrappers, had taken possession of the great chair on one side of it. Mary, with a face as pale as death, in a close morning cap, a muslin cravat, and a shawl closely pinned up, had her appointed station on the other side. Her cheek glowed however on seeing us; but she appeared fluttered and weak. Our congratulations followed, whilst the captain looking with much seriousness at her, said, “My dear child, why was I not informed of your being ill?”—“It was only a cold, Sir,” answered Mary with a faint blush. “And a cold she has to thank you for,” said the sister. “Night walks in October do not suit Mary. It is well it was no worse, I expected only a putrid fever.” The servants, for we are old fashioned people on a Sunday, had by this time covered the table; and a smoaking sirloin graced the bottom of it. Mary rose from her seat in visible disorder, oppressed, as I thought, by the heat of the room, and the savoury steams of the dinner; but as she tottered to the door, she burst into hysterical sobbings, and Malcolm and myself prevented her falling, for she fainted in our arms. Malcolm placed her in a chair in the vestibule. All was hurry and alarm. Whilst others were searching for remedies, and her uncle was supporting her head, I hazarded to open the door into the garden, observing that the air was mild, and would restore her. It evidently was useful, for she gave signs of returning consciousness, but again relapsed. “Take off that cravat,” said I, “and let her have more air.” I opened the sash, which was nearer to her than the door. Whilst giving this direction, the captain obeyed. Judge of our sensations! Her throat was black and bruised by a violent grasp, and her bosom lacerated by what appeared to be the strokes of a cane or horse-whip. “God of Heaven and of earth!” groaned out the captain, “what means all this? To what am I doomed!”—“My dear captain,” said the almost breathless Lady Maclairn, who now approached with some remedy, “have patience, all shall be explained. Your sister has been to blame; she is sensible of it: she bitterly repents of her violence: she has suffered, severely suffered for it; all will still be well, only have patience.” He heeded her not, but with a look of horror and apparent calmness, he surveyed for some moments the marks of the outrage which had been committed; then wrapping the shawl round the still insensible girl, he attempted to raise her in his arms; but they refused the office. Miss Flint now ventured to open the door, to order the servants to be summoned, and to carry Mary upstairs, loudly reprehending us for exposing her to the air. “Shame to thy sex, begone!” cried the captain with fury. “Urge me not, thou barbarian! But art thou not here to exult over thy victim?” He again drew off the shawl. “This is Howard’s child, Lucretia!” continued he, “this is thy sister’s orphan!” A heavy sigh from Mary drew his attention again; he attempted to raise her; but his limbs trembled to that degree, that he was forced to desist. The prompt, the ever-succouring Allen gave Malcolm a sign. He took Mary in his arms, and carried her to my room, followed by Mrs. Allen. The captain was on the point of doing so likewise, when Miss Lucretia darting towards him, and catching his coat, exclaimed, “You _shall_ hear me! She provoked me.”—No language can convey to you, Lucy, the expression with which he replied. “Yes! I doubt it not! So did her hapless virtuous mother! so did her noble-minded father!” He paused, and raising his eyes to Heaven, moved his lips as though in silent ejaculation. “No,” said he in a solemn tone of voice, “I will not curse her! But,” added he, “_God_, Lucretia, will call you to answer for this deed!” “Hear me! only hear me!” screamed she. “I only punished her _insolence_. I will justify myself!”—“Never canst thou do _that_,” replied he, “where humanity resides.” He broke from her and turned into the garden. A violent fit succeeded to Miss Flint’s efforts; the servants with difficulty conveyed her, in her struggles, to her apartment, from whence even I heard her screams. On entering my room, I found Miss Howard laid on the bed, and much recovered though weeping. “What confusion! what mischief have I occasioned!” said she addressing me. “Who was it, my dear Miss Cowley, who took off my things? Was it not my uncle? How unfortunate that I could not get up stairs!”—“Say not so,” observed the soothing Mrs. Allen, “but rather, my clear child, be thankful to Providence who has thus seasonably checked your aunt’s violence; such a temper required it.” Mr. Flint entered the room, no longer was his face gloomy, and his eyes sparkling with rage. He was pale and languid, and sitting down by his niece, he shed tears like an infant. “The coach is preparing,” said he at length, “can you make the effort my child? I leave not this accursed house without you.”—“I am much better, I am able to go any where with you,” replied the poor girl; “but my dear, dear uncle! leave not my aunt in displeasure; indeed she is very sorry for what has passed, indeed I had entirely forgiven her.”—“Name her not,” answered the captain with emotion; “go to your parents’ grave; see her work _there_! Remember the protection she promised you! But I will be just,” continued he, suppressing his rising passions, “to my credulity, to my easy faith, you must attribute these scourges. But who,” continued he, turning to us, “could have conceived that any hand could have inflicted such cruelty on a creature like _this_, and that hand a sister’s! But we will depart, my child, to that home where your bruises will be healed, and I shall be justly reproved for the pride and ambition which caused them. Your asylum is secure, and you will have bread and peace.”

My hitherto restrained tears now flowed abundantly: it was well for me they did, for the throbbing in my temples was excruciating. I attempted to speak; but I could only say with extreme emotion, “Dismiss your fears for her, her happiness shall be my care.” A look was the thanks I received. The coach drew up, and Malcolm entered the room. Whilst Mrs. Allen prepared Mary, he said in a whisper, “I leave my father to you. Miss Flint is in strong convulsions, the doctor is sent for, and my mother is dreadfully alarmed.” He carried Mary to the carriage, and accompanied her and the captain to the Abbey.

Mrs. Allen went to assist Lady Maclairn, and I to perform a duty which was become pressing, for I had not seen Sir Murdock from the first signal of alarm. I recollected this circumstance with a sensation of terror undefinable at this moment; and quickening my steps, met a servant whom I believe I frightened by my eagerness, for in reply to my question, he said, with some hesitation of manner, that he had seen Sir Murdock go into the garden, and, if I pleased, he would go with me to look for him. I saw the conclusion he had drawn, and therefore, with collected ease, replied that I should soon meet him.

For sometime, however, the object of my search eluded me; at last I perceived him sitting in a nook so concealed, that it serves the gardener for his rollers, &c. He resembled a statue rather than a living creature; and was so lost in thought, that he neither heard my steps nor saw me when I stood before him. He was speaking, however, and I heard him say, “Are there no remedies? Is she dead? Will not Heaven spare her? Destruction must have monsters for its work!”—I took his hand and he started. “I come to seek you,” said I, in a cheerful tone; “Miss Howard is recovered, and gone home with her uncle. I want you to give me some coffee.” He looked at me.—“Angel of peace!” said he, in a low voice, “art thou still near me?”—I again spoke. “Your daughter, your adopted daughter, my dear Sir Murdock, is near you,” observed I, “but you do not heed her. It is cold here, and she begs you to enter the house.” I gently took him by the arm; he again started as from a dream.—“My dear Miss Cowley,” said he, rising, “is it you that I see here!”—I repeated my entreaties, and he instantly took the way to the house and inquired whether Miss Howard had seen his wife before she left the hall. “Lady Maclairn has been with Miss Flint,” replied I, “who is ill; but we shall all rejoice at the events of this day when more composed. Mary Howard shall never want the protection of her aunt.”—“Your purpose is worthy of you, Miss Cowley,” replied the baronet, with collected dignity and energy, “and in your intentions of goodness, as these relate to this injured girl, your path is not only easy but pleasant. But what can you do or say for Sir Murdock Maclairn and his wife, under whose ostensible roof innocence has been oppressed and ill-used? My supposed infirmity of mind,—would to God it were only supposition!—may screen me from ignominy with the charitable. But can generosity or candour find an apology for my wife? Will it not be said, and with truth, that she was a daily witness of the improper treatment which Miss Howard received from her aunt? Will it not be said, that she knew of the outrage committed recently; and that, in order to spare the offender, she concealed it from the poor suffering girl’s friends? Will censure stop here? Oh, no! it will be alledged that lady Maclairn encouraged this woman in her cruelty!”—“The most confirmed rancour would refuse to credit such a tale of Lady Maclairn, if told,” answered I, with seriousness. “There is not a menial in her family would not refute it, and bear witness to her gentleness and humanity. Every one has seen her unremitting attentions to Miss Howard’s comfort, and her endeavours to render her aunt kinder to her. She trusted that Mary’s assiduities would, in time, soften down the asperities of Miss Flint’s temper. She knew that her interference would be liable to misconstructions; and though she has suffered but little less than Miss Howard, since her residence here, yet she has not dared to oppose her remaining, lest it should be thought that she feared her influence might be unfriendly to her son’s interest. I have seen Lady Maclairn’s difficulties from the first hour of my being here,” continued I, “I have seen her miserable on this poor girl’s account; and I am certain she was a stranger to the treatment she has lately undergone.”—“You plead to a partial hearer,” answered he, deeply sighing; “I know that to my Harriot a scene of such violence would have been death. But is it not incomprehensible to you how such a mind as her’s should have retained for this woman an affection so determined and so constant? Why does she persist in living with her? Why subject herself to mortifications and degradations to please her caprice?”—“Lady Maclairn is human;” replied I, with a smile, “she is a mother, and a tender mother; and she may, with justice, expect that her son Philip will be benefited by these sacrifices of her care. Besides these motives, there are others more exalted, which prompt her zeal. What would this woman have been? What would she be without Lady Maclairn? To whom is she indebted for the little humanity which she does shew?”—The baronet appeared silently to acquiesce in my sentiments; but I found he was again withdrawn into his own mind. I, however, found it not difficult to rouse him; for on my observing that poor Lady Maclairn would be anxious for his safety in so chilling an air, he quickened his steps. His wife was indeed anxious! She burst into tears on seeing him, and the interesting Sir Murdock seemed to have no care but that of soothing her distress. “You must listen to Miss Cowley, my Harriot,” said he, “she will teach you to rejoice at the captive’s deliverance.”—“I could and should rejoice,” answered she, “that poor Mary is freed from the hardest of all servitudes, did I not see Lucretia so struck with a sense of her fault and disgrace as to be in danger of her life. She is an unhappy woman,” added she, with emotion, “and I cannot help pitying her.” No reply was made. Mrs. Allen now entered with the coffee, and I found by her report, that in getting Miss Flint to her room, the servants, unable to hold her in her struggles, had let her slip from their arms, and she had hurt her knee very much; she was, however, asleep; the doctor had seen her, and the servants had got a respite. Mary was composed and much better. I retired to my room, and continued to solace my mind by viewing this day of Mary’s emancipation as a happy event. I really considered the horse-whipping part of the business with the stoical indifference of a mail-coach driver, when I contrasted it with the good effects it was likely to produce. In a week Mary may forget the discipline, and all will be well; but I sincerely wish it may lead Miss Flint to consider whether it might not turn to good account to scourge _herself_. Moderate flagellation would neither hurt her temper of body or mind.—But lest you should be induced to think unfavourably of my tender mercies, I shall conclude this letter; and you will, I trust, give the kiss of peace to your

RACHEL COWLEY.

END OF VOL. I.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.