LETTER II.

_Miss Cowley, in continuation._

TAREFIELD.

Finding myself somewhat the wiser for a few hours repose, I will profit by the unavoidable delay of my yesterday’s letter to add to its bulk, and to pour into your patient ear a larger portion of those thoughts which I know not what to do with till they are communicated to you. I shall therefore inform you, that I lost no time in giving Sir Murdock Maclairn a specimen of that damsel’s _temper_ whom it had cost him so many wearisome miles to seek. But I will be modest, and tell you also, that I had been spirited up to this undertaking by Counsellor Steadman; for as he has no son to beguile me of my heart, and is too old himself to wish for more of it than he has, he was determined, without consulting your father, to see whether I could fight my own battles. Thus prepared, I asked the courteous baronet, before my dear counsellor, when he meant to commence his journey to Tarefield. A solemn bow prefaced his reply.—“He was at my directions on that point.”—“Indeed,” answered I, smiling, “you surprise me! I suspect my new guardian has ill-chosen you for his substitute. I fancy he would not altogether approve of your complaisance to your _prisoner_.” He fixed his eyes on my face, but was silent. “I mean not to bribe you,” continued I, “for you appear too indulgent to need it; but I do wish to make our journey to Tarefield pleasant; and that cannot be unless we travel as good friends. By a will now substantiated as legal, and called _my father’s will_, Sir Murdock, I am committed to the controul of a man, who, till within, a few months, was a stranger to that parent I deplore, and to whose name and office was affixed a post at Mr. Cowley’s writing-desk. It ought not to surprise you, therefore, if I think it necessary to act with _caution_ under these circumstances. I am an entire stranger to Mr. Flamall’s character and principles; and yet I am ready to accept of your house, Sir Murdock, as an asylum proper for me. But, understand me: motives absolutely remote from Mr. Flamall’s power and authority over me, have induced me to give up a protection under which I have been safe and happy from my infancy. I trust to you _voluntarily_, for I believe you to be a man of honour. To Mr. Flamall I leave the provision he may judge necessary for his _master’s daughter_ whilst under your roof. If I am to give credit to my partial friends, I am not capricious; but I am very jealous of my independence. Lady Maclairn, as well as yourself, Sir Murdock, must be told that I have _decidedly and firmly refused the husband_ provided for me by my father’s will. I expect to be exempted from all importunities on the subject of Mr. Philip Flint. These would not only tend to make my residence with you unpleasant, but also short; for I shall without delay convince Mr. Flamall that Rachel Cowley’s person is not included in his _extraordinary_ trust. I have only to add, that I am ready to set out whenever you please, and shall with cheerfulness attend you to an abode which I promise not to disturb by any discontents.”

Sir Murdock, who had not for an _instant_ taken his eyes off me, started when I ceased speaking, and for _several_ moments appeared extremely agitated; his countenance varied with the oppression within, and he paced the room once or twice in profound silence. At length, with collected firmness, he said, I had surprised him. “I am not prepared to answer Miss Cowley’s suspicions of Mr. Flamall,” said he, addressing the counsellor, “but I know that I have had no sinister views in coming hither. I have no designs either on her person or property; nor can I easily conceive that Mr. Flamall has. We were strangers till very lately, to all that regards this young lady. The proposed alliance was transmitted to us, as an argument in favour of the plan now under consideration. It produced the effect Mr. Flamall wished, it conquered our reluctance to receiving under our roof a stranger to our habits of life. These are so retired, that we naturally judged they could not be agreeable to a young lady; and we should have persisted in our refusal, had not Mr. Flamall pointed out to us the propriety of the measure he recommended. If Miss Cowley, or Miss Cowley’s friends, be not satisfied with what I have asserted,” added he, spreading his hand on his chest and colouring, “I would not for all the riches in the world have her under my protection; but I have yet to learn, that Sir _Murdock Maclairn_ has been judged a fit agent for dishonour!” His eyes were again turned on me, they instantly softened, and I saw he trembled. “Say no more, my good Sir,” cried I with my usual eagerness, and taking his hand, “I bless Providence for conducting me to you, under the necessity which forces me to quit Heathcot. I will love Lady Maclairn for _your sake_, and tell her, that I am grateful to you for hearing me with so much patience.” Never shall I forget him, Lucy, when with a countenance expressive of the utmost sensibility, he said to Counsellor Steadman with solemnity—“She will be safe as the child of my bosom. She will be guarded by a vigilance equal to your own and Mr. Hardcastle’s. As a deposit sent by Heaven, I will receive her.” Do you know that I was so affected that I wept, and repented of having urged him to this explanation. Mr. Steadman assured him, that he was perfectly satisfied, and the conversation gradually became less interesting. I mentioned with diffidence my friend Mrs. Allen. “My wife will rejoice to find you bring a companion with you,” said he; “she fears that you will think Tarefield very dull. My bad health has produced a love of home in her, as well as myself, that will not easily be overcome.” “Be under no fears on that head,” observed I, smiling, “I am one of those profound philosophers who are never alone.” He smiled in his turn at my vivacity. “You will like my wife, Miss Cowley,” said he, “she is the gentlest and the best of women. One so peaceable, that she will not quarrel with you for your barbarity to her son. I am not yet at home,” added he with more cheerfulness, “therefore not yet _tongue-tied_; but permit me to assure you, that Philip Flint is not undeserving of your good opinion, though he may be too presumptuous in his hopes. I have, however, nothing to do with this affair,” continued he; “having from his cradle strictly adhered to one rule of conduct, namely, that of leaving him to his tender mother’s care, and the direction of his more immediate connections. Happily his education has not been neglected. But I was unequal to the duties of a father, even to _my own Malcolm_.” His poor head mechanically sunk, and he took, greedily, three or four pinches of Scotch snuff. We finished by settling the hour of our departure; for I found he wished to leave London.

My next letter shall place before you more particularly this _interesting_ Sir Murdock Maclairn, the originality of whose person and manners has so powerfully excited my compassion and curiosity, that I cannot but bless fortune for throwing him in my way. He is no common character, Lucy; and the peculiar sadness which from moment to moment pervades his countenance, is to me inexpressibly touching. I should have detested a stupid laughing face for _le compagnon du voyage_, that conveyed me from _my Heathcot_; and as the next best thing to being happy oneself, is making others so, I forgot in my endeavours to make Sir Murdock comfortable that every milestone was to me a _memento mori_. It is yet rather problematical, whether I shall like his lady as well as I do him. But I know not how it happens, that I am less disposed to fall in love with my own sex than with the other. I have loved, dearly loved, men old enough for my _great-great_-grand-father, but rarely have I been attached to _old ladies_. Must we acknowledge the truth, Lucy? We may as well; the poet has spoken it: “most women have no characters at all.” So farewell, and be sure to love even the follies of your own Rachel Cowley, for they are not borrowed, at least, my dear girl. Supply for me kind words to Sedley.