LETTER III.

_From the same to the same._

Your father’s wisdom in hurrying you away to Barton-lodge, instead of permitting you to remain at Heathcot, like another Niobe, dissolving in tears, is so like him, that it neither surprises me nor Mrs. Allen; and if the cheerful mistress of the most cheerful mansion contentment ever found, cannot comfort you, I shall be angry and chide my Lucy.

You tell me your father smiles, and refers you “to Rachel’s pen” for all that relates to Sir Murdock Maclairn’s first interview in town; “_he_ (Mr. Hardcastle) being too jealous of the baronet’s favour with me, to be impartial.” In reply to Mr. Hardcastle I make him one of my best and most saucy curtesies; and tell him that I understand perfectly the cause of his _discretion_ and _humility_. He is like many other sinners, willing to compromise matters with conscience, and to tempt others to do that which he dare not do himself, in order to share the gratification of wickedness at a less price. How often have we seen him check his mirth and spoil a good story, by saying, “this is folly, neither the weaknesses nor the frailties of our fellow-creatures, my children, are proper subjects for mirth:” and yet he can lay a snare for me. However, I have neither his charity nor benevolent toleration, and think folly fair game. But I have not folly to laugh at, in the subject before me; yet, Lucy, in the dearth of all rational amusement, in a separation from all whom I love, do you think I can want an excuse for my pen, should it offend charity? Self-preservation is a duty no less obligatory than self-government; and as I am cut off from the banquet of wisdom, have I not a right to cater for myself? “Certainly:” and if I can live upon worse fare, and can be contented with what is wholesome, though not delicate, will any one blame me? “No:” well then, this privilege being granted, please to understand, that neither my compassion nor good nature are yet starved out; for were that the case, Sir Murdock Maclairn would be the most unsuitable dish for the cravings of my hunger. It is, however, most assuredly true, that this gentleman’s first appearance produced on me not only surprise, but the most powerful incitements to be _wicked_. Figure to yourself a very tall large-boned man, meagre as “pining atrophy;” high cheek-bones, which still more hollowed his sunk features; a complexion jaundiced by sickness and tinged by Scotch snuff, which he takes in immoderate quantities; a long crane neck, which is tightly bound with a narrow black stock; a few scattered hairs, which still maintain their carroty colour, tyed in a queue; a sunk, though broad chest, and a plaintive voice, in which however are cadences to please the ear whilst attending to an articulation slow, and sometimes laboured. Add to this picture, an abstracted manner, and an air of sadness; and you will not be astonished that I should for a few minutes fancy Malvolio present, and that I looked for “his yellow stockings and cross garters.” The eagerness with which he gazed upon me strengthened my imagination, and I did not dare to smile, lest I should hear him say—

“Thou canst not chuse but know who I am: If thou entertainest my love, let it appear by thy smiling.—— Thy smiles become thee well.”

At this moment my eyes encountered those of Sir Murdock’s, and my heart smote me; for in language more touching than sounds of harmony could impart, they said, “Pity me, for I am the child of sorrow; respect me, for I am acquainted with grief.” I blushed, and forgot Malvolio.

For several days, however, I could not reconcile myself to the _keenness_ and peculiar attention with which these large blue eyes surveyed me. An expression in them of a famished look (I cannot better define its eagerness) yielded, as he continued to gaze on my face, to a melancholy softness, not unfrequently heightened by a tear; but I found that he was subject to an absence of mind, which it appears has resulted from many years bad health and low spirits. This, with his ceremonious demeanour, and the no inconsiderable degree of his national accent, render him peculiarly singular. Not expecting much amusement on the road with a companion to whom you may speak half a score times before he is sensible you expect an answer, I took care to provide myself with a book; and, by chance, I robbed the counsellor of Macpherson’s Ossian. The united libraries of the ancient and modern world, could not have better supplied me with an author calculated to rouse the attention of Sir Murdock. I was tempted to read aloud some passages, and he listened with a feeling that surprised me to the sorrows of Malvina. “Have you never read Ossian?” asked I. “If I have,” replied he, “I have forgotten him during an indisposition that left me nothing but a capacity to feel my own wretchedness.” A deep sigh and the depression of his head silenced me. He soon urged me for more of my book; but I was grieved that I had introduced to his acquaintance a work so powerfully calculated to “awaken fancy, and to touch the heart” of the poor baronet.

I cannot describe to you the enthusiastic bursts of feeling and admiration which followed every sublime passage I selected; and his tears flowed to the pathetic touches of the poet. “I will read no more to you,” said I, with good humour and closing the book: “Ossian is, to a mind like yours, a bad writer.” “There is a joy in grief, when peace dwells in the breast of the mourner,” answered he in a plaintive tone. “It may be so,” replied I, “but the mourner ought to remember, ‘that sorrow wastes him.’” “I do not attribute my faintness to grief,” observed Mrs. Allen laughing, “but to downright hunger; and I must beg to stop at the next stage for something more substantial than Ossian.” Sir Murdock instantly began his apology for his omission at the last inn. “I forgot,” said he, “that every one could not like myself fast twenty-four hours without inconvenience. Early habit has made abstemiousness of no account with me,” added he, “I have fasted six-and-thirty hours formerly, without experiencing any considerable diminution of strength.” “Have you never thought such a disregard to the wants of nature pernicious?” asked I, surveying with compassion his lank figure. “I had then other cares,” answered he; “my soul, like that of Oithana, was not as careless as the sea which lifts its blue waves to every wind, and rolls beneath the storm.” He fixed his eyes on my face, and spoke no more till we reached our destined post-house. Here Mrs. Allen’s orders were quickly obeyed, and we pressed him to take some refreshment with us; and to judge by the voraciousness of his appetite, he must have exceeded his usual time of fasting. We were, however, too well pleased with the effects of ham and cold chicken on him, as well as on ourselves, to trust to his memory for a repetition of the cordial; and Mrs. Allen undertook the management of us for the remainder of the journey. The replenished baronet became more and more conversible as we proceeded. He had even transient gleams of cheerfulness, and finding that I persisted in keeping back the “tales of the times of old,” till he, like other poor mortals, eat three meals a day, he contented himself, and amused us by describing in glowing colours the grand and picturesque scenery he remembered in the western isles of his beloved Scotland; and with evident delight he traced a similarity of manners and customs between his country and ancient Greece, marking with precision the common features of resemblance that had struck him between the heroes of Ossian and Homer. From this learned dissertation he condescended to talk of France, in which country he had passed his youth. He praised my accent, and seemed pleased that I knew the language, speaking with rapture some passages from Racine. “Do you also understand Italian?” asked he. I replied, “As _a school-girl_.” He smiled most graciously—I wish you could see him smile, Lucy! and with a suppressed sigh he said, “It may serve to fill up your time, my dear Miss Cowley, to accept of the assistance of ‘_a school-boy_’ in this language; there was a time, when it was as familiar to me as my mother tongue, or the French; but my memory has been many years _lost_ to me as a source of pleasure.” A reverie succeeded to this observation, and Mrs. Allen and I insensibly retraced our steps and got to Heathcot-Farm. We talked of Lucy Hardcastle; when, to our surprise, the good baronet interrupted us by observing, that our friends at Heathcot had an advantage of which it was probable they were not aware. “Heathcot,” added he mournfully, “will never recede from your mind whilst you are at Tarefield.—This is my fear: yet still I think you will be pleased with my Harriet. She is as gentle and pure-hearted as your dear Lucy. She will be miserable, if she fail in making you comfortable.” You will supply our answer. He continued to talk of his wife, and told us, that to her persuasions he had yielded reluctantly to undertake a journey which had separated him from her more hours, than for many years before he had been minutes: “but she thought,” added he, “that it would be beneficial to my health and spirits; and these are of value to me, because essential to her happiness.” He spoke with animation of her faithful love, and added, “She is now counting the hours till she sees me.”

When arrived within five miles of Durham we left the road, and pursued our way through a flat country, unmarked by any thing cheerful; and reached Tarefield-hall at about eight o’clock in the evening of our third day’s journey. The house, as we approached it, struck me as having been originally built in that style of architecture for which we are indebted to William the III. and Dutch taste; but as each successive proprietor conceived his own to be as good, and had money for its indulgence, it exhibits at present samples of all: turrets and chimneys: high roofs and flat ones; latticed bows and Venetian windows, and wings added to wings.

I find, however, many good-sized rooms within; and when we get acquainted with the five staircases, and as many thresholds, we shall, I believe, have seen all that is curious in the manor-house, commonly called Tarefield-hall. I must not, however, omit as its beauty, a noble avenue of elms and horse-chesnuts, the latter in full bloom, and which embellishes the dull scenery around. This avenue is flanked on each side by a rising plantation of some extent, and is devoted to modern improvement; the walks are neat and trim, and it is filled with shrubs.

Now mark me, Lucy: here I am at Tarefield; and here does my history finish, unless you are good and tractable. Horace was not even named in your last letter.—This will not do. You had better not provoke me: I have rich materials before me, but I will have my price for them. Take in the mean time the kiss of peace from your

RACHEL COWLEY.

CHAP. V.