LETTER VII.

_From the same to the same._

Obedience in most cases is the best test of love; and as you _command_ me, my Lucy, to continue faithfully to detail all the _minutiæ_ of my domestic comforts, till you are certain I want only you, I will continue to please you. In time you will, I presume, wish for other subjects; and I beg you will point out to me the means of attaining any more important than my present one. What think you of my studying heraldry, for the purpose of amusing you? I should have a good preceptor in Sir Murdock; he frequently descants very learnedly on armorial bearings, and with much philosophical precision traces the influence of “_blude_,” from the father to the son, for centuries past. According to Sir Murdock’s favourite hypothesis, every cardinal virtue depends on having “_gude blude_” in our veins; but a truce with nonsense. I believe the good people I am with will please me in all essential points. They have already forgotten that I am a _stranger_. Miss Flint has put aside her damask gown and laced suit, and I saw her this morning walking in the garden, in a _dishabille_ not far removed from dirty negligence. By the way, the baronet now exhibits a new wrapping gown with Morocco slippers; and as we walk before breakfast, he usually continues to take that repast in the parlour with us. This hour is gradually becoming useful to him, and his wife also, for she appears to enjoy it as much as he does. I am now convinced that I have innocently occasioned to Miss Howard the privation of her morning exercise. I caught a glimpse of her to-day in the garden, and instantly availing myself of the opportunity, took a direction which led me to her. When remote from the windows, I at once entered upon the subject of my fears, and told her that I had been vexed and disappointed by not seeing her in the avenue. “I must not abridge you of liberty,” added I, “and unless your aunt becomes more reasonable, I shall lose my temper. What can be the humour she gratifies by opposing my wish to enjoy your society?” The poor girl was confused—“You are very kind, Madam,” replied she, “but my situation here does not admit of the honour you wish to confer on me. I have to learn many things, and my time is necessarily engaged by my duties. I have unfortunately been reared with too much tenderness for the station of life to which Providence has destined me, and it is sometimes difficult for me to forget.”—She could not proceed.—“Say rather,” observed I with indignation, “that it is difficult for you to bear, unmoved, a cruelty which disgraces your aunt, and will destroy you.”—“Indeed,” answered she, with an alarm which surprised me, “your generous nature and sympathising temper have misled you. My aunt is not cruel: she thinks I want a discipline to fit me for the world and a low condition of fortune. Perhaps she judges right. In the mean time, I would not, on any account, give her room to imagine that I am discontented or ungrateful for the shelter she affords my helpless youth. But I must leave you,” added she, whilst her eyes swam in tears. “I have walked an hour, and my aunt likes to see me exact.” You will believe that this short interview was not the _exact_ preparation I needed for the scene I witnessed at dinner. Her aunt actually sent her from table with the soup and beef, neither of which she had tasted, because she had not done her allotted task. God, I hope, will forgive me for the thought that half choaked me, and which would have finally choaked Miss Lucretia, had it been successful. I was so angry with Lady Maclairn, that I believe she perceived it; for nothing escapes her observation. After dinner we were by ourselves; and, in the most unqualified terms, I noticed Miss Flint’s want of humanity and good manners to a girl whom she was bound to treat as a daughter. “I am astonished at your forbearance,” added I; “for these instances of her unfeeling temper put me into a fever.”—“You are mistaken,” answered she with seriousness, “if you suppose I suffer the less for being patient. I am as sensible as you can be of the improper treatment Miss Howard has to support: but I know I am more effectually serving her by being silent, than I could be by opposing her aunt. You know not this woman so well as I do; nor the necessity which forces me to witness her harshness and severity to this sweet and innocent girl. I must be passive, Miss Cowley. Yet there is a fault in Mary. She has been taught to dread Miss Flint. She is too much under the impressions given to her mind when with her uncle, to perceive that there is in Lucretia’s temper a jealousy in regard to the affections of those about her. With less timidity, and more apparent contentment, she would remove from her aunt’s mind the suspicion which interposes between her niece and every act of kindness her natural generosity would prompt. She believes Mary detests her.”—“Good Heaven!” cried I, “she must so believe, for her conscience accuses her of deserving to be hated!—But, you say, Mary has been taught to dread this aunt. Are Miss Flint’s _tender mercies_ calculated to rectify her opinions? And would you wish to see a girl at _her age_ practise an address which would contaminate the rectitude of a mind at _any age_, in order to gain favour, and to sleep and eat in peace? I should see this girl trampled upon without pity, were I to see her for one moment smile and _lick_ the hand which oppresses her!”—“Ah, my dear Miss Cowley,” replied the agitated Lady Maclairn, “in this sentiment are contained the genuine feelings of nature, and the language of an untried spirit. May you never know the pressure of those circumstances in life which leave the principle vigorous, and fetter down the power of exerting it!”

Miss Howard entered the room. Her eyes were red with weeping. She brought Miss Flint’s request that we would take our tea in her apartment. In the humour I was in, I would as soon have paid a visit to a felon in Newgate! I sent my negative, and left the room abruptly. You will perceive that your Rachel Cowley had lost sight of wisdom. Tell me not, Lucy, that I am an enthusiast: I will maintain, to my dying day, that there is language which hypocrisy can never speak. Lady Maclairn is a _Flamall_! not one line in her face corresponded with a feeling of mine. I told my tale to Mrs. Allen.—What a contrast! The glow of indignation, the look of pity, with which she listened to my story, made me thankful that a slight cold had kept her in her room at the dining hour.

I had scarcely recovered my _sang froid_ before Lady Maclairn, with a countenance as placid and gentle as the pleased infant’s, entered to _chat_, and enquire about the rebel tooth which had teazed Mrs. Allen; and, with a calm and easy good humour, she asked my permission for Sir Murdock’s visit. “I am going,” added she, smiling, “to bring Miss Flint into good humour; and if I should be so fortunate as to succeed, Mary shall have a holiday and walk with you.” I could only bow: but in spite of nature this woman subdued me; for she checked a sigh that I could not resist, and left me, to send in my guest. Sir Murdock finding I was “at home,” joined me; and, to smooth my own ruffled features, and gratify him, I went to the harp. I have however, prescribed for myself as well as my patient; the _penseroso_ in music having more than once betrayed him into tears and myself into sadness, by sounds which came

——“o’er his ear like the sweet south That breathes upon a bank of violets.”

Two or three songs of Horace’s are now locked up; and the baronet is contented with being roused to cheerfulness by Scotch ballads.

Let me know in your next letter how many months Rachel Cowley has been at Tarefield. Mrs. Allen’s calendar says not more than one—can this be true? Poor Horace! how tedious must be to him the account of time if he computes it as I do! How many precious hours which Providence has given us, have been, and will be still lost to the account of happiness!—A happiness, Lucy, which would not have interfered with a single duty, nor invaded on the rights of a single human being!—Good night!

Well, I will be good, and endeavour to be patient. I will eat, and drink, and sleep, and forget not only my own cares, but cease to feel and be angry at the sight of oppressed innocence. I will grow fat, and say with Miss Flint and her tribe, “What! are not the poor and friendless made for our use?” I will do any thing rather than grieve my Lucy; but you have, my dear girl, your whims and crotchets to correct, as well as I my petulancies and opinions to govern. What has given you the notion that I am starved at Tarefield? Please to understand that Miss Flint prides herself on the goodness and abundance of her table; and although she has not yet acquired a relish for a dinner of herbs seasoned by love and peace, she has an excellent appetite for the stalled ox. Consequently, as the song says,

“Each day has the spit and the pot, With plenty of pudding and pie.”

Therefore be assured, that if to “pine all the day is my lot,” it is not because I am hungry or ill fed. No, no: it is the sovereign will of Miss Lucretia Flint, that there should be no want of any thing at Tarefield but _contentment_; and as she can live without it, why should not others?

Yesterday morning Mrs. Allen and myself, escorted by the baronet, encountered Malcolm in our ramble before breakfast. He was in rustic attire, and had a scythe slung on his shoulder. He joined us with a face glowing with health and exercise; and with the utmost cheerfulness accosting us, he said he had been working two hours in the meadow. “It is not remote,” added he, “and if you love nature’s perfumes, Miss Cowley, I advise you to lengthen your walk. You will find the poets need not the aid of fiction to heighten their description of a _hay-field_, whatever they may do in describing hay-makers. Were I poetically decorated, I would offer you my arm, but in this trim.”——I interrupted him by bidding him lead the way, and be content without rivaling a birth-night beau.

We soon reached the field, in which were, with a number of people at work, the proprietor, farmer Wilson, a neat comely looking man, and Captain Percival Flint. They advanced to meet us; but I perceived an instantaneous change in the baronet’s countenance, and I thought the salutation between the captain and him more ceremonies than cordial. Sir Murdock, however, introduced him to us; and then, with a forced smile, he asked him why he had so long deserted the Hall. The captain said he was sorry he had understood the family to be too much engaged to admit intruders, as it had prevented his visit of congratulation on his return home; and that he had himself been on an excursion for some time since that period. Sir Murdock’s brow cleared, he gave his hand,—“You must be more neighbourly,” said he, “and help us to reconcile the retirement of this village to these ladies.” He bowed, and I began to talk of Miss Howard. I finished my panegyric with an assumed complaint of her idleness, and begged he would come to the hall, were it for no other purpose than to exert his authority and oblige her to walk out. “She used to be fond of walking,” replied he pensively; “but the want of a companion of her own age, has, I fear, depressed her spirits and activity.”—“Probably,” answered I; “but only second me and I will engage she shall forget crossstitch and meditation in a month.” He smiled, whilst a deep sigh escaped him. I know your reverence for a black coat, Lucy, and this predilection will not, with you, be disgraced by a prudish prejudice against a red coat. With me a bare suit of regimentals, unspotted by the wearer’s conduct, and unsullied by time and inattention, are credentials I must respect. The neatness of this veteran son of Mars, marked with me the gentleman; and I lost no time in my observations. He is even now too fair for a hero; but the fortune of war has indented a scar over his left eye-brow, which gives manliness, if not dignity, to his countenance; for it certainly lessens the effects of a mild expression, and apparent want of health, by no means corresponding with a military man: a wooden leg, however, it must be allowed, does, and the captain’s fame as a soldier has reached the village, where he is regarded with admiration and respect: but his manners are so placid and gentle, that I could not help fancying a cross and a rosary would have converted his portrait into the interesting and war-subdued hermit. So leaving you to finish this sketch, either as an anchorite, or a half-pay captain of marines, I shall continue to inform you of the impression which his past interview with me has left. We were such good friends before we parted that I ventured to tell him, that the sight of a military beau was a phenomenon which had not entered into my calculation of the pleasures to be found at Tarefield, and that his appearance had put my prudence and discretion quite off their guard, insomuch, that I dared to make an assignation with him for the evening. “You cannot, as a soldier,” added I, “refuse my challenge; but I warn you I shall bring into the field a _second_, in the person of Mary Howard.” He laughed, and replied with gaiety and gallantry, that he accepted my terms, although the time had been, when he should have conditioned for _others_; but that I might depend on his punctuality.

On our return home I mentioned this arrangement to my companions. Sir Murdock, delighted with his morning walk, said he would be of the evening party; but instantly recollecting the difficulty of my engagement, he asked me, by what stratagem I intended to free the poor captive Mary from her cage. I was not quite prepared with an answer to this question; and could only reply, that I trusted to fortune and my own ingenuity for success.

The gaiety of the baronet amply indemnified Lady Maclairn for having waited for her breakfast. She was treated with the detail of our walk and with quotations from Thompson’s seasons; and with the contentedness of the hour, and a good appetite, he rallied me on my advances to the captain, telling his wife of the appointed rendezvous, and of my plot to reach Captain Flint’s heart by means of his niece. Would you could see Lady Maclairn in moments like these! Why have I not Ithariel’s spear? For nothing less potent can reach the genuine features of this woman’s mind! This morning, for example, she was ingenuous and unconstrained, her sweet eyes contemplating with delight the cheerfulness of Sir Murdock, when in a moment I saw her countenance change, and her eyes cast downwards, from the effects of these words: “My Harriot, you must be of our party; you must intercede for poor Mary.”—“You know it is not in my power,” answered she, with evident distress. Sir Murdock’s gaiety sunk in an instant; but I interposed my influence, and with assumed spirits said, I would trust to no one for the deliverance of Mary but myself; and that I had already formed my plan of action. Do you not think Lady Maclairn is somewhat obliged to her guest for these timely helps? I suspect she feels her obligations of this sort sometimes too sensibly.

But to return from this digression. I need not tell you that from the first hour I entered into this house, I took care to mark with a _decided_ precision, my absolute independence, in respect to Miss Flint’s will and pleasure. In every compliance, in every act, I have shewn her, that I look to Sir Murdock and Lady Maclairn as the regulators of my conduct, and as the heads of the house. But I found it was necessary either to declare open war with Miss Lucretia on the occasion before me, or to try her ladyship’s mode of _bending_ to the despot. The lesson was a new one, and I felt an inclination to make an attempt in the art of flattery. So prepared, I met Miss Lucretia at dinner: fortunately she was in a pleasant humour; and giving a gulp to my pride, I praised her skill in carving, and told her the story of poor Mrs. Primrose’s white satin gown, and the unlucky goose-carver’s disgrace, in the best manner. I succeeded; and my next manœuvre was to overlook the poor girl who silently sat beside me, patiently expecting to have her empty plate supplied. My unusual politeness was not lost, for I also talked of Jamaica. Upon this ground, I presume, she called for a glass of rum and water, “half and half,” and drank to all friends there. Even this went down my proud stomach in a glass of wine, and I became so _agreeable_ that she invited me and the circle to drink tea in her apartment. Our cheerful acceptance of her invitation was followed by a recollection of her dress, which was not _en règle_, and she left us to prepare the silver tea-board, and to make her toilet. I was delighted to find Sir Murdock had enjoyed this scene: he told his wife I was a plotter, and bade her beware of my Circean-arts. She smiled, and said I needed no auxiliaries, otherwise she would readily join my standard, seeing it was my design to lead tyranny captive.

On entering Miss Flint’s drawing-room, I perceived that Mary had been permitted to put on her Sunday muslin gown; and to her native charms and holiday suit, her youthful fancy had given the finish by placing some moss-roses in her bosom. She was seated in the remotest of the bow windows, with a huge mass of canvass before her, and was plying her needle with all dispatch to get up the lost time. The endless roll of carpeting was now displayed. Miss Cowley could not but praise the design; and she heard that _three_ years would finish the furniture of the room in crossstitch, without _one comment_ that could offend. Can you wonder that Mary was allowed to fetch her bonnet, and to join the walking party after tea? Will you not rather wonder at my success in this new trial of my talents? But between ourselves, I begin to suspect that the art of wheedling, is one of our natural prerogatives. You cannot imagine with what dexterity I employed my untried weapons! It was well they served me; for during the demurs and difficulties Miss Flint opposed to my intreaties, I felt my forbearance was like Acre’s courage, not indeed oozing out at my fingers’ ends, but with every breath I drew; and had she not consented when she did, I should have lost my hard-earned laurels. You will not, however, fail in congratulating me on my triumph over myself. But mark me, Lucy, I mean not to twist and turn at the orders of that prudence which is so often practised for wisdom. It is necessary for my purpose that Miss Howard’s friends should know more of me before I can effectually oppose Miss Flint’s will; but when they do understand that Rachel Cowley can no more live under the same roof with an oppressed orphan, than Miss Lucretia shelter one, without feeding her spleen, and qualifying her malice for the bread she bestows, farewell wheedling and coaxing! My road will be plain, and if perchance I encounter any of Miss Lucretia’s frowns in my way, I shall laugh at them.

This poor girl hangs on my spirits. I will reserve for my next letter the account of our evening walk. You will lose nothing by my going to bed; for I am weary, and somewhat of your petulant

RACHEL COWLEY.