LETTER VIII.

_Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._

We found the party in the hay-field augmented by all farmer Wilson’s family, namely, his wife, with a Mrs. and Miss Heartley, their boarders and lodgers, to whom Malcolm introduced us with an eagerness of good-will and pleasure which was flattering to me. The tender greetings between those ladies and Mary, evidently proved that I had communicated more of joy and gladness than I had foreseen, by my interference; and as this was the case, I took my share of the general satisfaction, which appeared like the sky, _cloudless_. Mrs. Wilson soon restored us to order, by leading us to seats under a hay-cock, and began to distribute amongst us a syllabub milked from the cow, with some fruit and cakes. Sir Murdock, who had appeared placid, though silent, suddenly turning to his son, desired him to change seats with him. This request was indulged with alacrity, and he placed his father next Mrs. Heartley. “How often of late,” said the poor baronet, surveying her with a melancholy air, “have I wished to have the opportunity of telling you, that Sir Murdock Maclairn esteems and reverences you for your unremitting kindnesses and consideration for his Malcolm. Yet now I am near you, language fails me; I am oppressed by my feelings. Recollections too painful for me meet this hour of peace and restored happiness.” He took her hand and burst into tears. Mrs. Heartley, with much emotion and confusion, said something of her hopes of being still favoured with his good opinion, and of her satisfaction at seeing her worthy neighbour. He caught the last word of her incoherent speech. “Yes,” replied he, “I hope we shall be _neighbours_ as well as _friends_! My sufferings are terminated. Witness this hour of peace! Witness the mercy which has sent me an angel of consolation!”—He gazed wildly on my face; and sinking his head between his knees and hands, he murmured out “Matilda! sainted, blessed Matilda!” I was alarmed.—“It will be momentary,” said the agitated Malcolm, in a low voice, “be not disturbed!” He was not mistaken, for in a few minutes Sir Murdock’s serenity was restored; and he asked Miss Heartley, in a manner which marked that he had no consciousness of his late disorder, some questions relative to her brother who was in the East-Indies. She replied; and the baronet, with renewed cheerfulness and an expressive smile, said, “And what excuse will you make to ‘this dear brother,’ when he knows you have monopolized a heart which he ought to share?” A deep blush was the only answer to this question, which awakened my curiosity. I was however called from further observation by being asked for a song; but willing to make the conversation more general, I alledged that I was too angry to sing; and, with assumed resentment, I reproached the captain’s want of discretion as well as courage in bringing into the field so many witnesses of my weakness, and so many guards against his own. “You wrong your gallant, by your suspicions, Miss Cowley,” answered Mrs. Heartley, with ease and spirit. “But what will he answer to my reproaches? He has been my slave these twenty years and more, and yet had the audacity to conceal this assignation from me. I am indebted to my friend Mr. Malcolm for the intelligence of my danger; and I now see it,” added she, laughing; “yet, woman to the last, I will maintain my rights to him against youth and beauty.”—A certain mode of expression, with the correct gaiety and ease of her manners, soon attached me to this lady’s side; and in our walk home she apparently slackened her pace, the more unnoticedly to converse with me.—“You will think me very deficient in the rules of good breeding,” said she, when entering the road to the hall, “on finding that I neglect to pay you my respects at Sir Murdock’s house; but I do not visit the family. My avowed affection and long intimacy with Mrs. Howard, and my still longer acquaintance with Captain Flint, have laid me under indelible disgrace with Miss Flint. Lady Maclairn’s situation, and the circumstances of distress under which she has lived, have precluded all approaches to her of a personal kind. You will therefore, I trust, accept of this apology for my not waiting on you and your friend. Yet,” continued she, smiling, “you must not imagine me a woman too obscure for Miss Flint’s notice. In her zeal for her neighbours’ good behaviour, she has thought proper to single me out as an object to be feared and shunned by all modest women. There is, however, a conduct, Miss Cowley, that will refute malice and silence slander, without calling out either resentment or reproach. Mine is such as has done more than was needful for my justification, for it has disappointed an angry woman in her purpose; and my neighbours have always judged me according to that rule of Christian charity, ‘which thinketh no evil.’ They have also gone farther than this precept will justify, for I believe they think I must be _good_, because Miss Flint hates me. Malcolm’s attachment to me and my children has also its share in keeping alive Miss Flint’s animosity. From a child this young man has been regarded, by myself and the family at large with whom I reside, as a cherished and favoured guest. This circumstance has, I much fear, been unfavourable to Miss Howard; it has certainly abridged her in her freedom. She is not permitted to visit her uncle, because he lives under the same roof with me; and she dares not speak to either Alice or myself, when accident throws her in our path, if she has a servant with her. My poor girl murmurs at this refinement in cruelty, and strenuously pleads that I ought to inform Captain Flint of this harsh prohibition; but I forbear, in the hopes that time will relax Miss Lucretia’s heart; and in the interim Mr. Maclairn favours the girls in writing. Miss Howard’s account of Miss Cowley produced the wish to see her,” added she smiling. “This we have effected; and I have only now to add, that if in your seclusion from the world you should feel disposed to relieve the dull monotony of your hours by a walk to us, we shall be gratified.—I was formerly acquainted with your friend Counsellor Steadman. When you write to him, ask him whether he has forgotten Henry Heartley, and whether he thinks his widow a proper associate for you.” I expressed my confidence in her worth. She smiled, and thanked me. “But,” added she, “it is necessary you should know the woman who, at my age and with my appearance, cautions you to keep, as a _secret_, from Miss Flint, even the harmless recreation of this evening. Our meeting Mary would not be allowed to be accidental on her part, and I doubt she is severely treated by her aunt. She conceals from her friend Alice every instance of this kind, but Malcolm is not so reserved with us, and we are miserable on her account. The captain hopes to soften his sister’s heart to a sense of justice at least, and has given up the comfort and prop of his life to the fallacious expectation that Miss Flint will love and provide for the future support of this poor orphan. I did not in the first instance oppose his plan of conciliation. His sister offered to take her; and he yielded her up to her promises of being her friend and protector; but if he knew Miss Howard’s situation she would not remain an hour at Tarefield-hall. Poor Mary understands this perfectly; and with an heroism which does her credit, suffers without complaint, rather than return to be a burden on her uncle. I need not recommend to your favour,” continued she, “this innocent and helpless girl. We are told that you pity her, but be cautious in what you say to her uncle. His mind has been broken down by sorrow and the injuries of fortune, his feelings are become irritable, and his spirit will not brook further insult. Perhaps this gentle creature may find her aunt has a heart. Time must be allowed her to work a change in so obdurate a mind; it is her wish to make the trial complete; but a year and more has been lost already in the attempt, and I have my doubts of her ever being easy or happy where she is.”—“Mrs. Allen and myself,” observed I, “were much struck by the mode in which this young and amiable creature was treated, even before we had been a day at Tarefield; but Miss Flint soon explained to me her system, and left me nothing for wonder, though sufficient for abhorrence. But, my dear Mrs. Heartley, do me the favour, if it be possible, to explain to me Lady Maclairn’s conduct. I wish to esteem her. Wherefore is it, that with a temper so mild and gentle, I see her passively yielding up her dignity in her own house, and witnessing in silence her sister’s treatment of an unoffending girl, who has a just claim even upon _her ladyship_ for protection.”—“Poor Lady Maclairn,” replied she, “is inured to suffering. She knows she can effect nothing, but by an abject submission to Miss Flint. Many causes have contributed to break down her spirits; but none have lessened her principles of virtue: she is an estimable woman, and much to be pitied.”—We were interrupted by Mary’s running towards us to take leave of Mrs. Heartley. She threw her arms around her neck, and, fondly kissing her, said, “Now you will believe that I am comfortable! One day in a month like this would be happiness! You see I have now a dear, kind friend!”—Our general adieux followed; but again Malcolm deserted us for the plea of business at Wilson’s.

Whether it was owing to my dose of flattery, or to the rum bottle, I will not decide; but certain it is, that Miss Lucretia received us with good humour. She was more than commonly loquacious; and I, with the patience of a Lady Maclairn, listened to the history of her sprained knee, which had spoiled her for a walker. This disastrous subject gave place to her inviting me to take an airing with her the following morning, when she engaged to shew me a very “pretty country.” But this was nothing, for I was even proof against a long story in which her dear brother Philip was the hero, and I was led to approve of his conduct by a direct interrogation. “Was not his behaviour noble?”—I forgot the tale, but I recollect he saved a young woman’s being thrown from her horse. I had, however, my measures to keep, and we retired for the night in perfect good humour. What a simpleton I have been in not at first beginning to manage this woman by my address! She would fetch and carry like a spaniel were she but flattered. But more of this hereafter. You must know more of Mrs. Heartley and her fair daughter Alice. Mrs. Heartley is more indebted to an air of fashion and dignity, for the attractions of her person, than either to her features or shape. Her face would be called homely were it not lighted up by her dark and expressive eyes; and although I believe she is defective in her shape, she moves with grace, and is what you would distinguish by the title of an “elegant woman.” Her daughter would at once be thought by the admirers of half-starved, pale-faced beauties, as too nearly approaching to the dairy maid; for contentment and health have given Alice an _embonpoint_ beyond the prescribed rules of fashion. She is a clear brunette, and her damask cheek has a _rouge_ which thousands vainly strive to imitate. A pair of large hazel eyes give life and spirit to her round and dimpled face, and when she smiles (and Alice has yet to learn that smiles and laughter are vulgar) she is a perfect Hebe; and Mrs. Allen wished Bunbury had seen her, as he would not have omitted to give this laughter-loving nymph in his charming group of rural beauties. She tells me that I have not been just to Alice: perhaps I have not; and that I should have been more lavish of my praise of this handsome girl, had she not been by the side of Miss Howard. But again I pronounce this young creature to be nature’s master-piece! I had not before seen her animated by pleasure or exercise, nor could I have believed her delicate features capable of expressing the vivacity she discovered. She seemed to tread in air, and, whilst with winning smiles and captivating grace, she drew around her the people who were at work, the greater part of whom she called by their names, I could not but apply to this innocent enchantress the lines given to the charms of the mischief-making Armida.

“In wavy ringlets falls her beautious hair, That catch new graces from the sportive air: Declin’d on earth, her modest look denies To shew the starry lustre of her eyes: O’er her fair face a rosy bloom is spread, And stains her ivory neck with lovely red: Soft breathing sweets her opening lips disclose, The native odours of the budding rose.”

I could not forbear uttering this rhapsody to the captain as he stood near me, whilst Mary was receiving the honest admiration of her humble friends. He smiled, but a sigh succeeded. “She is fair and lovely,” said he with emotion, “and as good as she is fair, and as innocent as she is lovely;—but so was her mother, Miss Cowley; yet she found this world a hard pilgrimage!” He turned away from me, and joined his niece. I will now bid you farewell.—Mrs. Allen joins in my blessings for your repose.—Yours,

RACHEL COWLEY.