Chapter III: Letter LV: My letter from my unfortunate Charles contained these words (1)

“Forget, my beloved wife, that Charles Duncan ever had existence, or that, in the miserable course of that existence, he has involved yours in his misery, blasted the hopes of your youth, and planted daggers in your faithful bosom. Forget, if thou canst forget, when pressing to thy maternal bosom, the fruit of thy ill-fated union, the wandering, wretched father of thy babe: or with pity and forgiveness think of him, as one at _rest_; rescued from ignominy: concealed from the cruel mockery of scorn; welcoming, at this moment, the approach of his deliverer; and looking forwards with humble hope to an eternity, in which he will be recompensed for the trials of his mortal state, and pardoned for those mistakes, into which his youth and frailty betrayed him. I enclose the copy of my will, with some of your dear letters: with these you will receive your picture, but I cannot spare it from my bosom, whilst my trembling hand is able to raise it to my lips, or do more than sign the name of thy repentant, yet faithful,

A time was allowed me for my sorrow, and recovery from a fever of much danger; but which was, I believe, of use to my general health; for I certainly was less liable to illness, after this crisis. I experienced something of those sentiments, which the dying Duncan had suggested. I rejoiced that he was at peace; and considered my fate as ascertained. I could not know more of grief, than I had experienced; and in a submission, which necessity, and, I hope also, religion enforced, I settled into a calm and resigned frame of mind. My extreme bodily weakness favoured for a time this more placid condition of my spirits; and my recovery promised to my tender and assiduous brother, a renewal of his comforts. He soon mentioned Mr. Duncan’s donation. He told me, “that knowing, as I did, that both Keith and his wife were dead; he thought it was much the most prudent measure to let the property remain on the stock books, as it had done from the time of Mrs. Duncan’s committing her money and her reputed son to his trust, till such time, as he should become of age. His quitting England within three or four months of his being so,” continued my brother, “prevented any settlement or transfer of the stock, but he was mistaken in his opinion of his fortune; for it amounts to no more than two thousand pounds.” I answered with sincerity that I regarded it, whatever it might be, as a common fund; and should leave to him the disposal of it as most useful to our common comfort; and being persuaded that I should not live long, I thought it could not be better than as it was. He laughed at my prophetic fears, assuring me that the physician had told him I stood a better chance of being well than when at Kensington; and he left me with a cheerfulness, which soothed me. His attentions did not slacken. He saw with satisfaction my returning activity, and frequently observed, that I was never more beautiful. By degrees he prevailed on my reluctance to visit, and receive his friends; and I as clearly discovered, that my brother wished to see me married, as I manifested a repugnance to the very idea of exchanging my condition for any other. I thus attained my twenty-third year. From this period, the calmness of my mind was disturbed, by the change I perceived in my brother’s modes of life. With anguish of soul I discovered, that he was tired of having a sister without ambition, and a beauty, as she was called, on his hands, who was deaf to flattery, and who scorned infamy, however decorated. I was stiled “a romantic idiot,” “a cold and unempassioned statue, proud of a form that was daily becoming useless.” I became resolute; and told him, that with any form I would endeavour to gain honest bread. My spirit silenced him. He begged my pardon, and pleaded his conviction, that it would be in my power to marry the libertine, whom he had conditioned with on easy terms, though not less profitable to his views. His fears, his regrets at seeing me waste my youth in unavailing sorrow; his belief, that my lover would marry me at the death of an old grandfather; his wishes to do so _secretly_, were placed before me. I relented, though without yielding to his dishonourable views, and all was again peace between us. But I no longer considered _Philip Flamall_, as the guardian of a sister’s honour. Under this conviction I soon after saw Mr. Flint, for the first time. He came to the house, as it appeared, on business; and finding Philip absent, seemed desirous of waiting for his expected return; he was accordingly conducted to me, as a client of too much consequence to remain unnoticed in the office. His age and respectable appearance, induced me to shew him every mark of respect. I recollected my father’s opinion of Mr. Flint and his family; and I tried to please him by my attentions. My guest contentedly maintained his post till my brother returned at the dining hour; fortunately we were alone that day; and Mr. Flint, who accepted at once of the invitation, found only a table at which economy presided; I retired as soon as my office was finished; but I was told that he meant to breakfast with my brother the next morning. Unconsciously I endeavoured to secure to Philip this wealthy client; and as it will appear, I succeeded.

Some days after, my brother with much seriousness informed me, that my modest and composed deportment had pleased Mr. Flint. “He has not only made his proposals to me of jointuring you in four hundred pounds _per annum_,” added he, “but he has also, on hearing the precise state of my fortune, engaged to befriend me, by lending me a sum of money which may turn to good account. He knew my father, and he is no stranger to the difficulties in which he left me involved.”—I attempted to speak—“Hear me to the end,” pursued he, “before you condemn a brother to a goal. This man’s age, his retired habits of life, and his fair character in the world for his uprightness, renders him more an object of veneration than of love. You may recompense him for the protection of the _parent_, by the kind offices of the _daughter_, whilst, by the union he solicits, you are securing to yourself an honourable name and independence, and saving me from ruin; for I tell you plainly, that I am already in a state of insolvency, in regard to credit. I will have you to consider of the answer you will commission me to give Mr. Flint.” “It is not necessary to deliberate,” replied I weeping bitterly. “The knowledge of my real situation will at once convince Mr. Flint, that I am not a suitable companion for his children, nor a becoming choice for him, and without adverting to the folly, which has led him to think of marriage, it will be enough that he knows, that I _am Duncan’s widow_.”

Never shall I forget my brother’s fury! “Be a fool to the last!” cried he, “See me a beggar! blast my character with your own! sink me to a level with your highway-robber! But know,” added he trembling, “that I can be as desperate as your Duncan. I will not be an outlaw for one purse! Can you be so weak as to think any man will marry you, under the name of Duncan? What has this miscreant to do with the present question? He is dead, the witnesses of your _accursed_ marriage are dead. You have persisted in bearing your _own name_, and the character of an unmarried woman. Oh Harriet! let me plead for your youth, your helpless condition of fortune; for your innocence, and for a brother who loves you! Marry this worthy man: and let me see you protected from the dangers of the world!” I was subdued. I forsook the path of rectitude, and, as _Harriet Flamall_, married Mr. Flint, who was three times my age.

CHAP. II.

We quitted London a few days after the ceremony was performed, and I now had leisure to repent of my weakness and timidity. My introduction to my husband’s family was humiliating and painful to the last degree of suffering sensibility. I was not only an _intruder_, but I was an usurper of the rights I claimed; and I felt that, in my assumed title of _Mrs. Flint_ was contained a reproach, which covered me with confusion every time I heard it pronounced. My only consolation sprang from the resolution of devoting my life to the man, whom I had thus deceived. He was fond of me, and I studied incessantly to make him contented with his wife. I foolishly began to think that I should contribute to the slender stock of domestic comfort which I found at Farefield Hall. Mr. Percival Flint, and his amiable sister Mary appeared to treat me as one destined to enlarge their, and their father’s happiness: even Miss Flint seemed reconciled to the young _mother-in-law_, who had, in no instance abridged her in her authority. I was fond of flowers, and already began to enjoy the amusement of the garden. Mr. Percival one morning entered my dressing room, where Lucretia and myself were at our needle work, my husband having taken his darling Mary with him in his airing; his hands were filled with some rare and beautiful plants, and I found that this was a tribute to my peculiar taste. My thanks followed, and Percival withdrew, in order to see the plants properly disposed of. “You have converted,” observed Miss Flint with a malicious laugh, “our grave and solemn book-worm into a useful being. What a thousand pities it is! that Percival had not seen you before his father:” as the business is now managed he must remain the “despairing shepherd;” for I think the public cruelty prohibits the son-in-law from marrying the mother-in-law, who in many cases might console the poor widow. “My countenance marked how little this levity pleased me.” “Dear me!” pursued she, “you need not look so offended, or be displeased with so harmless a joke; you cannot help Percival’s playing the fool, nor prevent people’s thinking, that the father at seventy is not altogether so handsome as the son at twenty-three or four: you might be tempted to acknowledge this truth yourself were it not for this unlucky relationship; you could not in conscience deny that he is much better qualified to succeed _Mr. Duncan_, than _his father_.”—I heard no more; for yielding to terror and surprise I fainted, and my successive fits alarmed the family; and, as I supposed, moved to pity the cruel insulter, who had brought them on me. She was very assiduous and attentive to me during the few days of my convalescence; and with much humility begged my pardon, saying that she had never entertained the slightest suspicion prejudicial to me; but that having heard of a disappointment of a tender kind, which for a time had injured my health and spirits, she frankly confessed that she had attributed my choice of her father to that cause; believing that no woman with my beauty, and at my age, would prefer for an husband a man old enough for her grandfather. “I neither intended to reproach you or that choice, nor to hurt your feelings by naming the gentleman in question,” added she. “I simply wished to establish between us a confidence and friendship which I conceived might be useful to us both. I have my secrets, my dear Harriet; and my heart has suffered like your own, the pangs of unrequited, nay, _abused_ love.” She proceeded to inform me of Mr. Howard’s perfidy, who, after having gained her affections, had voluntarily given himself up to the arts of her sister, who with a pretty face, and the years of a child had basely supplanted her in the opinion of a man, whom she well knew was necessary to her happiness; and who had from her very cradle shown the greatest cunning and address in rendering every one subservient to her will; and she warned me at the same time of her absolute power over my husband.

Subdued by conscience, and uncertain of the extent of the information which Miss Flint had gained, with the knowledge of Mr. Duncan’s name, I accepted of her apology; and still further tutored by my brother, passively yielded to an authority, with which I was unable to contend. I tamely witnessed the treatment which poor Miss Mary received from her enraged and implacable sister, and finally saw the innocent girl ruined in her father’s love. My husband was incensed by some letters of Mr. Howard’s, which fell into Lucretia’s hands; these were incautiously preserved by the fond girl, and they were certainly such, as Mr. Howard had done much more wisely not to have written. I endeavoured to soften my husband’s resentment; and I should have succeeded; for he loved his daughter Mary, even, if I may be allowed to speak, to a degree of weakness; and he was wretched because she was unhappy. He spoke to my brother on the subject, and discovered an inclination to unity and forgiveness, requesting him to employ his influence with Lucretia to give up to a sister a man whom she could not win for herself; adding, that notwithstanding Mr. Howard had so highly offended him, he would pass over every thing for the sake of peace, and to content poor Mary. My brother instead of executing this commission, sternly warned me to take care of what I was doing. “Were you any thing but what you are,” said he, “you would perceive the danger of your interfering with this virago; let her alone: in time you will see her your slave instead of your tyrant. Trust not to the fondness of your husband; you see what she has effected with her father in regard to her sister. Judge of her power by this proof of it, and avoid offending her: you will ruin yourself, and serve no one.”

I believe it is not useless to mention here, that on my marriage taking place my brother took his degree as barrister, and quitting his house in Red Lion Square, took apartments in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Whether his former clients forgot him, or he them, I know not; but so it was; he resided almost constantly at the Hall, and became useful to Mr. Flint in return for the hospitality he found. Confined principally to the care of amusing and nursing my husband, whose health rapidly declined under the perpetual vexations he endured, I could not help perceiving that my influence was sedulously watched; and every time he expressed the regrets he experienced from being prevented seeing his child, I was suspected of having produced those relentings of nature in her favour, and was reproached by Mr. Flamall for my folly in being blind to my own interest; and I was told that I had nothing to do but to attend to my husband. I perfectly understood this language, and I _did attend to my husband_; but it was not to deceive, or insult him. He was too weak to be advised by me; and unhappily feeling at times the state of abject slavery, to which his own weakness had reduced him, he vented his resentments in peevish complaints, and angry reproaches, that I was too passive and indifferent to defend him against his tormentor; then, weeping like an infant, he would beg me not to leave him, for that I was his only comfort.

One day he mentioned the disposition he had made of his property, adding, that his children would think of him when he was dead, although they had abandoned him whilst living. “As to you, my poor Harriet,” said he, “I have taken care to leave you enough for your ambition, though I can never repay you for the loss of your health, which will be destroyed by your attendance on me. You will find, besides your jointure, a legacy of three thousand pounds, with which you may settle yourself comfortably when they send you from hence: this sum is in your brother’s hands, and he may perhaps recollect when you shew him the bond, that he is in arrears for the interest ever since your marriage. He was a needy man, my Harriet, when I lent him the money, and I warn you not to trust him with your affairs when I am gone, although he is your brother.” That very evening he was seized with convulsions. I pass over an interval of suffering which was terminated by his death.

I will not attempt to describe my astonishment on hearing the deceased Mr. Flint’s will read. Let it suffice that its contents were such as astonished every one. My name only appeared in it, as having been provided for at my marriage; and as it was necessary to specify that the jointure which had so provided for me, was to revert to Miss Flint at my decease, on failure of issue. I retired to my apartment overwhelmed with grief and confusion. Mr. and Mrs. Howard might be said to have haunted my imagination; I had witnessed their distress on hearing this _unjust_ will read; they were continually before me; and innocent as I was, I felt my soul agonised by the internal conviction which pressed upon me, that all was not honourable, yet a suspicion of my brother reached only to another enigma. What was become of the bond? This question was on my lips more than once; but Philip had succeeded in making himself more the object of my dread than confidence. To retire from the Hall; to assert the independence which I had so dearly purchased; to share with the Howards their father’s bounty, were the purposes of my mind, and its support. In the mean time I was treated with unusual respect and attention by Miss Flint, who repeatedly assured me, that the object of her father’s affections would always have claims on her own; that she could not bear to see me so depressed by an event which was to be expected in the common course of nature; and that if I thought I had not been sufficiently considered for the sacrifices of health and pleasure, she was certain that her father’s omission resulted from his firm persuasion that we should always share the same abode and domestic comforts. I blushed, and replied, that I had every reason to be contented with Mr. Flint’s generosity and affection. “Had the provision allotted me,” added I with more spirit, “been only a fourth part of what it is, I should have been satisfied; for I seek only independence.” She looked disappointed, and changed the subject of conversation.

My brother paid me a visit the following morning; and having in vain requested me to take an airing, grew angry. “Wherefore is it, Harriet,” said he with a petulant air, “that you affect to play the Ephesian Matron with me? It is impossible you can regret the death of a doating, childish old man, worn out by sufferings, at seventy and upwards? To what purpose this seclusion, this dejection, these perpetual tears? One would imagine you had already been entombed long enough! But there is no remedy for a romantic mind,” continued he with more tenderness. “Any other woman but yourself would have resented his want of generosity. You are poorly recompensed, my dear girl, for your watching, and for the loss of your beauty.” “I have enough for my wants,” answered I, “and much more than I deserved.” “I was not of that opinion,” replied he, “and soon after your marriage gave Mr. Flint to understand that I thought his widow was but slenderly provided for, unless further considered. He told me that he had thought as I did, and had acted accordingly. He added that you were the only comfort he had in this world; that he had to thank me for the blessing, and that I should find he had not forgotten my kindness. I have reason,” continued Philip, “to think that he kept his word, and destroyed the bond he held against me; for it has not appeared.” I concealed my face in the sopha-cushion, otherwise he must have perceived my astonishment. “This consideration on his part,” continued he, “has been however repaid on mine, for I have been useful to him in my professional way, and never charged him sixpence.” I sighed profoundly—“Come,” cried he, assuming a more cheerful air, “let us now look forward to more pleasing prospects. You may yet be _mistress here_.”

I was now told of his intrigue with Miss Flint; of his unhappily being a married man; and of the worthlessness of his wife, who exercised over him an empire, in all things save that of bearing his name. In a word, Miss Flint’s critical situation was brought forward, and my agency was demanded as the only means of saving her fame, and the infant from the disgrace of an illegitimate birth. I listened to this discourse with disgust, and even horror; but, suppressing my feelings, I told him with firmness, that I had gone already too far into concealments, not to discover the danger of the road; that I meant to quit the Hall, and had already formed my plans for my future life. “These,” added I, bursting into tears, “will not, nor can be subservient to your, or Miss Flint’s views.” “You will change your mind,” replied he sternly, “when I tell you, that, what you have refused to do from gratitude and affection to a _brother_, may be thought expedient to perform for your own safety. Miss Flint has known the particulars of your first marriage from the day you appeared here as her father’s wife. Moreover she insists upon it, that you have no legal proofs of Duncan’s death, nor any claim to your jointure, from its having been granted under a name and character to which you had no right. You will do well to reflect on her temper, and on your condition, under a prosecution _for bigamy_. My evidence, in your favour amounts simply to the Dutchman’s verbal attestation of being at Duncan’s funeral, and his letters and will written at Surinam. These with me are conclusive proofs; but I know not how far they would be so thought in a court at Doctor’s Commons; nor with what consequences at the best, your marrying when a widow under your maiden name may be attended.”—“My punishment is just,” exclaimed I, “I will avow the truth, I will not take Mr. Flint’s money. I will go where I may mourn my lost happiness and _die_. I ask you only to provide me an asylum for the moment. I will not be a burden to you.”—Tenderness was next tried, my ruin involved his; the fate of a child who though yet unborn, was urged with many tears; Miss Flint’s generosity to me, her attachment to him were not omitted. I was conquered. “Do with me what you will,” said I mournfully, “only remember, Philip, who it was, that spread the toils with which my soul is encompassed; I cannot live to see you miserable.” He employed much sophistry to convince me that I was engaged in the performance of a meritorious work, inasmuch as it secured innocence from shame, and saved the reputation of Mr. Flint’s daughter: a woman who had respected my secret, and whose gratitude would bind her to me for life.

CHAP. III.

I will pass over the means of deceit and imposition now employed. I became a _nominal mother_ to _Philip Flint_, and the measures which had been adopted by removing me to London, in order for my confinement, appeared to have secured Miss Flint’s reputation. Thus betrayed by others, I had some palliations to offer to my upbraiding conscience. The innocent being I had adopted as my own, pleaded still more powerfully. I loved him with a parent’s love, and I sheltered him from unjust reproach and scorn. In this temper of mind I became acquainted with Sir Murdoch Maclairn. Alas! in the society of truth and honour I was a dissembler! How often have I forgotten, whilst listening to his tale of woe, in which all was faithfulness, that _I_ was a _deceiver_! and whilst my heart and tongue spoke his language, that my life had been for months a falsehood, my affections now betrayed me: I loved, and I rashly hazarded the peace and the honour of the man for whom I would have died. I became his wife, and to his noble heart do I appeal: he has found me his _faithful wife_. May I not say yet _more_? If to have emulated Sir Murdoch Maclairn in his virtues; if to have loved him supremely; if to have known no joy in which he has not shared; if to have shared with courage his sorrows which were aggravated to me; by the bitter conviction that I alone deserved to be wretched; if to have thus acted is to be a wife; then will Sir Murdoch Maclairn pronounce me his faithful, though erring wife. Witness for me, my beloved son. To my Malcolm do I appeal; to my support, my only hope in this world! you have seen your mother’s conflicts; you have shared in her sorrows. Witness for me that I have lived for no other purpose, but to soothe, to watch, to sustain the father whom you love and venerate. One incident which occurred in your early life must be mentioned here. You are no stranger, my son, to the difficulties we had to surmount, in consequence of your father’s resolution to leave the Hall, and to reside in France. I have frequently lamented before you this period of my life. We had, however, so far conquered the opposition to our removal; the time was fixed for our journey, and even our trunks were preparing. Miss Flint saw these preparations with unfeigned grief; for let me be just, she knew me, and she loved me. I left your dear father busily engaged in examining some papers, contained in a cabinet which had been recently sent him from Scotland, and with my work bag, sought the dejected Lucretia. She was alone, in the bow parlour, and weeping; I was employed in consoling her by those arguments which had been a thousand times repeated, when Philip, your uncle, entered, and sullenly took up a book without noticing me. In a few minutes after, your father entered the room, and with a placid air said, “I have brought you something to see, and admire;” and placing a small ebony box richly inlaid with silver on the table before us, he succeeded in exciting our curiosity. “The casket is nothing to its contents,” said he, smiling at our admiration of the box, and taking from it a shagreen picture-case which he opened. “What say you to this portrait?” said he shewing us a pretty large miniature of a gentleman in a Spanish habit; “did you ever see a more manly, gracious countenance?” We examined it, and to the praise due to the artist, and the noble lineaments he had preserved, was added our admiration of the rich diamonds which encircled it. “It ought to have a companion,” observed your father, taking up another shagreen case, similar to the one before us; but it might have been as well if the picture of the lady had never reached my hand; for Harriet may be jealous of its superlative beauty. He added, that the story of the lovers was long and disastrous; and might be the ground work of a tragedy not unlike in many particulars to “the Fatal Marriage.” “I remember,” continued he, “that when my father many years since shewed me the two pictures, he briefly mentioned some circumstances, which touched me to the soul. He was the friend intrusted with these portraits, and with the care of seeking out an infant son, who had been conveyed from Madrid when no more than three days old; and who had unaccountably eluded all the enquiries which my father had, at that time, been able to make. My absence from Scotland, and my father’s death with other events,” he sighed—“obliterated from my memory this box and the particulars I have mentioned. About a month since, it was sent me, having been deposited by my father previously to his death in the hands of a minister of the Kirk of Scotland, He on his death-bed sent it, to me, with many injunctions to be careful of it. Amongst several letters written in Spanish, from which I can only discover the writers to be of high rank, I found also a deposition made by my father, and addressed to myself. He informs me, that having traced, as he believes, the invaluable child of his noble friends, he had sent his mother’s picture to the faithful woman who had been the only person privy to his birth, and who passed for his mother. This I was instructed to do, added my father; and the test of the boy’s identity, rested on the woman’s returning the picture, with the name of her lady annexed to it. She received it from faithful hands; for I was already on that bed of death, from which I am permitted to write this. She said she should write to me from London, having in her turn instructions to follow; and that with the witnesses of her integrity she should present herself before me with her precious charge, and with transports of joy make over to my care a youth worthy of the Duke and Dutchess; she signed herself S. Duncan. Philip advanced to the table; he examined the picture attentively.” “Does your romance finish here?” asked he, “So it appears,” replied my husband, “otherwise that picture, and the letters would have been reclaimed.” “I should think no one will at present be found to claim them,” observed Mr. Flamall. “I fear so also,” answered Sir Murdoch; “but when I am on the continent, I shall lose no opportunity of giving up my important trust to the family.” “I would be d—d,” cried my brother laughing, “if I went a league out of my road on such an errand!” “Perhaps not,” answered my husband coldly; “you may not think it necessary.” He folded up the portrait, and, replacing it, withdrew. “What a pity it is,” cried Flamall, as he followed him with his eye, “that Maclairn is not a Spanish Grandee! His gravity would have suited admirably with their dignity; and his honour with their pride; some people, and honest ones too, would think the diamonds at least a lawful prize in this case; and without a doubt, they have long been considered as lost. They would pay for your journey, Harriet, or usefully decorate the _poor_ Baronet’s _lady_.” I made no answer, for I was nearly fainting with emotion and surprise; but finding Miss Flint well disposed to reply for me, I left the room, and retreated from the scene of altercation which ensued, and which was but too familiar to my ears. Your father’s illness succeeded to this occurrence, my dear Malcolm. I will hasten to inform you, and him of the reasons which led me to give this incident a place in my narrative.

It is now something more than five years since, that I was called upon to feel the full weight of the penalty affixed by eternal justice, to the violation of truth and rectitude of conduct. In the duties before me, the remembrance of the unfortunate Duncan had been softened down into the placid hope of his being at peace. Miss Flint had apparently forgotten that such a being had ever existed. A more immediate concern engaged her mind, and from her excessive fondness of her son, grew up a dislike to you, and a jealousy of your mother, which harassed me and rendered her unhappy. Several circumstances, which I need not recall to your memory, proved to her, that the slave of Mr. Flamall, and her own sheltered dependent, was not without the animal instinct of defending her offspring; and even in these contests, the name of Duncan never escaped her lips. This generosity was not lost upon me, who had to sustain the cruel and barbarous hints, not unfrequently dropped by my brother, in regard to a subject, too painful to be enlarged upon; and which produced no other effect, than that of making me, more and more, the inmate of your father’s apartment.

I had, as usual, seen my beloved patient quietly tasting that repose which his agitated mind required; and I left him, to take my accustomed walk in the avenue. A radiant moon, with the soft evening breeze, which had succeeded to a sultry day, cheered me, and I sauntered until you met me on your return from your friends at the farm. We enjoyed the scene around us; and, for some time, conversed at our ease, on the seat round the oak, but hearing the turret clock chiming the three quarters after ten, I rose to return to the house; when suddenly, a wretched looking man, sprang from the covert near us, and ran with swiftness down the avenue. You instantly dissipated my alarm, by telling me it was a sick sailor, whom you had met and relieved that afternoon, on your way to Mr. Wilson’s. He had, it appeared, been shipwrecked, and was begging his way to his friends in London. You finished your little story, by adding, that you supposed he had strolled into the avenue, and had fallen asleep. We parted for the night, and I thought no more of the mendicant sailor. The following evening I again repaired to the avenue, it was about eight o’clock, and again I took my seat at the oak. Again, did I see this miserable object slowly advancing towards me; his ghastly countenance excited my compassion, not my fears, and I rose to meet him, with some silver in my hand. He stopped, leaning himself against a tree; and wiping his face, as though faint with hunger, gazed upon me. “Do not advance,” cried I, quickening my pace, “honest friend I am coming to give you a trifle.” He groaned, dropped a sealed packet, and darted from me with speed.

Terrors too powerful for language assailed me! I gasped for breath, and, for some minutes, stood motionless, gazing at the fleet and dreadful spectre; for such he seemed. At the stile he turned; and from its elevation still saw me, he struck his breast and head; then vanished. A sudden conviction, shot through my confounded senses; I seized the parcel; it was addressed to Lady Maclairn, and in the well remembered characters of _Charles Duncan_. I placed it in my bosom; and was, I believe, indebted to the air for the preservation of life; for I did not faint, although unconscious of time. Your cheerful voice, Malcolm, as you approached me singing, roused me, and I attempted to rise; but again I sunk on the seat I had quitted, and burst into tears. You saw my emotion, my dear son, and in reply to your enquiries I made the usual answer, for the dejection of my spirits, adding, that I had again seen the vagabond in the avenue, at a distance, and not chusing to advance, had kept near the house, not altogether without fear. “I met him,” returned you, “and told him that he was trespassing, and that he must not be seen in the avenue. He said, he hoped he should be many miles from it in twenty-four hours, meaning to pursue his route before sun-rise the next morning. He begged my pardon; he had been induced to seek the relief his miseries needed, but finding the lady was alarmed had retreated. I commended him for his attention, and rewarded him with some silver.” “He has done me no harm,” replied I, “for I was not much disposed to ramble, feeling languid before I left the house.” I was no sooner arrived there, than I retired to my room; and with agonies, which it is beyond my power to describe, I read as follows,

“_To Lady Maclairn._”

“The poor, the outraged, the vilified Charles Duncan lives to proclaim his wrongs! to pour forth his sorrows before the only being on earth who will pity him! He lives to redeem his honour from the disgrace and eternal infamy, of having deserted the woman, whom in the presence of his Maker, he vowed to cherish and protect. He lives to take vengeance on his oppressors! He lives to behold thee once more! and then death will close his account here! The grave will be his bed of repose! Heaven will, in its own time, explain to him, wherefore he existed; and to what purpose he has suffered!!!

“I am composed, my Harriet. I have seen thee, I have heard thy gentle voice! listened, in breathless silence, to the pure effusions of thy spotless mind; heard my Harriet, my wife, my _all_ that Heaven has given me! speak to _her son_, praise his filial duty to _his father_; heard that that parent had been _smitten_, stricken by the hand of adversity! Heard her call him, “her dear _Maclairn_,” her helpless, her unfortunate husband! Was this the language to heal my broken spirit? No: but it was that which has fettered every tumultuous passion of my soul! I would not for worlds speak to you, Harriet; I would not for worlds approach you! No: I would refuse your offered love! What! brand with infamy thy spotless name! Sink the honourable wife, the virtuous mother to be the sharer of my wretched condition! The companion of a reputed robber, a worthless vagabond; of a being who can claim no affinity but to the earth he treads! No; Harriet, thy Duncan is not yet so poor, so abject! Scorned, and sunk as he may be in your eyes, he yet proudly maintains his claims to the recompense of long suffering and patience. This is not Duncan’s theatre of glory! But he has before him an inheritance, and a home; and he has only to press forward to attain it.”

“The wife of Sir Murdoch Maclairn; the mother of his children; the prop and comfort of his life is in my eyes, encompassed by an host of angels. Shall the wretched Duncan invade the blessings of another? No, Harriet. He has beheld you for the last time. Live and die a suitable inhabitant for a better world! _Live_ to be reverenced by your children’s children! _Live_ to be called the Matron’s pride, and your sex’s boast. Only think of me, as a man who was once thy love; as one incapable of forgetting you. Think of me as one, who would sooner have been what he has been cruelly believed to be, than have basely left thee to the tortures of doubt and suspense, and abandoned to an insulting world. Think of me only as an unfortunate man, as one whom you _may_ pity, as one who will soon be removed: as one whose heart——

“Again I take up my pen. Again the tumult of my senses is calmed. I can now weep. I can thank God that your brother is absent. I can pray, my Harriet! I can see the God of mercy allaying the storm, and smoothing my passage to himself. _Farewell_: I have only to see, that you are in possession of my justification; and then shall seas again separate us, whilst my soul still fondly clings to thee. Farewell! Farewell!

“CHARLES DUNCAN.”

“You have not forgotten the hour of our separation, Harriet! You cannot have obliterated from your memory my agonies, on trusting to the winds and waves my wife, my hopes, my all! You cannot have forgotten my vows of love, of fidelity, of truth. What must have been the artifices, the machinations employed to beguile you of your confidence in Charles Duncan! But have I not before me an evidence of that subtle mischief which man, when lost to all that is manly, can effect? Was thy innocence a match for villany? Thy weakness an armour against cruelty? What have not been the means employed to ruin _thee_ as well as myself! Oh Being of infinite justice! to thee do I look up for a solution of all my doubts! Let me still hold fast my only consolation; my Harriet, my wife stands blameless in thy sight, and in my bosom. She is still cherished as the faithful, but deluded, perhaps fatally deluded, victim of baseness and cruelty.

“Again farewell!”

This letter had evidently been written after my alarm in the avenue by the wretched writer’s sudden disappearance. His narrative was detached from it, and bore several dates, as will appear; may heaven in its mercy lend a portion of its never-failing compassion to those to whom the miserable Harriet now consigns it! May they pause from time to time, and contemplate the _noble ruin_ thus exhibited to their view! For Maclairn’s justice will acknowledge it to be _such_; and he will applaud the woman, who, although shrinking from the consciousness of guilt, dares to avow her veneration, and love for virtue. She must indeed be sunk, who could erase from her memory a man like _Charles Duncan_; and Maclairn will understand and fret, that the heart would be unworthy of his, which should not have room for suffering and oppressed innocence, and a memory faithful in its tribute of sorrow and sympathy, gratitude and admiration, for a man, who not only loved her, but also her fame, better than himself. Yes: he will acknowledge that his Harriet, even in these tears, which she gives to suffering and departed worth—but let me hasten to the conclusion of a task which duty prescribes, before my sinking spirits faint.

CHAP. IV.

_Charles Duncan’s Narrative._

_London._

I will be calm. Is it fit for a wretch _like me_ to flinch at the sight of inanimate objects? To tremble, and faint in a _street_, because once trodden by my feet, when youth and health glowed in my cheek, and hope in my bosom? Is it _for me_, familiar with misery, to droop at the view of that abode in which I once for a moment grasped the fleeting form of happiness, gazed on her image, and fixed her lineaments on my heart, and then I saw her vanish? No: Duncan ought to have a soul braced, an arm nerved for the work before him. His Maker has not forgotten the work of his hand. He will triumph, _even in this world_! Oh memory, unfold thy tablets! Show to my injured wife the man she loved, the man she has wept as worthless!——and then!!—

Is it needful for me to recall to my Harriet’s recollection, our mutual doubts of Flamall’s honour and principles; as these appeared in his conduct to me, they were grounded on his evading every enquiry I made relative to the deceased Mrs. Duncan’s effects and papers. But I had still more convincing proofs of his real character than I discovered to his sister. I saw, that in his professional line, he had few clients of respectability, and that he was a rascal. Determined on _my_ conduct as soon as I could legally call on him to account for his, I simply declared to you my purpose of quitting his house the day I should come of age; and you concurred in this plan. Is it necessary to remind you of those tender fears and apprehensions which resulted from our union! Oh no! you cannot have forgotten them, nor my arguments for your immediately leaving a house, in which you were subjected to perpetual alarms. You will also recollect, that we both believed our liberality to the Keiths had bound them to our interest; particularly Mrs. Keith, who had gratefully acknowledged my gift of Mrs. Duncan’s apparel, and the little advantages which her slender purse derived from her being my laundress.

Passing near her house one morning, just before you left London with your friends, the Hatchways, a dray-man so completely bespattered me, that, in order to shun the laughter of the diverted witnesses of this mischance, I took refuge at Mrs. Keith’s: knowing that I could there change my linen, &c. During her kind offices about me, I observed, that she had been weeping; and, whilst waiting for my coat to dry, her dejection led me to ask her what had disturbed her. “Only the old story,” answered she, weeping anew, “I am weary of my life; my husband was never good; but of late he is a brute, and beats me, because I cannot go to market without money. God help me, I am too honest for Patrick!” “He ought to husband his money better,” replied I, “he is in constant employment with Mr. Flamall I find, and he is a good copier.” “He will never find that any thing he gains from that quarter will thrive,” answered she, colouring with resentment; “the good old proverb is against him. What is got by the devil’s means will go as it came.” “You ought not to blame Mr. Flamall,” observed I, prolonging my toilet, “that he cannot teach your husband to take care of the money he earns: Flamall is not a spendthrift.” “He is too cunning for you to understand,” replied she, nodding her head significantly, “but he will soon show the cloven foot; what is to become of you, when your wife wants a cradle for her poor babe? Patrick swears that I shall not take her in: the Lord help you both; there will be such doings, and no Mrs. Duncan to stand by you with her purse!” “I defy Mr. Flamall,” answered I, “and will soon let him know that I can protect my wife; in less than four months I shall be master of my dear mother’s little provision, and with that, and industry, my Harriet shall have a cradle for our infant.” She shook her head despondingly, “Poor soul!” said she; “it is perhaps happy for her that she is removed, she loved you better than many _real_ mothers do their children; it would have grieved her to see you set fast so young.” “How came you to know this secret?” asked I, without betraying my emotions. “Because I heard Mrs. Duncan say, that she was not your mother,” answered she, “when she gave her dying instructions to your _honest guardian_ with the pocket book for you, in case you outlived her: besides this, I could say more if I pleased; but I do not wish to bring Patrick to the gallows, he will find the road without my help! see his tender marks,” added she, weeping, and uncovering her bosom. It was bruised. My compassion soothed her; but she became more guarded; and only confessed that I had not been well used, adding, “I have said enough to you, and should my husband know it, he would murder me. But the time may come, when you will be able to take care of me. I have not forgotten the black pocket book, nor the letters on it, studded with silver, nor what is more, the bank notes it contained. I know that _ten hundred make a thousand_, as well as the lawyer. Betty Keith is neither deaf nor blind.” In vain did I urge her to be more explicit. “So I will, when I am upon oath,” answered she; “but you can do nothing at present, and you must be gone. My husband may return, and he will suspect I have been _prating_, as he calls it, when I do but turn the tongue in my head.” I took the hint, and giving her a guinea, left the room. You were on the eve of your little voyage, ill and dejected, and I forbore to add to your inquietude. Your departure followed, and Duncan’s fate advanced to the crisis which terminated his hopes and prospects _in this world_. A few days passed. My bosom was relieved of its fears for your safety; you wrote in spirits; and you concurred in your second letter, in my plan of removing you from Y——th to the north; and from thence declaring your marriage to your brother. At this juncture I received an anonymous letter; it was dated from Helvoetsluys, the language English, with foreign idioms. The writer signified that he was deputed by my parents to inform me, that the mystery in which my birth had been involved was removed; but for many cogent reasons, which should be explained, he was commissioned to meet me at Harwich; that he should perhaps be there as soon as his letter; but at all hazards in a few days, and should wait my arrival at the Ship inn. “Be only anxious,” added he, “to be punctual to this rendezvous. Measures for your future destination in the world will result from this interview. Be on the reserve with those about you, and above all, trust not the man who calls himself your guardian; he has an eye over him which he little suspects, and he will have an account to settle, not with the _obscure_ and _friendless Charles Duncan_, but with an arm of power, which shall crush him, as the spoiler of the widow and the orphan.”

You will imagine that my whole soul was fixed on accomplishing the journey to Harwich. It so entirely engaged my thoughts, that I spoke of my intention to Simons, saying I should ask Mr. Flamall for a week or ten days holiday, in order to meet a friend at Harwich. “He will refuse you,” replied he, “for he wants you in the office to supply his own absence. He can find leisure for his own jaunts, but he thinks not of us.” “I will not be refused,” replied I eagerly, “then do as I do in such cases,” said he; “Send your trunk off before you, and take a French leave when you can, in order to bring home your portmanteau: there will be no end of his objections!”