Chapter VIII: Letter LVIII: From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle

It is with no small satisfaction, my dearest Lucy, that I find my “enthusiasm of mind and ardency of temper,” (to avail myself of your gentle terms for a spirit too often governed by the impulse of a heart, which, in its promptitude is apt to take the lead of judgment) have met with your approbation and concurrence, in regard, at least, to the conduct I mean to pursue with Lady Maclairn: to say the truth, Lucy, I could practise no other; for she hourly rises in my _estimation_, and _esteem_ with me is the basis of affection. The relief which she finds in communicating her thoughts to me, has given to her very language a frankness which appears to be her natural character; and in her account of the various occurrences of her life, since she married Sir Murdoch, she omits not even her conjectures, as these arose from the circumstances in which she has been placed. “I long since had proofs,” said she this morning, when speaking of the suffering Miss Flint, “that Lucretia was not devoid of feeling. My brother, for reasons of his own, had so contrived it, that she firmly held an opinion which he, it is probable, only _affected_ to have. Illegitimate birth he considered as an indelible disgrace on the innocent; and Miss Flint adopted this notion, firmly believing that neither fortune, talents, nor even virtue could screen an unfortunate being, who stood in this predicament, from the reproach and insults of the malicious. Her affection for her child was unbounded; and I saw with comfort, that I had at least gained her gratitude, by my apostacy from truth. The conduct she maintained with my brother, in the mean time, puzzled me. It was obvious, he was no longer _the favoured lover_; and one day, observing Philip much disturbed from an interview he had with her in the garden at Kensington, I ventured to say to Lucretia, that I was sorry to see Philip unhappy.” “I understand you,” replied she, “and I will be explicit with you. I shall never be his wife; nor will I be to him what I unfortunately have been. I am a _mother_, Harriet, and I will prove myself one, by remaining what I am, and what I can contrive to be, the guardian of my son. I have no passions to gratify, no desires to control, since I beheld the face of my child; to love and cherish him, and to bless you for your goodness, shall fill up the measure of my _miserable_ days.” She burst into tears and left me abruptly. Her sincerity wanted no evidence stronger than her conduct, continued Lady Maclairn. For some time all went well. I was made happy through her mediation, and amongst the delusive hopes, which led me to Farefield Hall as Maclairn’s wife, was the flattering one, that, by the influence I had acquired over Lucretia, I might in time reconcile her to Mrs. Howard. Mr. Flamall frustrated these designs. His affections, as a parent, were so artfully, so effectually brought forward, and his conduct was so specious, that Lucretia insensibly gave him a confidence, which as gradually subjected her to his will and pleasure as myself; and she observed, that nature had yet preserved one strong hold in Flamall’s bosom; for that he loved his child; and that would prove to her a source of future comfort; for that no man was more capable of the office of preceptor. Even I assented to this opinion, Miss Cowley, as it related to his talents; and I was still the dupe of that affection, which nature had interwoven with my frame for my _brother_. He became more serious and reserved from the hour of Philip’s birth, and in the regularity of his conduct, and the instances I had of his growing parsimony, I scrupled not to think that he was a changed man in many respects, although still unsubdued in his love of power. As Philip became of an age to receive his lessons, his visits at the hall might be called a residence; but you know already how little these visits were productive of comfort to me, and, I may likewise add, of comfort to Miss Flint; for my brother was a rigid disciplinarian; and had not the child’s temper been one of the most docile and sweet, he would have been miserable; for my brother, guided by his acquaintance with vice, understood not that the path to virtue is pleasant, and to unperverted feet, and a pure heart, has allurements far superior to any that his lectures and vigilance could furnish.

You may judge of the difficulties I had to encounter in this period of my life; and the condition to which I was reduced by _a brother’s_ reminding me, from time to time, that it was best for me to be “_prudent_.” There was little need of a conscience like mine to draw the inference; his tone and manner were sufficient, and he repeatedly roused Lucretia to stand forth as my champion, on a ground which had made me a coward, and the slave of the wretch who had led me into the crooked path. “Her conduct was, at least, uniformly generous on this point,” continued Lady Maclairn; “she never, directly nor indirectly, mentioned Duncan, nor did I, till very lately, know to what extent her knowledge went of this unhappy affair. I breathed like one freed from death, when I found that Mr. Flamall had determined to leave England with Philip. From the time I had the unfortunate Mr. Duncan’s narrative before me, my soul abhorred the sight of my brother; and I so entirely secluded myself in my husband’s apartment, that we did not meet twice in a week, and his reserve and coldness when we did, went not beyond mine. Again, my dear Miss Cowley, truth obliges me to give a good report of Miss Flint. In proportion as my spirits flagged she redoubled her attention to my wants, and her purse was ever open to me. I believe, that my brother’s reason for going to Jamaica, originally sprung from a serious quarrel with Lucretia. The death of his wicked wife left him free to marry, and he was very pressing on that subject with Miss Flint. Lucretia had her secrets as well as myself; but accident led me within reach of hearing her say, “Never; urge me no further; for by all that is sacred, if you do, Percival shall know all.” I retreated, fearing to be discovered; and, from that time, his voyage was mentioned as a decided matter. After my brother’s departure, Lucretia fatigued me with her importunities, to draw me from my husband’s room.” “I should have a servant to watch him; and one I could rely on, although it cost her an hundred pounds _per annum_.” I was firm, and she submitted. Left to herself, she thought of her niece, and I was consulted on the expediency of her inviting this poor girl to live with her; I was distressed for a reply; knowing the bitter resentment which she had nourished even to the name of Howard; and her hatred to those who had sheltered this unfortunate and excellent couple. I evaded the question as well as I could, contenting myself with observing, that I had always thought it an act of duty on her part to take care of her niece. “I am willing to do so;” answered she colouring; “but I must first know what she is good for; and whether the people with whom she lives have not taught her to believe I am a monster.” I saw the rising storm, and timidly shrunk from it, saying, that I could not give her my advice, without incurring the censure of being swayed by a sordid consideration for my reputed son. “But you know,” added I, “that you can provide for both these young people; and you must determine their respective claims.” Poor Mary soon after exchanged her abode of peace, for _this_, and the event has confirmed my fears. The gentle and timid Mary neither gained spirits here, nor strove to amuse her aunt’s. She had but one path, it was to submit in silence to her aunt’s temper, and to anticipate her commands by her diligence. She soon perceived the fatal habit which Lucretia indulged; and this produced terror and disgust in her innocent mind, which, as you will believe, did not tend to conciliate her to her aunt’s hardships. I did all that I could do, to soften the one and encourage the other; but my interference was resented, and I was reproached, as being allied to her enemies, and blinded by Malcolm to favour the Heartleys.

I was tempted, Lucy, to hazard some questions, with a direct reference to Sir Murdoch’s suspicion of having been poisoned; but a moment’s reflection checked my curiosity; and I diverted her attention from perceiving my embarrassment, by asking her, whether she knew what was become of the gentleman’s portrait, and the papers, which so obviously appeared to have belonged to Mr. Duncan’s story? She unaffectedly answered, that, “Sir Murdoch had, when in London to meet me, consigned them into the hands of the Spanish minister, then resident there; and in the interview,” added she, “he learned that this nobleman was not totally a stranger to the fate of Duncan’s parents; they were dead; and a distant branch of the family was in possession of the title and immense estate; but there was a sister of the Duke still living, who was abbess of a convent; and to her he engaged to deliver these melancholy memorials of her still adored brother. Can you wonder, Miss Cowley,” continued she with emotion, “that I wish for death! think of my meditations, when darkness and repose conceal me from all eyes but those of a merciful Being, who witnesses my agonies. Such has been the ruin effected by a wretch I dare not curse! He is the child of my parents; the ties of blood still flow around my heart; and I implore Heaven’s sparing mercy for him, whilst my soul sickens at the thought of the injuries his hands have wrought, and which no time nor repentance can remedy. Think of his dreadful account with outraged humanity, violated truth, and every law of justice! I endeavour to hope that Charles has found his peaceful grave. I dream of him; and this frame of mind lays me open to superstition: my imagination presents him, as exultingly hovering over me on angel’s wings, smiling with ineffable complacency, and beckoning me to follow him. I try to obey him, and awake trembling. Such are the visions of my sleeping hours! You need not be told the meditations of my waking ones. One single principle of action has counteracted the fatal effects of these perturbations. I love my husband, my dear Miss Cowley, with an affection exclusively his; and I wish to live, whilst that life is useful to him. I am prepared for the event of being hateful to his eyes. God will have compassion on me!”

My tears composed her; and my arguments were listened to. She promised me to be all I wished; and I broke up the conversation by proposing a walk in the avenue. Her husband joined us there, and I told him I had been chiding my mother. He smiled tenderly, and placed himself between us, observing, that he would keep the peace. “You will not succeed,” replied I with assumed gaiety; “nor will I accept of you for an ally; you are too much like your wife; but I have blustered her already into obedience to my will; and she had promised to be good, and to walk with me every day the sun shines, instead of sitting in Miss Flint’s room to hear of pains which she cannot alleviate. He thanked her, and blessed your

RACHEL COWLEY.