Chapter II: Introduction (2)

He lost no time in placing before his son his uncle’s proposal, and his own entire concurrence in the plan. “In this sacrifice of my own comforts for your advantage,” added the father, “I shall, I must be amply indemnified by seeing you escape from the danger which menaces you under my roof. In the duties of _friendship_, you may, my son, safely indulge the sensibility of a warm and affectionate nature; but in the presence of a beautiful girl, endeared to you by the sweet ties of infant sportiveness and familiar approach, you have forgotten, Horace, that passion and imagination are the usual rocks on which the honour and security of a young man are shipwrecked. I know that your principles are sound; I also know, that in the present delusion of your senses, there is no mixture of a sordid consideration in regard to Miss Cowley’s wealth. No, Horace, you are too generous for such views, and she is too attractive to need them. But tell me, with what arguments would you confute the charge so strongly to be inferred from the circumstances in which we are placed relatively to this young lady, by her grandmother’s will? I know Mr. Cowley, and I believe him to be a liberal-minded man; but would Horace Hardcastle find in an _extorted_ consent to his union with his daughter, the approbation needful for his _honour_? Recollect, that a gift not freely bestowed, is, and must be, oppressive to a noble mind; and the tenderness and weakness of a parent, who yields to the importunities of a fond, love-sick girl, furnish no excuse for the man who has fraudulently counteracted her parent’s views and expectations, by gaining an empire over her affections. Be more just to yourself, my son. You want not wealth to elevate you, nor firmness to conquer your present feelings. Be not deceived by the enthusiasm which now governs you. The good report of your fellow-creatures is of more importance to your happiness than you believe; and from the censure which will involve you and myself of having made a property of this lovely girl, and cheated her unsuspecting and generous father, there will be no appeal even to the candid.” “I will go,” answered Horace, his face crimsoned with blushes, “I will go to the farthest part of the globe, to spare you from such calumny. But I must love Rachel Cowley, or cease to live. Suffer me to depart with this shield to guard my youth, with this invigorating hope, that I may one day convince her father that I am worthy _of her_, if not of _his fortune_. Let him, if it please him, build hospitals with his money: I shall not want it!” “Trusting to the effects of time and absence,” answered Mr. Hardcastle, “I will finish this conversation, by my positive prohibition of your corresponding with Miss Cowley, either directly or indirectly, during your absence. I wish you to receive this command, as qualified by parental love. She is young, my dear Horace, as well as yourself; trust to your father; you may both change your present sentiments. Leave her to the only test of a permanent affection—more acquaintance with the world, and more knowledge of herself. Her situation and sphere in life will soon be very different from what they are at present. The society and the pleasures of the world will solicit her attention, and although I do not believe she will ever forget her early friends, time and absence may, and will weaken the present impressions of her mind. Trust also something to my experience; even _you_, my dear Horace, may forget to a certain degree, this amiable young woman. You will be engaged in pursuits, which may, without any miracle, direct your thoughts from present objects; and you may live to feel, that Mr. Cowley’s daughter is not necessary to your happiness.” Poor Horace’s agitations were not concealed. “Before we part,” added the tender father, “let me assure you, that were this young creature _any_ but what she _is_, I would select her from amidst thousands as a wife for my son. Let this assertion content you, and convince you of the importance I affix to the _firm_ opposition I make to your affection. Be then _a Hardcastle_; and submit your passions to that controul which will secure to you the blessings of _a Hardcastle_.”

A short interval was allotted for the young man’s preparations in order to his joining Lord William. Miss Cowley’s firmness not only supported this hour, but also her friend Lucy’s more tender spirits. She spoke of Horace’s departure with calmness, and observed from time to time, that he could not better fill up a year or two than by travelling. On the morning he left the parental roof, she further manifested her resolution and spirit. Poor Horace rose to obey the third or fourth summons which had announced that “all was ready.” “We part,” said she, offering him her glowing cheek, “as brother and sister—such be our adieux. But when next we meet, Horace, this hand shall testify the faith and truth of Rachel Cowley. _Thus_ I plight it!” She raised her eyes to heaven, grasped his hand a moment, and then darted from the room, leaving Mr. Hardcastle to his surprise, and to comfort his son.

A few weeks after Horace had quitted England, Miss Cowley’s tranquillity was again interrupted. She had sent her father, with some specimens of her own talents in drawing, her picture at full length; this was the work of the first artist in London, and was acknowledged to be not only a capital picture, but also a striking resemblance of her by those friends who had seen it. Mr. Cowley, on receiving it, appears to have given indulgence to all the feelings of nature, in beholding the portrait of a child so dear to him, an object of delight and admiration to his friends. He praises the design, the attitude; in a word, the skill of the painter in the highest terms. “But,” adds he, “if such be thy external endowments, he has had a subject for his labours worthy of them.” He continues in this stile of gaiety to inform her, that, notwithstanding “the hazel eyes,” which are said to be his gift, he thinks she so much resembles her mother, that he had placed her picture opposite to her mother’s portrait; and that he passes from one to the other, with sensations at once pleasurable and painful. “Your arrival, in the mean time,” continues he, “has been celebrated by a grand dinner, to which my friends resorted in crowds. Curiosity and admiration at length gave place to a contest between the ‘dove-like blue eyes,’ and the ‘saucy hazel ones.’ Your champions were Captain Vernon and your old friend Oliver Flint, whom you will remember as your favourite, although you threw your wax doll at his head, because he said it was prettier than Marian. As to your other valorous knight, I have only to recommend to you, when you next see him with his cargo of sweetmeats, to caution him to be more moderate in his zeal for your glory; for had he not been arrack-proof as completely as he is salt-water proof, he had been a dead man; for by maintaining your cause he has had a fever, which frightened his poor wife into a sick bed.” This letter finishes by mentioning the arrival of two strangers in Jamaica; namely, a gentleman of the name of Flamall, with his nephew, Mr. Philip Flint, the posthumous brother of Mr. Oliver Flint, the gentleman already mentioned in his letter. “My worthy old friend,” continues Mr. Cowley, “has drooped ever since the loss of his sons. I do not wonder that this has been the case. They had been his support under the severe trials of losing a good wife, and several other children. They had attained to an age in which he might, and had reasonably hoped to find in them a support and comfort to his grave. In one week an epidemic fever rendered him _childless_. Poor Oliver was for a time overwhelmed by this dreadful blow; but the constitution of his mind and body have saved him. He turned his thoughts to remedy his grief, not to repinings for an affliction sent him, as he said, ‘for his good;’ and he has found one in this young brother, whom he never knew till lately. This child was the fruit of his father’s second marriage, who died at an advanced age, leaving his young widow pregnant. The young man’s name is Philip, and his age nearly that of poor Oliver’s eldest son, who was also christened Philip. On this slight conformity the good old man erected his hopes of supplying to himself an heir and a consolation. The appearance of this young man, who is accompanied by his maternal uncle Mr. Flamall, has renovated poor Oliver. He is, indeed, a most promising and handsome young man, and my friend already fancies he resembles his son: no one contests this point with him; nor is there any one who does not think the young man worthy of his brother’s protection. He is well educated, and his manners are pleasing and polite, though rather too reserved and circumspect for some amongst us. These strangers have made a rake of me for some time; but I have refused to dine with the _heir apparent_, in order to write to you more at my leisure. Since your picture has graced my saloon, your old friend Oliver can talk of nothing but getting a wife for his idol; and this morning Mr. Flamall explicitly began a negotiation for my girl, stating his nephew’s great expectations from his sister, an old maiden lady, whose name is Lucretia Flint. This, with Mr. Flint’s fortune, is a _bait_, but not one for your father, my child. I have not forgotten your dear mother: to her undivided affection, not _her money_, was I indebted for my happiness; and, instead of years passed in contention and wretchedness, I had the satisfaction of knowing that my wife preferred her husband to his rival, although that rival was _her mother_. I do not believe you have been instructed to despise a man, simply because he stands well in your father’s opinion; nor will that father, my dear child, bargain away your happiness, in order to add acre to acre. I told Mr. Flamall, with more jocularity than seriousness, that I meant to see my girl before I gave her away, and to know the value of my merchandise before I _sold it_. Be not, however, surprised should you see your old friend Mr. Flint; for, coward as he is, I verily believe he would cross the Atlantic in a boat to plead with you for his darling Philip.”

Kind as this letter was, it alarmed Miss Cowley. She once more renewed her entreaties on the subject of her father’s leaving Jamaica; and in the most unequivocal terms declared her repugnance to any matrimonial overtures. “Let me conjure you, my dear Sir,” urged the apprehensive pleader, “to return to England, and to renew with me those endearing ties of an undivided duty and the purest gratitude. I seek to emulate my mother, but it shall be in first shewing that I am your child, and not as a wife. Oh, let me for a time be your own Rachel Cowley!”

The father’s reply to this appeal to his heart restored Miss Cowley to her usual cheerfulness. He good-humouredly rallies her on the needless rhetoric she employed to restrain the ardours of a lover, apparently as little disposed to be shackled as her herself. “From the little I have seen of this young philosopher,” adds Mr. Cowley, “I believe he left his heart behind him; for our notable mothers, who are nibbling at the prize, can make nothing of him, and the girls already call him the stoic. I was much amused the other day by Captain Vernon’s and Mr. Flamall’s debate, in which you were the subject of contention. The uncle insisted that his nephew had been engaged in taking a drawing from your picture whilst I was at Oliver’s with a gay party of ladies and gentlemen, and from which young Philip had contrived to absent himself for a long time. Vernon doubted of this employment of the youngster’s time; ‘but be this as it may,’ added he, with his usual bluntness, ‘I tell you that young Flint will never do for a suitor for Miss Cowley, whatever he may for her picture; she would laugh at him.’ Mr. Flamall was not much pleased by this frankness, and he coldly replied, that he presumed Miss Cowley had not made a confession of her faith to Captain Vernon. ‘There is no need she should,’ answered he; ‘her spirit and sense speak for themselves: and whilst all the world acknowledge her beauty, she shews them that she will not easily be won.’ I shall spare my pen the labour of writing the remainder of his rhapsodies; but he finished by telling Flamall that he could recommend a wife to his nephew, who would exactly suit him; and that was Miss Lucy Hardcastle. His description of the young lady satisfied Flamall that the honest captain did not think his nephew undeserving of _a good wife_, though disqualified to manage _a saucy one_. I have, however, reason to believe I shall hear no more of Mr. Philip Flint’s _passion_ for Miss Rachel Cowley; therefore she may take one feather from vanity’s plume.”

Mr. Cowley finishes this letter by mentioning the steps he had taken preparatory to quitting the island; and, with much satisfaction, informs his daughter that he has retained Mr. Flamall as his agent: he enlarges on this gentleman’s talents and capacity for business, and concludes with the highest eulogium on his manners and agreeable qualities.

It appears that the honourable veteran in the service of Neptune and Bacchus, delivered, as was usual, this packet and his sweetmeats, in person, at Heathcot, where he passed a few days with a young creature, who, from her birth, had shared in his warm heart an affection which he had carried to idolatry for her mother.

His account of his patron, Mr. Cowley, by no means tallied with the apparent ease and gaiety contained in the letters he brought; and Mr. Hardcastle was told that Mr. Cowley had been seized with a fit whilst at Mr. Flint’s table, which dreadfully alarmed all present: happily a medical gentleman was one of the guests, and immediate relief was given. “It has shaken him,” added the captain; “but we hope he will rally again. I saw him the day I embarked; he made me promise not to say a word of this business to you; but I did not like his looks, and I thought he walked but poorly: God grant I may see him in my next trip! It should be the last labour of the Charlotte. She was launched to carry him and his angel wife to Jamaica; and if she swims safely till he is with his daughter, she will have been a lucky vessel to me.” He passed his hand over his eyes, and whistled away an emotion that he could not otherwise conquer.

The captain’s apprehensions were but too well founded. Mr. Cowley lived not to reach England. A second and third attack of the palsy proved fatal; and poor Vernon found at his return many mourners to sympathize with him in a sorrow legitimately founded on his knowledge of the man, and on gratitude to his benefactor. We will pass over in silence the effects which this melancholy intelligence produced at Heathcot-Farm. Miss Cowley was roused from the deepest dejection of spirits by the events which succeeded to the first shock. Mr. Steadman summoned her and Mr. Hardcastle to London; and with precautions, which he judged necessary, placed before the orphan a copy of her late father’s will, which, with all its requisite documents, had been formerly sent to him by the executor, Mr. Flamall.

The contents were, indeed, calculated to astonish and afflict his daughter. She was named as the successor to his fortune in the usual terms. His property stood answerable, however, for the provision of his two natural children and their mother. These children were boys, the eldest not yet ten years old. To each was bequeathed five thousand pounds; to the mother three hundred pounds per annum. To the survivor of the boys this property devolved, unless the mother lived till the children had both reached twenty-one, in which case her annuity was to be divided between them. To Mrs. Allen two thousand pounds; bequests to some domestics, and hundred-pounds rings to several friends; amongst these Counsellor Steadman, Mr. Hardcastle, and Mr. Oliver Flint were named. Mr. Flamall, with a thousand pounds legacy, was named as the guardian of his two sons, and appointed agent for the trust of superintending his concerns in Jamaica. An income of five hundred pounds per annum was annexed to this trust; and provision was made for Mr. Flamall’s residence at whichever of the plantations he chose for his abode. The important clause next follows, and in these words nearly: “Having had the most unequivocal proofs of the integrity of those trustees named by Mrs. Dawson, for the security of her property in favour of Rachel Cowley, he still leaves to their wisdom the entire management of the trust in their hands; but it behoved him to shew to the world, and to his daughter, that he had neither relinquished his rights as a parent, nor been unmindful of the duties annexed to the name of a father; and, not doubting his child’s ready obedience to his commands, he had, with the concurrence of the parties most nearly concerned, chosen her a husband in the person of Philip Flint, &c.” On the celebration of this marriage Mr. Flamall’s jurisdiction terminated, as far as it related to Miss Cowley. She was immediately to enter into the full and unconditional enjoyment of her fortune when she became Mr. Philip Flint’s wife.

The penalty of a refusal to comply with the terms thus briefly specified, was a minority, which reached to her twenty-fifth year; and in case she married any other man, save the aforesaid Philip Flint, without the consent of Mr. Flamall, the whole of the Jamaica property was tied up for her children’s benefit; and in case of no issue, devolved to his two sons. He further enjoins his daughter’s obedience to this _his representative_, even as it regards her place of residence: stipulating, however, that he has conditioned for her remaining in England, not only while she bears the name of Cowley, but also under that of Mrs. Flint, having received the most satisfactory assurances that Philip Flint will not live in Jamaica. In a word, Mr. Cowley’s will firmly makes Mr. Flamall the sovereign arbitor of Miss Cowley’s fate till she becomes his niece; and the harsh and dictatorial language of the law was exhausted to sanction and confirm this excess of parental authority.

Miss Cowley, with indignation, pronounced the will a forgery; and she produced as evidence for this opinion her father’s character, his unlimited affection for her, his confidence in Mr. Hardcastle, and his letters, in which Philip Flint had been named. Her friends admitted her reasoning, but the will was legally executed and witnessed by Oliver Flint, Mr. Cowley’s _valet de chambre_, and two of the most respectable gentlemen in the island. Juba, the faithful Juba, had carried Rachel Cowley in his arms. He had long been a free man, and he had written the first letter to England of his beloved master’s death; in which he dwelt with comfort on the calmness and clearness of the deceased man’s faculties till the last moment. She persisted in her opinion, and with great firmness said, she would seek redress in a court of Chancery, ordering the counsellor to enter a caveat to the will immediately. The dignity which she assumed, the acuteness of her observations, and the absence of those fears which the gentlemen were prepared to expect, gave them at once to understand that the client was not a minor in good sense. The counsellor was struck with a character so superior to what he expected in a girl not much more than eighteen; and he told her candidly, that his opinion and Mr. Hardcastle’s entirely agreed with her own. “I have gained,” continued he, “some information respecting this Flamall. He was, I find, one of those men who in the practice of the law are its disgrace; he is expert in all the tricks and chicanery of his tribe; and your property is too valuable a trust to be wrested from him without a struggle on his part. The means of justice are slow, and we must contrive to counteract his villainy, not to dispute his right to be _a villain_. Have patience, my dear Miss Cowley, I have more than once caught a rascal in his own toils. A false will cannot easily be produced without confederates; something may transpire, for rogues are rarely faithful to each other. Be satisfied that you are at liberty to refuse the husband he has so carefully provided for you. You want nothing from Jamaica, and in a few years you will be mistress of your father’s fortune, and in a situation to support your brothers in their difficulties with a man certainly disqualified for their guardian. We will know more of him, and appear his dupes for a season; he will only rob you with the more avidity from finding he is suspected.”

Miss Cowley assented to this advice, and determined to be governed by her zealous friend; secretly hoping, that the restrictions of her father’s will, to which she appeared disposed to submit, would at least secure her from the solicitations of lovers; and thus silence Mr. Hardcastle’s scruples in regard to his son.

Before she left Mr. Steadman, she saw her formal rejection of Mr. Philip Flint dispatched to her new guardian. Counsellor Steadman wrote this letter, and Miss Cowley’s attestation of its being dictated by her, satisfied her, that she had crushed the hopes of the insolent pretender to her hand. Her natural cheerfulness returned, and Lucy found her friend the better for the little journey. But this season of tranquillity lasted not many months; a letter from Mr. Flamall, which it is necessary to transcribe here, will assign the cause of new anxieties at Heathcot-Farm. Mr. Flamall, who seemed to consider Mr. Steadman as the only friend of Miss Cowley, and, as a professional man, the proper medium through which his authority was to be announced to the heiress, thus writes to him:

“Bound as I am by the duties of my appointed trust, and prompted by my veneration and gratitude to fulfil in every point Mr. Cowley’s intentions, as these related to his daughter, I think it proper to remove Miss Cowley from her present residence. From the period of Mrs. Hardcastle’s death, her father had this intention; and I have frequently heard him regret, that his delay, and her reluctance to visit Jamaica, had postponed a resolution he thought indispensibly incumbent on him to execute. In his last illness he requested me to make it my first concern to place his daughter with a lady qualified to protect and guide her. I have, in consequence, written to my sister, Lady Maclairn, on this subject, and you will prepare my ward for her removal to Tarefield, the place of my sister’s residence. I am not discouraged by Miss Cowley’s refusal of my nephew. She does not know Philip Flint, who will, I am confident, convince her, and her friends, that her father was not less attentive to her happiness than to her fortune, in selecting him as her protector for life. More on this subject does not become me to say, less would be injustice to a man whose merits are acknowledged wherever he is known. I will not, however, pursue this subject further at present than by observing, that Miss Cowley may be led by her knowledge of Mr. Philip Flint’s connections in England, to consider more favourably of her good father’s _wishes_. In the mean time, my nephew has cheerfully acceded to _mine_; and flatters himself, that by postponing his voyage to England for some months, he is not only gratifying Miss Cowley’s delicacy in this hour of filial sorrow, but also offering her an homage which will not be unacceptable to her, as it will be of use to her interest; Mr. Cowley’s large concerns requiring an inspection, and an arrangement which, in the first pressure of business, is more than I am equal to. The retirement in which Sir Murdock Maclairn’s family lives, will not, in the present state of affairs, be irksome to _my ward_; the society of an accomplished woman will, I hope, compensate her for the temporary suspension of more unconfined amusements. Taking it for granted, that you will still hold the trust committed to you by Mrs. Dawson’s will, I shall annually remit to Sir Murdock Maclairn the same sum which Mr. Cowley assigned for his daughter’s maintenance with Mr. Hardcastle, from the age _of infancy_. Being willing to shew my respect for Miss Cowley’s wish, as this relates to Mrs. Allen’s continuance in her service, I have prepared Lady Maclairn to receive what she might otherwise judge an useless appendage in a house regulated as Tarefield-hall is.” Mr. Flamall concludes by informing his correspondent, that Miss Cowley’s fortune is very ample; that he has to encounter the obstinacy of the boys’ mother, who will not be parted from the children, nor suffer them to remain in their father’s house. Mr. Philip Flint had, however, compromised matters; and the mother and children were placed by him in the family of a Mr. Dalrymple, a Scotchman, whom he had known at the university, in Edinburgh, and who kept a school in Kingston, with reputation. The boys were handsome, promising children; and he had no fears for them, but such as arose from the ignorance and excessive fondness of their mother, whom he always thought unworthy of the place she had held in Mr. Cowley’s heart. It was, however, his intention to send the children to England for education, with his nephew, if he could prevail on the mother to consult their real good. Statements of effects in a general way, and details of his conduct, as regulated by the dying words of Mr. Cowley, in regard to the negroes on the plantations, to whom he had been a father, finish Mr. Flamall’s letter.

Mr. Hardcastle, judging of the effects of this letter on Miss Cowley, from the sorrow with which it filled his anxious bosom, and justly apprehending the danger which might result from his “_child’s_” removal to a family devoted to Mr. Flamall’s views, strenuously concurred with Mr. Steadman, in advising Miss Cowley to take such steps as would at least secure her person from Mr. Flamall’s controul. But she was not to be moved in her resolution of complying with his orders. “The future happiness of my life,” said she, “depends on my compliance with this act of usurped authority. He will find,” added she, with an air of triumph, “that in the hands of Providence the vilest instrument is made subservient to the purposes of mercy. I must quit Mr. Hardcastle’s house; I have for some time _wished_ to do so. Yes, I have wished it. I will convince that world which Mr. Hardcastle so much fears, that Rachel Cowley has not been influenced by those who have been her protectors, to prefer Horace Hardcastle for her future guardian. I will shew my independence, and maintain my claims to a choice which virtue sanctions. It is of no moment where I pass this term of my banishment from all whom I love,” continued she, melting into tears. “These people will soon discover, that I am not a girl to be trampled on, and their own advantage will secure to me civility. When I am five-and-twenty years of age, I presume the _world_, as well as the laws of my country, will deem me a free agent; and I should be the first to laugh at an attachment that could not stand my trial of its permanency. It is possible, that in the first instance Mr. Hardcastle’s scruples will yield to his sorrow for my absence, and my own firmness, to some censures of his wisdom and circumspection; but we shall both find consolation in those principles which require the sacrifice of present security and happiness, to a more lasting and greater advantage.” Mr. Hardcastle, unequal to the conflict, retired, not daring to trust his integrity with so irresistible a pleader.

Soon after, the following letter was in his hands; its contents will evince to the reader, the solicitude of Miss Cowley’s friends at once to ascertain the safety of her removal from them.

“_To Counsellor Steadman._

“Bishops-Auckland, Durham.

“MY DEAR FRIEND,

“My short residence in this part of the world, will unavoidably subject the intelligence you require to errors, notwithstanding my zeal and diligence. The truth is, that, as I have only the voice of the parish of Tarefield and its environs for my authorities, I am forced to place before you the history of a family at once peculiarly marked as the object of a fond partiality, and of inveterate hatred. I leave to you to sift and resift the documents thus obtained: for my history includes a number of years and facts which are still the topics of conversation in this neighbourhood.

“Flamall was, as you have heard, for some years a practitioner in the law; and succeeded his father in the business of an attorney, with the credit which that father left him, who was an honest and an able man. His sister, now Lady Maclairn, was left to his direction, and, to the surprise of old Flamall’s connections, to her brother’s generosity. She was young and remarkably handsome, had been carefully and liberally educated, and was a virtuous and elegant young woman; but from some proofs of her brother’s intentions, of making her subservient to his ambition or vices, she sheltered her own innocence by accepting the hand of old Mr. Flint, then in his seventieth year; and in the full blaze of beauty, not being more than four or five and twenty, she appeared as a bride at Tarefield-hall. Mr. Flint at this period had four children. Oliver, his eldest son, was settled in Jamaica, had married there, and was the father of a family. Lucretia, the present despot at the hall, was single; but something older than the bride. Percival Flint, the second son, had just finished his academical studies, and had quitted Oxford. Mary Flint, the youngest of the family, was then about seventeen, and in one word, a _paragon of perfection_, for such my authorities proclaim her. Domestic feuds and discontents still kept their ground, in spite of the young mother-in-law; who, it appears, was little calculated to maintain even her own rights: she sunk into a nurse to her husband. Percival Flint left his father’s house secretly, and for some years, whilst serving his country as an officer in the marines, was supposed by the neighbourhood to have fallen a victim to misery. Mr. Flamall had an active part in all the transactions at this period. He was useful to the infirm father of the family, in managing his business; and his ill treatment of his own sister, gave him favour with Miss Lucretia Flint. Love now engaged in the struggle for power. A new curate, of the name of Howard, appeared at Tarefield. Miss Lucretia made love to him; and he made love to the beautiful Mary Flint. Here again I could fill volumes with the praises and blessings still given to this matchless pair! After many trials, and the utmost cruelty from the jealous sister, the lovers married. Mr. Flint’s death is the next event. He left a will, which utterly excluded Percival Flint and Mrs. Howard, his darling child, from any portion of his property beyond a shilling. The Jamaica estate became his eldest son’s, and Miss Lucretia became the mistress of Tarefield-hall, with a large sum in money, some say, not less than thirty thousand pounds. The young widow had her provision of four hundred pounds per annum, for her life, on the Tarefield estate, and her name was not even in the will but in order to ascertain this claim. A new wonder succeeded to this. In a short time after the funeral, Mrs. Flint declared herself pregnant; and to the astonishment of every one, Miss Flint received the intelligence with joy, and observed, it was an event for which Mr. Flint had prepared her. She was happy; for it would now appear, that her father had chosen her for the stewardship of that fortune destined to be shared with a child who had not offended him. The odious title of mother-in-law was forgotten, and she called Mrs. Flint her _friend_ and _sister_: by this _latter_ appellation they still call each other. Anxious for the preservation of the infant, Miss Flint removed her sister, whose health was in a very precarious state, to London. There Philip Flint was born; I need not add, that this posthumous child is the young man who pretends to Miss Cowley’s hand. I have suppressed the affecting stories of Mr. and Mrs. Howard’s difficulties, and their untimely death. They left a daughter, who is the idol of her parents’ partial friends: till lately, she has lived with a wealthy farmer, where also boards her uncle Percival. She is now, I am told, noticed at the hall, and I believe she is under Miss Lucretia’s protection. But to proceed.

“Soon after the birth of Philip, Mrs. Flint chose a second husband, and married Sir Murdock Maclairn, with whom she became acquainted during her residence in or near London. The baronet was poor, and Mr. Flamall was for a time averse to this union; and for the reasons my Irishman assigns, namely, ‘that Flamall knew of no standard by which to appreciate honour and intrepidity.’ _Observe_ here, that the Duke of —— gave me _this_ observation, who formerly knew the baronet. Miss Flint, whose best actions are viewed only in one direction by the circle of her irritated judges, was however useful to the poor widow Flint on this occasion. The union was effected by her mediation, without an open rupture with the domineering brother. ‘But she took care of herself, for she wished to attach Mr. Flamall, and conditioned for Sir Murdock and his lady, living with her at Tarefield, by which means the lover had a pretence for his visits.’ I shall pass over this lady’s supposed frailty, and the motives assigned for her not marrying the man whom she favoured. These are contained in the following hints: ‘_They knew one another too well for that folly, &c._’ I have even continued to suppress the current report of the hall being haunted by the unquiet spirit of old Mr. Flint, ‘who knows the will produced, was never made by him.’ Compassion for Lady Maclairn has not been worn out. Her conduct to her unfortunate husband during many years infirmity of mind, nearly approaching to insanity, has obliterated the remembrance of her neglect of Mr. and Mrs. Howard, and every one concurs in believing, that, to her love and unremitting tenderness, the poor baronet stands indebted for his present amendment in his health and faculties. She has one son by her second marriage. It is enough that I say this young man is the reigning favourite here; for ‘Malcolm Maclairn is in no favour with Miss Flint, or his uncle Flamall.’ I suspect he has more of his father’s blood in his views than suits his dependant fortune; for he has been from his childhood constantly attached to Percival Flint, and Miss Howard, the orphan child of Mary Flint, who is the admiration of the parish, and the cherished object of compassion.

“It is no unpleasing nor unprofitable reflection, my good friend, to trace in my gleanings relative to this family, the pure and genuine love of justice with which the heart of man is endowed by his gracious Maker. Neither the wealth nor station of Miss Flint have been able to screen her from the odium of those about her. Percival Flint has more homage paid him than if lord of the manor-house; and with the stipend annexed to an invalid captain of marines, a wooden leg, and his niece Howard in his hand, confers an honour on every cottage he enters. The farmer, at whose house they live, has acquired an influence and authority in the parish beyond what his opulence would give him; ‘for every thing has prospered with Mr. Wilson from the hour he sheltered Mr. and Mrs. Howard.’ Such is the belief here.

“To conclude. It appears that Mr. Philip Flint has been carefully educated, and is a young man of spirit. The usual comments on him finish with, ‘Aye he is too good for those to whom he belongs! they could not spoil him; but he will never be worthy to carry his brother Malcolm’s shoes.’ You will translate these expressions to this young man’s advantage, for they bespeak his worth.

“Depend, however, on one thing as certain: Sir Murdock Maclairn is no fit instrument for cunning or baseness. His wife is an unoffending, depressed woman: I am told she is highly accomplished. Miss Howard is now I find with her aunt Miss Lucretia. The captain occasionally visits the hall. The baronet is regaining his health; and Malcolm is a second Æneas. Whatever be the result of your measures, recollect that Miss Cowley is within my reach; and prepare her to expect a steady and vigilant protector

“In your sincere friend,

“GEORGE WOODLEY.”

CHAP III.

Mr. Hardcastle read the above letter to his attentive hearer: he waited for some moments for her observations on its contents; but finding she remained silent, he said, “My dear child, recollect that you are not obliged to comply with Mr. Flamall’s orders.” “I have never for an instant supposed myself in his power,” answered she calmly. “This account of his connections, however, gives me satisfaction, because it will serve to remove from your mind all fears for my personal safety. It is of no importance to me what are the characters of this Flamall’s relations at present, it is sufficient that they appear neither dangerous, nor interested in using me ill; for the rest I am prepared.” “Be also prepared to be just,” replied Mr. Hardcastle. “Mr. Woodley says his information rests on public rumour and public opinion. Your father knew Mr. Philip Flint and Mr. Flamall: suppose, for a minute only, that his will was the result of that knowledge, and that the man he recommends to your notice is one that is worthy of you; without binding yourself to any conditions, you ought to see this young man whenever he arrives, and to listen dispassionately to whatever he has to plead, both for his honour and his pretensions. Consider him only as Oliver Flint’s brother, and as standing remote from Mr. Flamall and the family at Tarefield. His affinity to worthless people, granting it be so, is no proof of his worthlessness; and surely the estimation in which he is held even by your father’s report of him, entitles him to a fair hearing whenever he appears at Tarefield.” “I shall, whenever that happens,” replied Miss Cowley, “receive him without resentment or caprice, and soon convince him that my resolution is unalterable.” “And what answer am I to make to this letter?” asked Mr. Hardcastle, producing a renewed application from a young baronet in the neighbourhood. “If you will have the goodness to transmit my answer to Sir George,” replied Miss Cowley, “you will oblige me; it is a brief one: I am an engaged woman; and should not this silence him, he will prove that he is not a gentleman, nor a man of sense.—To what purpose should I conceal from him, or the world,” added she, throwing her arms around Mr. Hardcastle’s neck, “an attachment in which I glory? To what purpose refrain from telling my father, and my friend, that I love Horace Hardcastle? He knows that I love him, and have loved him for years.” “My dear child!” said the subdued Mr. Hardcastle, tenderly returning her embrace, “endowed as you are, I would with pride acknowledge you as my daughter were you pennyless; but circumstanced as I am, I dare not listen to your pleadings. I am too old, and too tenacious of a good name, to risk it by a compliance so evidently in favour of my son’s fortune: and you are too young, and too inexperienced, to know whether that compliance would secure to you the happiness it promises. I will imitate you in frankness: regard me as your best friend, not as Horace’s father. Leave to time the discussion of a subject of which you are at present disqualified to judge. Horace, like yourself, is young, I advise you to avoid entering into any engagements with him till more acquaintance with life shall have decided his character and rendered you a better judge of his merit. Remember also, that should you persist in cherishing the sentiments you now entertain of this young man, that you cannot give to your friends any apology for your preference more ostensible, than that of placing no temptation in the way of his integrity. It will be the only wealth he can bring to the account of yours; and although many will say it is nothing in the scale they judge by, _some_ will be candid enough to confess, that virtue knows no inequality of condition. But let me say yet a few words more,” added he; “and think you are listening to your _mother_, to that being who trained you to be what you are.”—He paused for a moment.—“She would tell you, my dear Rachel, that there is no period of a young woman’s life, in which she is less qualified to judge for her own happiness, than the one in which you are at present. You are under an influence which renders your judgment weak. Unacquainted with vice, and with all the affections of nature and innocence glowing in your bosom, you give to imagination an office with which it ought never to be trusted; and to the lover it selects the qualities of your own pure heart. For a time, this delusion passes; but what is often the conclusion? Sometimes, a too late conviction that what had been cherished as a supreme _good_, is a certain _ruin_; and still as frequently, that what had been called a permanent affection, is discovered to be nothing more than a flight of youthful inclination. I may surprise you by saying, that, without any imputation on your principles, or degradation of your understanding, you may cease to love Horace Hardcastle.” “Never!” exclaimed the impatient Miss Cowley. “We are not the children of folly, nor the slaves of passion! Read that letter which I received from your son, and then judge of the basis on which our hopes rest. I have promised Horace to respect his father’s honour, and to preserve his, and I will never write to him till I have your consent.” “I am satisfied,” answered Mr. Hardcastle, hastily rising to quit the room. “Oh hear me!” cried Miss Cowley; detaining him by his clothes: “as a _sister_, as to my _early friend_, surely now and then I may be indulged.” “You shall want no information of his safety,” answered the retreating Mr. Hardcastle, interrupting her and instantly retiring. “Inflexible man!” said she, bursting into tears. “Ah, would to Heaven that mother to whom he referred, lived to confute his arguments! She only knew Rachel Cowley—she only knew her Horace.”

Relieved by this effusion of sorrow, her spirit took its natural bias, and though disappointed in her wishes of gaining permission to write to her _brother_ Horace, it may be at least conjectured, that the opposition she had been unable to conquer, did the lover no injury; for it is most certain, that she attributed Mr. Hardcastle’s conduct to a pride and scrupulosity far removed from good sense, and deficient in kindness to her.

CHAP. IV.

Miss Cowley lost nothing of her firmness in relating the above conversation to her friend Lucy. “I must think Mr. Hardcastle too rigid,” said she, “in prohibiting all correspondence between me and Horace; but I will obey him as my father. I leave you, my dear Lucy, but it is to defeat malice. The honour of Mr. Hardcastle is not less dear to me than my own, and I will prove to the world that I am qualified to judge, and to determine. I have now duties before me that will give solidity to my mind. My father has left two children besides myself, and convinced as I am, that Flamall is a villain, I will omit no occasion of detecting his artifices. Sheltered under this roof, I can never do this; but by bending to his authority I may make him tremble. Should I fail in this purpose, I am still secure; for Horace will not want my father’s wealth to make him happy; and when I am of age, it will depend on you to determine whether Mrs. Dawson’s legacy to her grand-daughter is to be _a curse_.” Poor Lucy, unable to reply, only wept, and saw with bitter regret her friend’s preparations for leaving Heathcot. A letter from Sir Murdock Marlain hastened her departure; and Mrs. Allen and Miss Cowley were escorted to London by Mr. Hardcastle a few days previous to the baronet’s arrival, and took up their temporary abode at Counsellor Steadman’s.

Few of my readers will refuse their sympathy to the dejected and faithful guardian during this anxious period. With a father’s apprehensions, Mr. Hardcastle saw youth and beauty torn from his protecting care; and with anguish of soul, did he now contemplate the traits of his pupil’s mind, and the charms of her person; but of this person no more will be said, than applying to Rachel Cowley the poet’s interrogation,

Can Virgil’s verse, can Raphel’s touch impart,
Those finer features of the feeling heart,
Those tend’rer tints, that shun the careless eye,
And in the world’s contagious circle die?
_Rogers’s Pleasures of Memory_.

Having now brought my readers to the point in which my history may be said to commence, I hasten to place before them a correspondence, which will better serve my purpose than any talents I possess. I shall content myself in future with supplying the few breaks I find in the narrative; and leave the reader to judge of my discernment in thinking the unstudied language of truth and nature better than any I could substitute in their place. Miss Cowley shall speak for herself.