“The father waketh for the daughter when no man knoweth, and the care for her taketh away sleep when she is young, lest she pass away the flower of her age; and being married, lest she should be hated.” I only regret that Mr. Serge did not study the same author, or at least one as wise, for the means to prevent the watchfulness and parental anxiety, so admirably described in the above mentioned words: for had he understood better how to chuse a wife, he might have slept in peace. A woman without understanding can hardly be called a virtuous woman, and we well know the price of a virtuous woman is far above rubies.
Miss Flint goes on deplorably; her sufferings have subdued the baronet, who sees with augmenting admiration the unremitting attentions of his “excellent Harriet.” Even Malcolm relents, and this morning most cordially wished his mother to urge her to send for advice to London, thinking her case a chirurgical one.
I am growing somewhat displeased with the winds and waves; but I remember Canute, and submit to a power which I cannot control. Mrs. Allen sends her love; she is constantly engaged with her invalid. Miss Flint is not easy without her.
I remain, faithfully your’s,
Rachel Cowley.
LETTER LVII.
Jeremiah Serge to Sir Murdoch Maclairn.
My Dear Friend, Putney, Oct. 27.
I am certain, if you knew the consolation I have in your counsels and advice, you would rejoice; for it is the command of a master we both wish to serve and obey, that the “strong help the weak.” God knows I am weak, and my talents few; you are a chosen servant, to whom many are intrusted; but yet, Sir Murdoch, we are of the “same household,” and the children of the same father; and, blessed be God! you do not, like some men, scorn the relationship, because one is appointed to a lower station than another, by that wisdom which will accept the lowest, who performs what is required of him. I am again brought to the trial of my strength by a new sorrow, from which, my good friend, neither my money, nor my wisdom, can altogether shelter me. Yet both shall be tried, as the means of relief; for both have their use, when in the discharge of that duty, which I am bound to perform as a Christian parent. My daughter, Caroline, encourages me to open my heart to you; she says, she will be answerable for the event, for that Sir Murdoch Maclairn is a man as well as a baronet, and that he will feel as a father the troubles of a father; and she is sure, that you will approve of my conduct; I think also that you will; for I have been governed by her; and surely Heaven, in its mercy, has preserved her life for my good; and has arrested the hand of death, until she was more than ripe for the blessed state prepared for her. Such a child! and yet so wise! so good! I cannot proceed——
I have taken up my pen again. It is only five o’clock, and not a soul stirring in the house but myself. So I will try and disburthen my mind a little!—I do not now remember whether I told you, that some few weeks since, Mrs. Tomkins, after passing a day or two with my dear child, during her mother’s absence from home, took Lydia to town with her, her dear sister thinking, as she told me, that the poor girl was losing her spirits. I, knowing that she thought of every one’s comforts, consented to my good friend’s wish of showing Lydia some kindness. The very evening they left us, Caroline turned her discourse on Nora, praising the letters she had written to us, and, with her perfect charity, hoping all things. “I do not repent, my good child,” said I, “of the kindness I have shown her: I am not the poorer nor the worse man, if I have purchased with seven thousand pounds, the gratitude of one, on whom she depends for the comfort of her life. Would to God, that I could purchase health for you!” She smiled, and said, “Then indeed would you be in danger of a bankruptcy; for I believe my father would give his last shilling for his children’s benefit. But let this pass. My health is not at present what troubles me. Promise me, my dear father, that, should Lydia stand in need of your support, you will remember, “That, where much is given, much may justly be required;” but that where nothing has been sown, we cannot reasonably except an harvest to rise.” “Make your mind easy in regard to her,” replied I, “thinking she had in her thoughts the little favour Lydia stands in with her mother, I pity and love her.” “I understand what you mean; and I promise you, I will be her father and her mother too, when occasion serves. She shall not be brow-beaten and neglected as she has been of late.” “Alas! my dear father,” answered Caroline, “you must promise more, or I cannot die in peace. You must promise to forgive another offending child: you must promise”—She threw her arms around me, Sir Murdoch, and weeping, added, “to shelter her from reproach and shame.” I turned faint and giddy; and my daughter gave me her salts. Oh! if you could but have heard what she said, you would not wonder at what I have done. In a word, my child was satisfied; and she lives to tell me again, that she was going to a Heavenly Father, from one who imitated him in lenity to his offending offspring. There was, in her look, something which poured joy and comfort into my broken heart. I only wish I could go to heaven with her.
“Well, I saw my weak unhappy girl; and Mrs. Tomkins advised me to let her manage; for she was certain the terror of seeing her mother would be fatal to her and the unborn infant. I could not reproach her, Sir Murdoch, indeed, an afflicted man is not an angry man: and after all, had not I been deficient in my duty? Has not my indolent temper, and love of peace, been more considered than the good of my family? I have been too passive, Sir Murdoch, too indulgent.