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,