LETTER XXVI.
Horace Hardcastle to his Sister.
Cintra, Sept. 20th.
MY DEAR LUCY,
My last letter informed you of our intention of remaining stationary for some months; and I have now the satisfaction of telling you, that I think Lord William has, on the whole, gained more from this climate than from any he has tried, and that hitherto we have had no reason to regret the plan we have adopted. An assured refuge from the heats of summer and the advantages hoped for from his vicinity to the sea, have not altogether failed. He has been amused, his thoughts divested from what he calls "a cowardly flight from death," and free from the inconveniences of Lisbon, he enjoys placidly, the few short days of his allotted space. We have been constant residents in this terrestrial paradise only since the first of June. Our spacious house and elevated situation at Lisbon, being perfectly adapted to our dear invalid's comforts; and to say the truth, we quitted the view of the noblest harbour in Europe, with an intire persuasion, that we might have remained with safety under its protection and the sea-breeze, which blew on our faces from every balcony. But Lord William had not then seen Cintra! He had not then seen from the Cabo de Penah, nor from Cape Roque, the sublime objects of nature which surround them. Rocks and mountains; the expanded ocean; the wide-stretching Tagus; plains rich in cultivation; impending woods; bubbling fountains, and falling cascades! Nor had he then traced the footsteps of havoc and confusion, left by the earthquake, and which the broken fragments and ponderous masses of the bare rock, mark at every approach.—But recommending to my Lucy the names of those writers who have embellished their works with a description of this favoured haunt of nature, I will proceed to place before her an adventure much more interesting to myself. Twiss, Baretti, Southby's Tours through Spain and Portugal will satisfy your curiosity, as to the spot in which I met with my good genii. You will not wonder, that your brother seeks solitude. My Curro[1], who knows his master for his friend, is no less impatient than he is, for the early dawn; about that hour he conducts me daily to some otherwise almost inaccessible haunt, and contentedly browzes the verdant paths in his way. The sun had gained upon us, whilst my Grison breakfasted on what nature made to him a luxurious repast. I conversed with an intelligent friar, one of the inmates of this singular retreat, who has been banished by the superior of his order to this place from his convent in Lisbon, to expiate the sin of loving English heretics, and English books; both of which temptations are yet too strong for him, in a spot
"Whose darksome round contains
"Repentant sighs and voluntary pains;
"The rugged rocks, which holy knees have worn,
"The grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn."
But leaving these allusions and poetical flights, let us proceed in our usual way.—Slowly winding up the steep ascent we reached the ruins of a Moorish castle, which is on one of the three highest promontories. You will imagine that the prospect from this elevation is unconfined. Alas! my Lucy, your brother saw only one! It was clouded by despair, and rendered intolerable by the certainty that I was not the only sufferer who was enveloped in its frowning aspect. "Were I alone to suffer, I would try to meet disappointment and contradiction like a man," thought I: "but to know that I am beloved, that I am as necessary to the happiness of the being whom I love, as she is to mine! To know that we might be happy, but for considerations——" I checked my murmurs then, as I suppress them now; and with my usual despondency, quitted the spot. In descending I saw, not far remote, an elegant girl, seated on a fragment of a rock; a gentleman on his knees before her, and she in evident distress. The narrow path admitted of no deviation; I was obliged to pass the supposed lovers. In so doing I perceived that the pretty creature had hurt her ankle, which the gentleman was rubbing; and the expression of her countenance, indicated that the application of his hand had not allayed the sense of pain. I stopped, and learned, that fearful of trusting herself to the sagacious animal she had rode, she had left her party at the Cork convent[2], preferring to walk. "With a shoe of this fashion," added the gentleman producing a green satin slipper, which might have rivalled Cinderella's, you will not be surprised at our disaster; the heel snapped, and here we are, with a sprained ancle! The husband, rather than the lover, appeared in this observation; and my idea was confirmed; for the pretty creature, rubbing the ancle with a hand which did not disgrace it, displayed a wedding ring; and with assumed gaiety, said, "The accident was nothing, she was certain the sprain was trifling; the pain was already subsiding, it was only numbed. If the gentleman would only have the goodness to call as he passed the Convent, and send forward the beasts, all would be well." The gentleman, as in duty bound, assisted her in mounting his own; and with the utmost caution, we proceeded down to the village. Having safely gained the more easy road, our timid charge unaffectedly thanked me for my goodness; and in reply to her companion's raillery on being such a coward, she remarked the superiority of the beast she was on, to the wretched animal they had lent her at the hotel; adding, that the satisfaction of leaving him feeding, was one motive for her preferring to walk. "I might have guessed as much," replied her companion; "but after all, my dear Margaret, you have been more charitable than fortunate. You should have kept your glass slipper for more level ground: it will be long enough before you see again a spot like this, or find a mountain to ascend."—"That may be," answered she with cheerfulness, "but I shall have time to rest on ship-board." This observation led to my being informed that she was going with her brother to Jamaica, where her husband was expecting her. "It will be a long and a tedious time before we shall meet," added she with tenderness: "and when I think of the many hours of expectation!"——"Never fear!" cried the brother, "you are a good sailor, Margaret, and with fair winds we shall go quicker than we do at present."—"God grant us them!" replied she with emotion.
We reached the hotel, and I took my leave of the strangers. The following morning on passing it, civility prompted me to enquire after the sprained ancle. The brother gave me a favourable account of the accident, adding, that Mrs. Flint, his sister, would be happy to see me again; and instantly leading the way to the next room, introduced me to his sister, and another lady whom I recollected as being the wife of a merchant resident in Lisbon. The name of Flint had visibly discomposed me; and for some moments I had only to listen to the reiterated acknowledgments of the delicate Mrs. Flint. She was still at the breakfast-table, and with the most perfect contentment she told me that her friend had not only enjoined her the penance of remaining in her bed longer, by some hours, than was her custom, but had doomed her to the sofa for the whole day; and with a sweet and amiable frankness of manner she reminded me of my little services; intreating me to assist her again, and by dining with them to make her peace with her brother, who had threatened to reduce her to a pigmy-height by obliging her to wear flat-heeled shoes. I bowed my acceptance of this invitation. The island of Jamaica and the appellation of "Mrs. Flint" had rivetted me to my seat. At length I summoned up resolution to ask her, whether she was connected with the Flints of Tarefield-hall. She coloured deeply; and the brother, without hesitation, answered, that his sister was the wife of Mr. Philip Flint, the youngest son in the family. "Then you know Miss Cowley," said I trembling with agitation, "you know she is at Tarefield with Lady Maclairn?"—"Margaret knows little of her husband's family," answered he, "having always resided in Scotland." I was silenced, and a certain air of embarrassment was dispelled from Mrs. Flint's countenance by the lady's asking her brother, whether it was still his intention to leave Lisbon on the Saturday. He replied in the affirmative, allowing for winds and tides; then turning to me, he asked me to take a ramble in the gardens of Penah Verde. I complied; but on sallying out we found the potent rays of the mid-day sun inconvenient; and allured by a fountain within two hundred paces of the hotel, we took our seats by it, under the umbrageous shelter of the cork and elm-trees.
I immediately began the conversation by apologizing for the warmth and earnestness of my interrogations relative to Tarefield; and proceeded to inform him of so much of Miss Cowley's history as was needful, in order to account for the interest I had discovered in relation to her. In the course of my little narrative, I spoke of Mr. Flamall, as having by his authority removed his ward from friends devoted to her, and to whom she was attached; and I added that, having learned from you the repugnance with which Miss Cowley had quitted her wonted asylum, I wish to know, that, with Lady Maclairn, her situation had been such as she merited. "We know none of Philip's connections," answered he, carelessly lading the limpid water with a brass bason attached by a chain to the fountain; "but if Philip's mother resembles him, she must be worthy of the guest you have described; for he is a good and an honest man. For the rest of his relations, to give you my honest opinion of them, I do not believe they would give this cup of water towards the happiness of any one. As for his precious uncle Flamall, he is a complete scoundrel."—"Then you know him!" observed I, eagerly. "Yes, yes," answered he, with warmth, "I know him, and I trust he will know Sinclair before many months elapse. He will not be the first rascal this arm has chastised!"—"Would to God," cried I, "that mine could second you!" He smiled and observed, "He would recollect my wish, and that it should strengthen his own." I now, my dear Lucy, more explicitly detailed to him Miss Cowley's connection with this villain: and if my own wretched anxieties appeared, I could not help it. He listened to me with the deepest attention, and grasping my hand, swore a solemn oath, to search to the bottom of a business so perfectly consonant to the man's character and conduct. "Hear my story, Mr. Hardcastle, and then judge whether your Miss Cowley's cause can be in better hands," added he, in an impressive tone. "I do not believe she would need a defender whilst an honest man can be found; but to me she shall be another sister, and with Margaret's injuries will I remember Miss Cowley's! My situation in life," continued he, "separated me from my mother soon after she became a widow; a maternal uncle, who lives at Boston in America, having destined me to the same pursuits in life, from which he had risen to respectable opulence. I had quitted my father's study, who was a minister of the kirk of Scotland, some time before his decease; and under the favour of my good uncle had then risen nearly to my present station, to wit, commander of one of his ships, instead of one of my own, which is at present in this port. I was fortunately not too remote from my father for his last blessing and embrace. I had also the consolation to find, that my uncle was disposed to render my mother and sister comfortable; an attention peculiarly necessary in the low condition of my father's finances. I am eight or nine years older than Margaret, and, both in principles and affection, disposed to perform the relative duties of a father and a brother. Such were my sentiments when I left her, after the events which I have mentioned, to return to America. During an absence of three years from my native home, I heard with contentment of my mother's tranquillity, and of the improvement of the poor little girl you have seen. She was, Mr. Hardcastle, my delight and pride from her cradle; and I knew that in my mother's care, her innocence was secure. This spring I had an opportunity I had long desired; and I failed not to avail myself of it to visit my mother. I was so pressed for time, and urged by impatience, that I arrived unexpectedly; and with some surprise I found that my mother had given up her house in Edinburgh, and lived near it, at a small village indicated to me. On reaching her abode, the cause of her removal was apparent in the emaciated form which poor Margaret exhibited. I was told she had been some months declining in health; and that country air had been judged more favourable to her, than that of the town. We are no adepts at hypocrisy. My mother's agitations betrayed her. On my asking whether any love disappointment had laid the foundation of the illness, she burst into tears; and unable to contain the secret, told me the sorrows of her aching heart.
"My sister had for a playmate and friend an amiable girl, somewhat older than herself, of the name of Montrose. They were near neighbours, and their parents were in the habits of familiar and friendly intercourse. On the death of Mr. Montrose, his widow, unwilling to give up her house, received, but with extreme circumspection, boarders. Philip Flint was recommended to her by her usual adviser, an old friend of her husband and a professor in the college. The young man was particularly committed to his care, and as peculiarly formed for the suitable inmate of a house remarkably sober and well regulated. Young Montrose was a pupil of the same gentleman, and had already distinguished himself for talents and application. I will abridge my romance, by telling you at once the result of his love advances to Margaret. Their measures were wonderfully prudent, when you take into the account the age of the lovers, who could only reckon eight or nine and thirty years between them; and those of their faithful and zealous confidants, who, in their calculation might have a right to four or five more. With the assistance of Montrose, they were married, and with the consummate prudence of an old civilian this young man saw, that the marriage was duly and legally valid, according to the laws of Scotland, his friend being anxiously solicitous on this point; pleading his dread of his despotical uncle, and the influence he maintained over every branch of his family. A few short weeks of perfect happiness were the prelude to Margaret's cares. The fond husband took all the blame on himself like an honest fellow; and at my mother's feet made a confession which subdued her; for it finished by imploring her pity and consideration of his wife's condition; urging her to permit the marriage ceremony to be renewed in her presence, if she were dissatisfied with the proofs which her daughter could produce of the legality of those vows which had united them. 'My own marriage was not more binding,' added my dear mother, 'and what could I do, Henry?' 'Exactly that which you have done,' answered I. 'Proceed.' 'Nothing could be more amiable than his conduct was to Margaret and myself,' continued my mother, 'nor more prudent. He explained his situation to us over and over again: said he was certain he should have a friend in his mother, and that his sister Lucretia would make him independent the day he was of age; for that she hated to see him controuled by a man so tyrannical as Mr. Flamall.' A letter from this sister, broke in upon our comforts: it was affectionate and tender in the extreme; it contained bank notes to the amount of a hundred and twenty pounds, and a letter from Mr. Oliver Flint, his eldest brother, with an invitation to come over to him to Jamaica. My mother then mentioned Philip's being a posthumous child, with those particulars which you know relative to his father's second marriage, and extraordinary will, continued Mr. Sinclair, which particulars I pass over. Miss Flint urged him, in this letter, to avail himself of his brother's good intentions. 'You will,' added she, 'by this means shake off the yoke, which now oppresses you more than it serves you. You will soon be independent of your mother's family; and I think you ought to lose no time. The bills enclosed are for your use. Say nothing of them to your uncle. You may have incurred some little debts, which although not disgraceful to a young man, he will call profusion, and tease me, and torment you for months with lectures, should they be brought to his accounts. For once in his life, at least, during the term of years, he has concurred in your mother's and my opinion relative to you. Lose no time in coming hither. We must enjoy your society a little while before you commence your voyage. Your absence has already been tedious to your affectionate—Lucretia Flint.'
"In a postscript she again added her caution: respecting the bills informing him that she had got the start of his uncle by a post or two, who was then writing to his father! 'The doctor,' adds Miss Flint, 'is to settle every thing of a pecuniary sort, and to supply you with cash for your journey. I have insisted on your not travelling in the stage-coach; you will therefore on your part be prepared for his intentions on this point.'