LETTER XXIX.
From the same to the same.
Some benevolent fairy, my dear Lucy, who presided at your birth, on finding nature had done so much for you, that her intended and usual donations would be but kindness thrown away, has graciously reserved her gifts for me, foreseeing the hard destiny to which I was subjected. Being condemned, like the sleeping beauty of the wood, to a hundred years nap, it is presumable she would, had her power been equal to her benevolent wishes, have bestowed perpetual youth on me, and a face that in any night-cap would have been worthy of a lover at the expiration of my captivity. But as this effort was beyond the power of her magical wand, she has been contented with gaining permission for me to walk in my sleep, and to seek adventures for your entertainment, and my own relief from despair. But to my tale, lest you should fancy it a dream, and that, far inferior to Prince Rufus's enchanted palace, cooks, turnspits, fidlers, and beaux and belles, awakened to eat, drink, and be merry.
Finding I began to be weary of my good friend Eolus (for one may be tired of what is good, by having too much of it,) I determined, in order to vary the scene, to pay a morning visit to my new friends at the mill. "I should like," said I, "to see these boys now warmed into life by a pinch of snuff and snow water." The whole junto took the alarm. The roads were impassable; I should get my death of cold. I only laughed at their prognostics, and persisted in my intention, urging that the thaw, which has began here, had moderated the severity of the air. Lady Maclairn, always ready at an expedient, recollected that the coach-wheels wanted some repair, and her cook some corn to be ground for the fowls; and that at all events it was better for me to ride than to walk in the dirt. I readily conceded to this opinion, and, being wrapped up in pelisses and shawls, to the exact resemblance of the bag of corn, I departed. I found the little family one of those who, according to Deborah, "go as they would be met, and sit as they would be seen." Wisdom is wisdom with me, Lucy, "whether," as my darling Sancho says, "it is in a silk purse or in a sow's ear." There is nothing, in my opinion, more indicative of good sense than a habit of order. But let us go on. The old lady was giving the boys their reading-lesson when I entered, in a bible which was before them. Susan was making a muslin gown. My entrance interrupted them; and my notice of the children was followed by their being dismissed, but not before the grandmother, with unaffected anxiety, dictated to them their speech of gratitude to the dear good young lady who had saved their lives. This ceremony performed, they with glowing cheeks retired to enjoy, unconstrainedly, their existence. My observations were next directed to the beautiful muslin robe Susan was trimming with very fine edging: it was made with taste, in the Circassian stile, as the fashion has named it. "It is intended for a bride who lives in this neighbourhood," observed Susan, with a suppressed smile; "perhaps you may have seen the young lady: she rides frequently on horseback." Finding this insufficient for my information, she proceeded to tell me that it was Miss Gubbins she meant, who was going to be married to a young farmer. "Her father," added she, "knows what is to be done in that line of business by experience: he has got a good fortune by the plow." I instantly recollected having met this Miss Gubbins on her road; and the idea of her singularly short and corpulent person, in a Circassian robe, was too ludicrous for my gravity. "Dear me!" observed the old lady, who had joined in my laugh with great glee, "what would you say to many of my daughter's best customers! I am sure they divert me, though they make me stare. Young women whom I remember with a flowered-cotton short cloak, now buy what they call patent lace, and the straw or black silk bonnet is supplied by velvet, flowers, and feathers. It was only yesterday that a dairy-maid was here to get Susan to shorten the waist of her Sunday-gown, and to make it draw round the neck with a frill like the ladies'."—"My mother makes very free with my customers, Madam," observed Susan, smiling; "she forgets that those who keep a stall in vanity fair live by the folly of those who buy; and to say the truth, so do I sometimes, for it is amazing to see the money now expended by a class of people who, a few years since were in the habits of frugality. This gown, for example," added she, "is one of four I have made for Miss Gubbins; and you will laugh again when I tell you that her best dress has tassels and loops of silver." Susan folded up the robe, and made her apology for quitting me. She was going to her shop with Miss Gubbins in the gig, which was in sight, and she left us. I mentioned my intention of employing her to the good old lady, and engaged to speak to the ladies of the hall, not doubting but we should want Circassian robes with the rest of our neighbours. "You are very kind," answered Mrs. Crofts, slightly bowing, "but pray, Madam, is it true that Miss Howard is gone to London to serve in a milliner's shop?" I replied in the negative, expressing my surprise at her question. "Why to be sure," answered she, knitting with amazing rapidity, "one can hardly believe her aunt to be so unfeeling as to suffer such a young creature to be thrown into the wide world in such a way. But after what has lately happened, and what I know of Miss Flint, nothing of her cruelty would surprise me! Yet I did imagine her uncle would not permit Miss Mary to leave him for such a situation." She dropped some stitches and turned from me to repair them, wiping her eyes at the same instant. I now consoled her by briefly mentioning Mary's precise situation with you; said I would read to her a part of Miss Howard's last letter to me, and I immediately read to her Mary's account of Lucy Hardcastle's mode of treatment. "May the Almighty shower his blessings on her and hers for generations to come!" exclaimed the good woman in an extasy. "May the orphan she shelters be to her a blessing! and may her cruel aunt live to see Howard's child in no want of her protection!"—"Miss Flint has suffered much, I fear," observed I, "from the violence of her temper, and also from the misrepresentations of her conduct to you as well as to others. She is truly blamable on some points, but I am persuaded she never meant to place her niece in a situation of danger to her innocence. I think she has feeling; I am certain she is sorry for the late instance of her want of self-command."—"Ah, my dear young lady!" replied Mrs. Crofts, shaking her head, "you judge by the goodness of your nature; I have heard of Miss Cowley. My children are not the only objects of her benevolence! But I cannot think charitably of Miss Flint. The friend who left me this estate knew her better than you do. Poor soul! she suffered enough by knowing her! and I have had many a heart-ach in hearing Miss Flint's degeneracy from the angel, her mother! If I thought it would not tire you, I would tell you by what means I have gained a knowledge of the family, and a competency so far beyond my expectations; for when the first Mrs. Flint saw me, I was poor and wretched. It was the day or two after I had seen my husband a corpse, that she came to succour me. Susan was then at my breast, and I had a boy and a girl besides her to support. My poor husband," continued she, brushing away a tear, "was well known at Chelsea; he was a boatman, and always called 'honest Frank' by the gentry; for he was sober, diligent, and civil. He lost his precious life in endeavouring to save a man from drowning who was intoxicated, and could do nothing for himself. A subscription was raised for my relief. But it was Mrs. Flint who poured the oil into my wounds. She it was who raised my eyes to God, and bade me trust to the never-failing friend of the widow and the fatherless. She found I was expert at needle-work, and she furnished me with plenty of it, besides assisting me with money, for my rent and coals. I got on with comfort like this. When my daughter Jenny was fourteen, she fixed her with an old lady, a widow, with whom she went to live at Newcastle. Jane was a clever, active girl, and could read and write well. Her lady became so fond of her that she made her, as one may say, her favoured child, and when she died left her all her clothes and linen with three hundred pounds. She was too well trained to forget her mother in her prosperity; and on her marrying a farmer, to whom she had been sometime engaged, I removed, and settled at Newcastle, Jane being fixed near that town. Thus I lost sight of Mrs. Flint, and escaped, in part, the sorrow of her death, which happened soon after. But I shall never forget her! No, nor the angel who used to accompany her to see us, with her pockets filled with cakes for Frank, who was nearly of her own age. I think I now see her putting on Susan's new shoes, and exulting over her, because she could step alone! But she was formed for the heaven she is in! and surely never was there beheld so perfect a beauty! I do not think Miss Howard altogether so beautiful as her mother; for Mrs. Howard had height, and more vivacity; but if she is as good, it will be well for her that she has lived in this world of trial! Well, my dear young lady, time went on with me, sometimes sunshine, sometimes cloudy; but the widow's friend was always near me! My Susan was an apprentice to a milliner and mantua-maker. Mr. Webster, my son-in-law, grew wealthy every day; and acted by me like a child. Frank gave us some sorrow; he was discontented with living at the farm, and wished to be a sailor. I had suffered enough from water! and I could not be brought to consent. Besides, his brother loved him, and had promised to make a man of him, if he would continue to be diligent and sober; and this Frank was, to his dying-day!" She dropped a tear, and proceeded. "I had just settled myself and Susan in a well accustomed shop, when Frank secretly left us, and for a time my sorrows were renewed. At last I received a letter from him, and I found he had not forgotten his poor mother, nor his gratitude to her benefactress and his own. He was actually groom at the hall under another name, whilst I thought him exposed to the dangers of the sea. The account he gave me of Mrs. Howard's (then Miss Mary Flint) distressful situation, in her father's house, and left as it were to the mercy of the merciless, quite overpowered me. I went with Frank's letter to my daughter Webster's; and she declared, that Frank was sent by the Almighty for the purpose of delivering this innocent lamb, who had a hundred times been kind to him, and whose dear mother had saved us from ruin. So we continued, Madam, with the blessing of God, and the worthy Mr. Greenwood's assistance, to rescue Miss Mary from her cruel sister's power; and Mr. Webster, who went for her, conducted her in safety to his house, where for some days she was very ill. A month's good nursing, and our love, set her up again; and then, following Mr. Greenwood's instructions, I accompanied her to Berwick, where Mr. Howard met us. I was not surprised, when I saw the lover, at her preference of him; nor that Miss Flint should want to marry him, for he was one of the handsomest men I ever set my eyes on; but beauty was the least of Mr. Howard's advantages! You have heard how much he was respected here, Madam, and to this hour his name is reverenced. Well, my business was finished at Berwick and I witnessed a marriage, which, with all its difficulties, united two hearts and two creatures who were gazed at as being made for each other's happiness. Mr. Howard returned to Tarefield with his wife; and I neither repented then, nor have I since, of the part I had in bringing them together. Let those who blasted their comforts answer for the mischief!"—Her hands trembled, and she put aside her work to wipe away the falling tear.—"Frank, finding that he could be no farther serviceable to Miss Mary, returned home; but we soon after lost sight of him again, though with contentment. He married a very good girl, and went into partnership with her father, who was a wheelwright, and lived many miles from us. They were, however, comfortable, till a dreadful fever swept them away."—She paused.—"I had yet a child with me. Susan was my anchor of hope, and again I took heart. She refused several suitors for my sake, Madam; and her industry and good behaviour gained her many friends. To ease the rest of a house, which suited her increasing business, we let the first floor; and my son's attorney, a very worthy gentleman of the name of Lloyd, knowing it to be vacant, and that we only received one lady, recommended to us a Mrs. Barnes, a client of his, who had recently lived near London, as a suitable lodger for us; being a very quiet retired lady, and having no connections in the town but his family. Little did I suspect, when she arrived, that I was taking under my roof the wretch who had so barbarously treated Mrs. Howard! nor could I have conceived that time and repentance could have produced such a change in any one; for a more quiet and obliging woman could not be found than my lodger. She was satisfied with every thing; and we were so pleased with her, that at last we agreed to her request, that we should provide her table for her; and for which she paid so handsomely, that I was enabled to keep a maid-servant. She was, in the mean time, evidently a sickly and melancholy woman, but never, with us, a discontented one; and when, in the evening, we were with her, in her apartment, she took delight in helping Susan in her work, at which she was not less expert than herself. She never quitted her room, but to go to morning prayers, and sometimes to Mr. Lloyd's; but these visits were rare. Thus passed three years, and her increasing fondness for Susan was returned by every endeavour on our part to make her comfortable. But it was clear to us that she was a declining woman, and broken down by grief. Soon after this period, she told us one morning, as she passed through the shop, that she should go from chapel to Mr. Lloyd's, and meant to dine with him. We both remarked, when she returned, that she was more chatty than usual, and we renewed our usual exhortations, to induce her to use more exercise, and try to amuse herself: her answers were as they had always been, desponding; and we changed the subject. That very day week, she went again to the attorney's, and again we fancied that she returned home more cheerful. Some few days after she went again, telling us that we should think her a gossip; but that she should drink tea at home. We consequently waited some little time for her; but concluding her friends had detained her, were just set down, when she arrived in a sedan chair, and as we thought, in a dying condition. The people who attended her, kept a snuff-shop; and they informed me that she had been seized with a fit in the shop, whilst waiting for some snuff. You may suppose we did all that could be done; and in less than an hour, she was in bed, with a doctor and a nurse to attend her, both of whom Mrs. Lloyd sent us. I was, however, too much concerned for her, to leave her that night with a stranger. She was hurried and confused till near morning, when she slept, and awoke composed. We had soon the satisfaction of seeing her better; but her melancholy was more apparent than ever; and from that time she never left her room.—On her sending me one day to Mr. Lloyd's on business, soon after her recovery, I asked her why she would not take my arm and try to go herself, the morning being so pleasant. 'No, no!' answered she with great uneasiness, 'I will never expose myself to such another shock as I have had, I have enough on my mind without such terrors.' On my questioning her, she owned that the sight of Mr. Flamall had occasioned her fit. He entered into the snuff-shop with his nephew Mr. Philip Flint, as it appeared, and she was overpowered by seeing them. I was nearly being so, Madam, continued the good woman, when I discovered by her discourse whom I had harboured in my house; but I concealed my surprise; for I said to myself, assuredly God has created in her a new heart; and it is not for me to judge her. She wept most grievously; and from what I could gather, I thought she had been seduced by Mr. Flamall when a young woman, and had thus become subservient to Miss Flint's cruel purposes. She perceived my suspicions, and redoubling her tears, told me that I was quite wide of the mark; for that she had been always too homely for his pleasures, though not so for purposes more base and wicked than I suspected. 'But,' added she, with a look of despair, and wringing her poor hands, 'for God's sake, do not question me farther. I cannot shew the villain without bringing destruction on the heads of the innocent: and that I will never do! Besides, I cannot prove the fact. All I know for certain is, that he has ruined my poor soul!' From this time she frequently talked of the Tarefield family; and in such a way, that I persuaded her to open her mind to a clergyman; but she always said, that God would bring the truth to light in his own time; she would not be the ruin of more of her dear lady's children. She even solicited the visits of the minister notwithstanding this; but always chose that either myself or Susan should be present, and he was struck by her piety and submission. She never got the better of the surprise of meeting with Flamall. The doctor said, she died of a consumption; but I know it was of a troubled conscience, and a broken heart; although a penitent one. I was with her the last night she breathed in this world. I shall never forget her! Such a dying-bed, Madam! She raved continually of Miss Flint, of Mrs. Howard, of Mr. Flamall; then looking piteously in my face, she would ask me twenty times 'who told me the secret.' Weary with hearing her, I at length said, 'What secret?' 'The coffin! put me in! put me in, they will not find me there!' said she. Another time, she called on Mr. Philip Flint. 'Oh, do not let him hang me!' said she, struggling and tearing off the cap on her head, 'I nursed you; I was faithful to you; I loved you as the child of my own body! Poor child! you could not help it!' 'Help what!' asked I. 'That Mrs. Howard died for want of bread,' answered she. Then followed another struggle for breath. Then she knew me, and said, 'Pray for me, I am dying. All is over with me!' So, I soothed her; and she pressed my hand, and held it so fast I could not get it from her. Then she whispered so low, I could understand only these words:—'They told me it was a deed!' In this manner she continued till five o'clock in the morning. When, poor, poor soul! she sunk into her last sleep, trying to spell the word Philip; which she never could do: at nine her sufferings closed.
"You will not wonder, after this account, at my opinion of Miss Flint," continued the good woman. "I am not the only one in this neighbourhood who believes she has no more right to the wealth she enjoys than I have; though but few have my reasons for this belief. However, what I think I keep to myself, not even Susan knows what I have told you; who, like an angel, have taken care to remove from this vile woman a niece whom she hated; for the wicked can never bear the sight of those whom they have defrauded. God is just, Madam, even in this world. Let Miss Flint try to purchase, with her ill-gotten wealth, one sleep like yours, when you close your eyes, thinking of the innocent lamb you have protected! Poor wretch! poor wretch!" added she, shaking her venerable head, "I pity her. But to proceed, you may guess at our surprise, when we found that Mrs. Barnes had left to us every shilling she had; and you may judge of what passed in my mind, when I found she had signed her will that very day on which she so accidentally met Mr. Flamall and his nephew. This estate was left me only for my life. Susan had her legacy, in the furniture and clothes. The dear children are my heirs. They are orphans, Miss Cowley," added she, sinking her voice to a whisper, "poor orphans! What could I do in such a strait! But I often think of the price my poor friend gave for the means of these children's future bread. How do I know that the wages of sin will prosper even in the hands of the innocent?"—"Leave that consideration," replied I, "to the Providence which directed its uses to the innocent. Forbear to consider too minutely the retributive justice of an all-wise Being; but in this instance of his mercy to you, do not forget the conduct of your worthy son."—"You encourage me," replied she, "to trust every thing that troubles me on this subject to your better reason. I have a paper or two of poor Mrs. Barnes's that do me no good at times. I found them by chance, and even Susan knows not of them. I do not like to destroy them, lest it should be improper; and yet I should be sorry to leave them for other's finding, when I am gone. You shall see them." She turned towards a bureau at her hand, and from a private drawer produced the papers. "I found them here," said she, placing them in my hand; "put them in your pocket, and at your leisure read them. Keep them, or destroy them as you think fit. I am certain you are the friend of Miss Howard, and her worthy uncle. But as I was saying," continued she, settling herself with more composure, "this unexpected legacy and my son Webster's going to America with his family, where, according to him, they pay neither tithes nor taxes, induced us to take a good-accustomed shop at Bishop's-Auckland, which has answered very well although we pay taxes and tithes; and I shrewdly suspect my son Webster has repented selling his farm in Old England, although Jane will not own it. I have told you a long story, my dear young lady," continued she, "and I think you will no longer wonder at my thinking Miss Flint 'up to any mischief.' But may I take the liberty of asking you whether it is true that she rules Lady Maclairn with a rod of iron?" I satisfied her curiosity with discretion. "I am glad to hear she is so considerate," replied she, "for Mrs. Barnes always said she was a lamb amongst wolves. But pray, how does Miss Flint bear her brother Philip's absence so long?" I mentioned his prospects, adding, that although her spirits were much depressed from the probability of his remaining in Jamaica with his elder brother, who had declared his intention of making him his heir, yet she considered his interest as something. "God be praised!" exclaimed she, "who knows what this may do! Poor Captain Flint may, at last, have his own; and Mrs. Howard's child will be secure of comfort. I do not wish to see the proverb verified," added she, "which says,'out of sight, out of mind;' because I never heard any one speak ill of young Mr. Flint; but there is money enough to make more happy than one; and whether I am right or wrong in what I think, I must say that Captain Flint is as deserving as his young brother, and has a just title to be considered. He was his dear mother's pride, and Mrs. Howard's comfort! However, rich or poor, he will be reverenced here, and happy hereafter." The carriage appeared, the corn was ground, and your Rachel Cowley took her leave.
It were time lost to follow my train of thoughts; yours will run in the same channel. But it delights my soul, Lucy, to contemplate the proofs of a Providence visibly interfering in the cause of the virtuous. Poor Frank's children! How succoured! How relieved! But I will say no more, lest you fancy me more superstitious and presumptuous than rational, in those thoughts which at this moment occupy me. I know your ascendency, and will repress my enthusiasm, till you decide, whether I have been the appointed instrument of a deserving power, in its peculiar mercy to this family; and whether, my strong affection for Mary Howard does not originate from the same efficient cause of all good. Be this as it may, I am grateful to my Maker for the pleasure he has annexed to my duty; and for a heart, which knows no gratification, that equals the sense of living to perform his will. And in what does this consist, Lucy, if not, in loving our neighbour as ourselves, and our Maker supremely. God bless you, my friend; I am oppressed, but not depressed by the reflexions of the present hour. But you know your own
Rachel Cowley.
Papers found by Mrs. Crofts, copied and sent to Miss Hardcastle by her friend Rachel Cowley.
"Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there. If I make my bed in hell, behold thou art there also. If I say, surely the darkness shall cover me; even then the night shall be light about me!"