LETTER XXXI.
From Henry Sinclair to Horace Hardcastle, (sent by the latter to Miss Cowley, and by her inclosed, in the foregoing.)
Kingston, Jamaica.
MY DEAR SIR,
After a safe and speedy passage hither, and having happily witnessed a scene of tenderness, which whilst it unmanned me, gave to my anxious heart the most complete assurance that my sister had nothing for doubts or fears, I hasten to acquit myself of my promise to you, reserving for my future leisure the particulars of Margaret's little romance. I have not seen Mr. Flamall; but enough has transpired, to satisfy me that it is better I should not see him. In the mean time, I have succeeded in gaining the good will and entire confidence of the good old Oliver Flint. I took an opportunity when he was exulting at the prospect of Philip's happiness, and paying his assiduous court to "his Margaret," to ask her whether her head and her shoe-heels were of the same stuff; "for" added I, "the road of happiness and prosperity, though smoother than the rocks at Cintra, have made many stumble." This observation brought forwards Margaret's adventure, and your knight-errantry. With this prelude I began my questions; and I found a willing auditor. "You shall have my opinion of this matter," said Mr. Flint, wringing my hand with eagerness, "on condition that you promise me not to disturb my poor boy's comforts, nor attempt to see this uncle of his. We have done with him, Mr. Sinclair, and the arm of justice will reach him, without your aid; but let me tell you, by what means I have formed this opinion of a man, whom for a time I respected. You need not be told my reasons for desiring my brother Philip to visit me. My last surviving hope was nearly of his age, and bore the same name. I had lost sight of my family in England; and for many years had considered this as no misfortune, having been led to conclude that the conduct of some amongst them, had proclaimed their unworthiness. My sister Lucretia was the only one of my father's children with whom I had any intercourse by letter, and she constantly mentioned this posthumous child with tenderness and promising hopes. Her adoption of him pleased me, even before I was childless myself; and as it was obvious she had an influence with his mother, I wrote to her, stating my wishes and intentions in this boy's favour. Her answer was satisfactory; but I was informed that Philip had an uncle, who claimed his rights in a child who from his cradle had been his care and comfort; and that he intended to share with his nephew the hazards of the voyage, and the pleasure of seeing me; and in this arrangement his mother had concurred. They arrived; and I soon showed Mr. Flamall that I was satisfied with my heir. He, on his part, convincing me by his conduct, of the part he had taken in forming him for a worthy one. My friend Mr. Cowley, the father of the young lady for whom you are interested, was not less pleased with this serpent in disguise, than myself; and indeed, I know of none to whom his company was not acceptable. He was, or affected to be, charmed with his situation, and from certain hints and well-timed displays of his capacity for business, my friend made him very advantageous offers of employing him in the regulation of his accounts. He accepted them, and from that time resided with Mr. Cowley, who became attached to him more and more. About this period my poor friend received his daughter's picture from England; and I was summoned to celebrate its arrival with others of his acquaintance. Curious to see the change which time had produced, on an infant I had carried in my arms many and many a time, I went at an early hour, and found poor Cowley fondly surveying it. I was struck by the beauty of the image before me; but it had recalled to poor Henry his lost wife, and he yielded without restraint to his tender regrets. I endeavoured to soothe him, and amongst other things said, that his girl pleased me, though she had his saucy eyes, adding, 'Suppose, Henry, we make up a match between us? My boy is as handsome as your girl; and he will have reason to be satisfied, if she is only half as good and as beautiful as her mother was.' 'She has my saucy eyes, you say,' replied he, fixing his own on the picture; 'if she have my spirit also, she will wish to chuse a husband for herself; and I am very certain, she is well qualified to chuse wisely.' He continued to expatiate to Mr. Flamall, on her good fortune in having been brought up by Mrs. Hardcastle, and with much satisfaction continued to enumerate his daughter's various attainments, and the proofs he had in his letters from her, of good sense and discernment. This merely accidental conversation produced on Flamall's mind the first suggestions of his ambition; I have no doubt of this; for he frequently mentioned to me the advantages which would result from an alliance with my old friend; and withal intimated, that he was certain that Philip was a favourite with Mr. Cowley. Moreover, he frequently joked with us on the subject, and advised Cowley to send for his daughter. I had, however, by this time seen enough of my youngster, to suspect that he was in love elsewhere. I observed, that whenever Miss Cowley's picture was the theme of praise, Philip paid his tribute of admiration as much to the drapery as the face; and that with the young ladies, he was more pensive, than with their mothers. But hourly, my dear Sir, did he gain upon my heart; for in every thought, word, and deed, he brought to my remembrance my own dear boy, the last of my mortal blessings! But let this pass: you will soon know this worthy lad. I had soon after, having given up listening to Flamall's match-making scheme, the shock of seeing Mr. Cowley seized with his first apoplectic fit at my table. He recovered from this attack; but he was a changed man. He was not insensible of his diminished strength; and his conversations frequently turned on his settling his worldly affairs, before he left me. On an occasion of this kind, he one day in particular consulted me in relation to his two natural children. 'They are mine, Oliver,' said he with great tenderness; 'and their mother is as unconscious of evil as themselves. I have appointed them a provision and a guardian which will be a security for my honour, when I am dust. They will perceive that I was in affection a parent, when I thought of you for my substitute in duty. Tell me, have I taxed your friendship too heavily?'—'You have always been more than a match for me, Henry,' said I taking his trembling hand; 'but for once, I have the ascendency; for without consulting you, or having a doubt of your friendship, you have for years been my appointed executor, and the destined prop of those children now in heaven.' Poor fellow! he was moved to tears.—'I mean,' continued he, 'to try the effects of a change of climate. I wish to see my dear daughter before I die; I wish to recommend to her those proofs of her father's weakness. She will be kind to my innocent Marian; and when the boys are sent to England for instruction, she will protect them as my children. I have no fears for her happiness,' continued he; 'Hardcastle will continue to watch over her safety, and I have named him and Counsellor Steadman joint executors with yourself, in all matters relative to her concerns. Hardcastle has a son,' pursued he, 'of whom my dear girl has written me wonders. I have good reasons for believing that the lad's romantic father has for some years banished this boy from his house, lest he should exchange hearts with my girl. I have never dropped a hint of this suspicion to any one but yourself; but should I live to reach England, and find this young man a Hardcastle, and my daughter disposed to favour him, I will see her married to him, and then die in peace with the world and myself, as having well managed the talents given me.' This conversation finished by his repeatedly thanking me for the comfort I had given to his dejected spirits; and some short time after, he told me that he had finished his most important concerns; and should, whenever he embarked, leave Marian and her little ones under my roof; which promise had reconciled her to his voyage."
The second shock to his enfeebled frame left us little for hope. Yet he again rallied; but with the loss of all power in his legs, and with a general debility, that rendered every exertion fatiguing. He did not quit his apartment, and rarely his bed, for much time together. His faculties were notwithstanding less oppressed, than after his first attack; for he was more cheerful and equal in his spirits. During this term of his trial, how often have I heard him bless me for being the agent in the hands of Providence, in conducting to him Mr. Flamall, who so ably went through the business he was no longer in a condition to superintend, and whose society was a comfort to him! To say the truth, I was no less pleased with his conduct than my friend; 'for this fellow's talents are up to every thing but honesty.'
One morning I went as usual to Cowley's; he was still in his bed, and the sun-blinds were down in the bow-windows of his spacious apartment. I stumbled on entering, from the sudden transition from light to darkness, against some moveable; and with the utmost cheerfulness, my friend said, 'Why, how now, Oliver! you are one of those 'who love darkness rather than light because your deeds are evil;' therefore take care of your shins.' Rubbing the one offended, I approached the bed, and then only perceived, that on a small table close to its side, was a sheet of parchment, with pen and ink, and that Flamall had quitted his station near it to receive me. 'You are busy,' observed I, thinking he was, adding a codicil to his will, for such the lessening obscurity discovered the parchment to be.—'I will call this evening.'—'I had finished, my dear Oliver,' replied he, grasping my hand. 'We have wished for your appearance; I have only to sign and seal.' He rung the bell and desired the servant to show the gentlemen into the room. His physician, with one of the most respectable men at Kingston, entered.—I retreated to the bow, and passing the blind, stood in the balcony. I heard him say something as an excuse for having so long detained them; and he added, 'I have been hearing Mr. Flamall read my will once more. I now, in a sound mind, declare it to be last will and testamentary act, which I am about to sign in your presence.' The business was performed with all due formalities; and his faithful Juba, to whom he had given good learning when he was in England, witnessed this act of his beloved master with such emotions, that he left the room the moment he had written his name. Mr. Flamall asked him where he should deposit the will; and Cowley answered, 'in the cabinet.' The gentlemen saw him place it in the cabinet, which stood opposite to the foot of the bed, and Cowley received the key, which was attached to the chain of his watch. He now called me from my post, and for some time chatted with us. At length the gentlemen departed; and Juba, recovered from his grief, entered with some refreshment for his master. 'Try and get off this key,' said Cowley to him, giving him the watch. He did so without difficulty. 'There, my dear Oliver,' said my friend, giving it me, 'you will take care of it; and I have closed my accounts with this world.' We were both silent, for I could not speak. 'There is one thing,' resumed he, 'which I had like to have forgotten: you will find my wife's jewels and trinkets in that cabinet; let Rachel know I should have sent them to her long since, but that I could not bear to see them. There is a pearl necklace amongst them; her mother wore it the day she was married.' His voice sunk, and he burst into tears. 'Come, come,' said I, 'my dear fellow-sufferer, let us have no more of this; get well, and carry your daughter this necklace yourself. You will find, when placing it on her neck as a bride, that God has many comforts for you yet in store.' He shook his head.—'I trust he has,' replied he, 'but they are not in this world.' Flamall, who had left the room with the visitors, returned, and my friend changed the subject of conversation. He lived only nine days after this interview. You may judge of my surprise at the contents of the will, when called upon to produce it. Mr. Flamall acted his part to the life, but with me his villany stood confessed! I need not tell you his power over poor Miss Cowley, nor Philip's surprise that he was involved in her fate. His spirits, which had visibly declined from the time he had been with me, became totally dejected, and he passed his time here in solitude. I was certain he had the same suspicions with myself; and, although it went to my heart to vex him, I determined to open my mind to him: I did so by relating to him all I have told you; and I added, that if he preferred going to England, I would go with him and leave Flamall 'to the devil's care.'—'I have no wish to return to England,' answered he with emotion 'I wish to die here, and would this hour resign my breath willingly were it not for you!' The poor boy clung to my bosom, and wept bitterly.—'Well,' said I, 'we now understand one another. I would sooner see you dead than Miss Cowley's husband: but you may be her friend; we also will try to be cunning. Flamall is your uncle; so much the worse for you, and the better for him, according to the estimation of danger. We will leave him to an arm which will, in its own time, reach him to his cost. Show some alacrity in the post your uncle has assigned you, and be vigilant over accounts which relate to the heiress he has gained for you. Inventories will not be marriage articles, Philip, but they may be evidences of what Miss Cowley is worth. She may like you as an honest man, though not as a suitor forced upon her. We do not want her money, but Mr. Flamall does; and if he finds he cannot have it one way he will try another.' Philip entered into my views; he worked like a negro in Flamall's office for Miss Cowley, but complained bitterly that his uncle persecuted him daily on the subject of the marriage, and highly resented his reluctance to the voyage to England. About this time the partner of an old and respectable house of correspondence I had in London, arrived here. He met Flamall at my table, for I was a cunning man you will observe, and preserved appearances on many accounts. The stranger, before he quitted me, asked me how long I had known Flamall. I answered; adding that he was nearly related to my brother Philip. 'I should be sorry for the young gentleman,' replied he, 'were I not assured that I must have heard a false representation of Mr. Flamall's conduct in England.' I urged him to explain himself; he evaded for a time my enquiries, saying that he had only common report to produce as an apology for wondering at seeing Flamall in good company, and in an honourable station of trust; but, added he, "I am safe with you; I have heard that he writes too well, therefore take care of him, my good old friend." I smiled and shook his hand: we understood each other. Well! I am making this a long story! but now for the conclusion. One evening Philip returned from Kingston so ill that I thought he was dying. I say nothing of what passed in my mind. Here was my last hope within sight of the grave! He grew better, however, towards the morning, and the doctor told me his disorder was not the cruel fever which had made me childless. Philip was moved to see my distress, and he at once told me that he did not deserve my love and goodness, for that he had been afraid to trust me. He then told me all about his marriage with that poor little girl of ours, and the roguery which that d——d Flamall had practised to make him believe she was a faithless baggage. He had met Miss Lindsey by chance at his friend Dalrymple's, where he had persuaded Flamall to place the two little Cowleys and their mother; and, as you may suppose, poor Margaret's innocence was cleared up. It was well Flamall was then beyond my reach! He was at the large plantation, twenty miles from hence; so instead of shooting him through the head I employed my time in getting my poor boy well; and a contented mind hastened his cure. I shall never forget what passed in my mind when this affectionate, and very anxious uncle came on the wings of the wind to see his "dear Philip!" I met him, however, with my cunning face in the hall, and told him the patient was doing well, for he was asleep; and he followed me into the eating room. A thousand questions ensued, which were all answered by assuring him that he was in the road to better health than he had enjoyed for many months.—"We must part with him," observed he, "Jamaica will be the ruin of his constitution: he was never robust."—"Oh!" replied I, gaily, "he will do very well here when he has his wife."—"He will never have her," returned he, "by remaining here: Miss Cowley must be better wooed to be won."—"We will leave Miss Cowley to be wooed by those suiters who are nearer to her," answered I, "and be contented to receive the wife who has been villified, and it may be ruined in health as well as in peace, by treachery." He began to storm. "You had better be quiet," said I, "and thank fortune you are Lady Maclairn's brother: as for mine, within yonder, he is my care, not yours: I will provide for his happiness without delay, and only by signing Oliver Flint, do more to effect it than you have done with your penmanship. I have seen you, Mr. Flamall, for the last time, for I know you. When Philip is well enough to be disturbed, without risk, he shall wait upon you if you please, and introduce to you Mrs. Lindsey, who wishes to send a letter to her good friend, Doctor Maccleod, whom she finds, to her surprise, you correspond with, although he is in Heaven." I thought the fellow would have dropped at my feet! I never saw a man so cut down! "You will call for what you want," said I, retreating, "I will send a servant to you; but my brother shall not see you to-day."
He followed me, without uttering a word, and, mounting his horse, left the house. Poor Philip, who is the most affectionate of creatures, was vexed when I told him of this visit. He wrote to his uncle, who sent back the letter, and quitted the creek plantation. He resides now at the other, and lives like an angry lion in his lair. "Philip will tell you all the particulars of this villany," added he, rising to meet him and Lindsey. "Be sure to advise him not to regard this fellow's stubborn pride; he has been too humble with him, in my opinion, but his mother's peace is always uppermost, and I cannot bear to see him uneasy, so I never name Flamall."
Thus far, my dear Sir, you have seen Mr. Flamall as the guardian, the friend, and the relative. I leave to you to draw your own conclusions; but as the detention of the vessel permits me, I will continue my history by informing you that they have amongst them made a fool, to say no worse of your friend, of Henry Sinclair.
I perceived in Margaret's face a degree of anxiety and confusion whenever she saw me look serious. Our party, the following day, was augmented by two families, who came, in great form, to pay the bride, as they called my sister, their compliments, and to plague us with their ceremonious intrusion. I was in no humour for such company, and, pleading a head-ach, I kept close in my own apartment. Thus retired, I had just finished my solitary dinner when Lindsey entered the room; and, sitting down, commended my prudence and good fortune in escaping the people who were yet in the house. "I can do no more for Philip," added he, yawning, "and it may do him good if they teach him that no happiness here is permanent." I made no reply. "I find," continued Lindsey, "it is exactly as my wife had foreseen, you have taken offence, and Philip's caution is misconstrued. I will follow her counsels, for I have never had reason yet to repent of so doing. Listen to me, and then be angry if you please. During your brother's voyage hither his uncle informed him that he had long known of his intrigue with Miss Sinclair. Lecture followed exhortation, and exhortation lecture: the unrepenting sinner kept his secret, and listened in patience. One letter from Miss Sinclair, enclosed in one from Montrose, reached poor Philip soon after his arrival here; and the reception he met with from his brother cheered his drooping spirits. At length his intelligence from Scotland failed; and his uncle gave him seriously to understand that Mr. Cowley wished to secure him for a husband for his daughter. Philip endeavoured to laugh at his uncle's having taken up a few random jokes as a premeditated design, but this evasion failing, he firmly told him that his affections were engaged, and that his honour, without other motives, would oblige him to refuse even Miss Cowley's offered hand. 'I would have spared you, Sir,' replied Mr. Flamall, with sternness, 'the pain of blushing before a man whose authority you have of late cast off, although from the hour of your birth he has lived for the purpose of making you a reasonable being. I had hoped to have seen you long since reclaimed from the weakness and infatuation of a boy deluded by his vanity and passions; but I see you require harsher remedies than mine since you have found your path to fortune smooth. Read that letter, and then judge of the nature of those engagements which your delicate honour opposes to a situation the most enviable.' He threw a letter on the table, and abruptly left the room. Philip found that it was one from his college tutor, Doctor Macleod, to his uncle; and, from its contents, it appeared that the discovery of his attachment to your sister had been made by him to Mr. Flamall; for, after his approbation of the measures which Mr. Flamall had pursued of removing the lover from so dangerous a predicament, he proceeds in detailing the conduct of the deserted fair one. 'This imprudent girl, writes the good Doctor, 'soon supplied Mr. Flint's absence by admitting the visits of a new lover. He was more experienced in the wiles of the sex, of her class at least; and, being an independent man, of considerable fortune, she was prevailed upon to quit her mother, and to place herself under his protection at his seat near Dublin, without the name of a wife. I am told that Montrose, her first lover, shares with her in the generosity of her gallant; and that he is in Dublin, and supported by this unhappy girl. Mrs. Sinclair has left Edinburgh. Mrs. Montrose did not, at her death, leave sufficient to pay her debts. No wonder: her daughter is somewhere in service: I hope it is an honest one. When your nephew learns these particulars he will be convinced of the danger he has escaped, for he wants not understanding; nor will his gratitude fail in the acknowledgments due to those who, from their interest in his welfare, have providentially saved him from pain.''This letter,' added Lindsey, 'finished with latin, and cautions Mr. Flamall not to forget that the assumed mask of a Miss Sinclair, and the designing friendship of a Montrose, had been the destruction of men much more experienced in life than his nephew, &c.—Philip's state of mind, on perusing this letter, was such as I shall not attempt to describe. In the confusion and tumult of his thoughts he crushed it in his hand, and putting it into his bosom he left Flamall's house. He wrote to me: no answer was returned. He then wrote to a young man for general information, respecting his old friends, the Montroses and Miss Sinclair. To this letter he had a reply. It was such as confirmed, in part, his tutor's intelligence; for the death of Mrs. Montrose had broken up her little family, and the writer knew not where her son and daughter were. 'Mrs. Sinclair and her pretty daughter had left Edinburgh.' In the interim I reached this place with my wife; and my friend, on whom I relied for my present establishment, placed us in the house of our countryman, Mr. Dalrymple, till all was ready for our final settlement at his plantation. You may judge that my Fanny had formed her designs in favour of her injured friend, and she was not long without information in regard to Mr. Flint's situation and favour with his rich brother Oliver. She listened to his praises, and the Dalrymples were not sparing of them. His conduct in his visits to the Cowleys and their mother; his friendship to themselves, entered into these details; and, finally, the disappointment of certain young ladies who were said to be in love with the handsome stranger, who was soon to return to England to marry the great heiress, Miss Cowley. You will imagine the interview my wife so ardently desired was not long delayed; and without entering into her reproaches or Philip's distress, I will finish my narrative by telling you, that Doctor Macleod's friendly epistle and fatherly advise, was dated just six months after his death. The result was much happier than my poor wife had reason to expect, for she had nearly been the death of Philip in her indiscreet zeal for friendship. We are all at present in the right road," continued Lindsey, "and happy; but in our apprehensions of your warmth; for Flamall is without importance to us."—"I must see him," replied I, "were it only to thank him for all his good intentions. It will not, I presume, disturb the peace of the world, if I should improve Mr. Flamall's art of 'writing letters from the dead to the living,' or be taught by him the secret road to my old friend Macleod."—"This is what your poor sister fears," said Lindsey, "and which is the poison in the cup of poor Philip's present blessings. He cannot speak to you on this delicate subject." "I do not now wish he should," answered I, with warmth, "but by the——." I was interrupted by the entrance of the bewitching widow, who with a smile turning to Lindsey, asked him, if he had explained to me the wishes of my friends. Lindsey made no answer. But I will hasten over my defeat. All I know is, that I was subdued by her tears and pathetic representation of the misery I should introduce, by my noticing this rascal. And so well did she plead the cause of mercy and forbearance, that I do not think I could have shot at a sparrow whilst within hearing of her voice. "Promise me," said the syren, "promise me, Mr. Sinclair, that you will leave this miserable man to the upbraidings of his own conscience. Indeed you are not made for a murderer; nor does this guilty wretch need your blood to condemn him to a heavier punishment than that which now hangs over him; he is forlorn and dejected; and the prey of that remorse and disappointment which his conduct has produced. Shall I tell your brother? Shall I tell Margaret, that you will take no steps to interrupt their peace?" "You may," answered I, seizing her hand, "and if I am deemed a poltroon, you must defend me." She blushed and withdrew as abruptly as she had entered. My pacific intentions have cleared Philip's brow of care. We have had several conversations on the subject of his uncle's late conduct. I am assured that Mr. Cowley could not have found a better agent than this man, for his purpose, as far as related to business. He is acute, active, and regular in his employment; and Philip believes, that the same pride which had nearly been his destruction, will keep him just in regard to Miss Cowley's property. He is persuaded that Flamall will be miserable, till he is again on good terms with him; and he strenuously endeavours to convince me, that his uncle's deviations from honour and integrity may be traced to his unbounded affection for him, and an ambition which, though without excuse in some points, has been vigilantly employed for his benefit in many. "I cannot," added my brother, "cancel from my memory the numberless proofs he has given me of even parental anxiety and care; and I will make every concession to his pride that may tend to a reconciliation; for I know he loves me; and he is wretched. As a man and a christian, this is my duty; as the brother of Lady Maclairn, and the instructor of my youth, he has claims on my heart; and I yet hope to see him restored to himself, and the good opinion of the world." I had nothing to say to arguments of this kind: Philip Flint is not Henry Sinclair; but it is ten to one that he is the happiest and the wisest man of the two. I must try what wedlock will make of me; for I begin to suspect I want smoothing and trimming. I still feel that the current of resentment would carry me down to the creek plantation, for the sole purpose of kicking this uncle to Margaret's feet. Mrs. Dormer, my fair enslaver, keeps a watchful eye over me, and what with balls, feasts, and her smiles, I am a lost man, though yet a steady friend; and if you give the word of command I will kidnap Flamall, and send him to you for the recompence of his deserts.
Yours, most faithfully,
Henry Sinclair.