Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.
Wednesday Evening.
I Know, my dear Lucy, that you will expect the sequel of the disastrous tale contained in my last letter; and that you will very ingeniously contrive to muster up many conclusive arguments to prove that Rachel Cowley's health will be absolutely ruined at Tarefield. Facts are, however, stubborn things. She has passed this trial of her strength without a fever on her nerves, notwithstanding a cold which, on Monday and yesterday, gave her a pretence for keeping her apartment and nursing the poor baronet.
On the Monday morning Malcolm gave me to understand, with visible uneasiness, that his father had betaken himself to the lately deserted room, with the grated windows, and he implored me to endeavour to allure him from it. I wrote a card instantly, informing him I waited breakfast for him, and that I had a new book for his perusal. It succeeded; but I was shocked to see the effects of one night's disturbance of that mind, which we had exultingly seen settling into tranquillity. He was shivering and languid, and told his wife he had taken cold; but she perceived, as well as myself, that he was dispirited and extremely nervous. Nothing can equal this woman! To see her at this moment, I could not but love her. She was calm and cheerful; soothing and tender; whilst in a thousand various ways she diverted his attention; and although I knew she had watched at Miss Flint's bedside from three o'clock, she did not name her, nor did she appear fatigued. I took my turn to be good, and, dismissing her, said, that as I had also a cold, the valetudinarians would have but one infirmary; that she might dispose of Mrs. Allen, for we meant to be in the sullens and read. Sir Murdock raised his dejected head; the eye was animated, and I was contented. I took my work and placed before him the Vicar of Wakefield. "Shall I not read it aloud?" asked he.—"No," replied I, "unless you find a passage that particularly strikes you." He bowed, for Sir Murdock Maclairn is the truly polite man. I soon perceived that his attention was engaged. Whose is not, Lucy, by that work? This made me happy; yes, happy, I repeat, for I reverence this interesting man; and I believe there is a fatal grief which will, whilst he lives, oppress his mind. Mrs. Allen soon joined us; she was also the invalid; but it slackened not her industry. She took up your hearth-rug. Her dose of camphor-julap went round, and Goldsmith had too many beauties for the baronet to be long silent. The morning thus glided away, and we dined where we were. Malcolm, with undissembled joy, found us comfortable, and the evening was given to the chess-board. I slept, Lucy, for I had passed the day in blunting the barbed arrow, which, if I am not much mistaken, still wounds Sir Murdock.—Tuesday was fair; I wanted a ride; the curricle and my knight were in readiness; and we returned home the better for our long airing. This morning it was Mrs. Allen's turn to wish for a ride, and the good Sir Murdock with alacrity indulged her wish.
Malcolm and myself, immediately after their departure, took the road to the Abbey. To say the truth, I felt a little fine-ladyish, and walked not with my usual alertness. My good natured escort, perceived it. "I am astonished," observed he, slackening his pace, and offering me his arm, "to see your spirits and perseverance! You are now so fatigued, that any other but yourself would fancy this walk improper for you."—"The sun cheers me," replied I, "and idleness will yield to this bracing air."—"Your motives," answered he, "will always give animation and vigour to your mind; for it seems to me, that it is the business of your life to communicate joy or consolation to all around you! Tell me," continued he, "that your recompence is adequate to your labours. In the absence of your accustomed amusements, remote from friends endeared to you by time and experience, and qualified for that preference you must feel for them, I see you cheerful, and apparently contented, in a situation marked for the residence of care; but my admiration of your magnanimity, Miss Cowley, has not, nor cannot lessen my regrets at seeing you sacrificed to these duties by an usurped authority over your freedom. Tarefield cannot be otherwise than a place of banishment to you."—"Spare your compassion, my good friend," answered I, "till you have my warrant for indulging it. I should be ungrateful, as well as childish, were I discontented in your mother's society. I am sensible of the constant attention paid to my comforts by every individual in your family; and I do most sincerely assure you, that I am as happy at Tarefield, as I should be any where, under the peculiar circumstances in which I am at present."—"We might be more worthy of you," replied he with seriousness, "were we not slaves ourselves; but, notwithstanding your generous assertion, I have myself witnessed your surprise and vexation at my mother's submissions to Miss Flint, and at the subordinate station she fills in her own house, for such is at present Tarefield-hall. It cannot but appear extraordinary to you, to see two women so diametrically opposite in character and temper as my mother and this woman, so connected, that neither the capricious exactions on the one part, nor the decided love of praise and independence on the other, can weaken the ties which have united them. It is by no means a solution of this enigma with me, to be reminded, that my mother submits to this galling yoke from the consideration of her son Philip's interest. I know she is neither sordid nor designing; and that she would prefer poverty, were she at liberty to chuse, rather than invade on the least of my father's wishes, much less his happiness; yet she is well aware, that for years Tarefield has been irksome to him. Sometimes I think," continued Malcolm, "that my mother conceives herself bound to the fulfilment of a promise made to her first husband, to remain for her life with his favourite daughter. Mr. Flint might, without any miraculous powers, have foreseen that neither his wealth nor Lucretia's qualities, could secure her, if destitute of a friend like my mother, who has incessantly laboured to humanize her. But I am persuaded, that if such a promise had paused her lips, she would have thought it sacred; and yet she was once on the point of breaking her chains."—Malcolm paused, as expecting my answer. "I have been told," observed I, "that Miss Flint once loved your uncle; may not this circumstance have had its weight with Lady Maclairn?" "It has not been overlooked by me," answered Malcolm; "but if there ever did exist a mutual passion between Flamall and Miss Flint, it was worn out before I could discover it, or rather converted into mutual hatred; except on one point of agreement, that of favouring their idol Philip, and tormenting me. Their marked partiality was one means employed to render my mother miserable; and as for myself, I can with truth affirm that my infant enjoyments, my youthful pleasures, and I might add, the best affections of my nature, were contracted and checked by the influence of Mr. Flamall and the jealousy of Miss Flint. It is the peculiar privilege of my cunning uncle, Miss Cowley, to effect his purposes by exciting fear; and, extraordinary as it may appear to you, he had not only established its empire over my meek mother, but also, over the termagant Miss Flint. She was taught by him, to consider me, even when in my cradle, as an intruder on Philip's rights. She regarded my mother's attachment to me as unjust, and defrauding that child of its exclusive claims to love. My mother suckled me herself; her health had not admitted of this duty when Philip was born; and from this advantage, I conceive, resulted her apprehensions, that my dear mother loved me better than she did my brother. How little was this woman qualified to judge of lady Maclairn!" continued Malcolm with emotion. "Her wisdom alone counteracted the pernicious effects of these prejudices, longer than could have been expected. Philip was my senior by nearly two years: he was a sweet-tempered child, and, directed by his mother, constantly disposed to play with me; but I was a sturdy, active boy, and soon equal to Philip in strength and stature. His compliances with my wishes were checked by his uncle and aunt, as being improper, and leading, him into mischief. My daring spirit was called an insolent one, and my careless indifference to favour, was stiled obduracy and stubbornness. Secure of my mother's protection, and contented with my own pursuits, I continued to live with Philip on good terms, till I saw preparations going forward for his being placed at Harrow school. Conscious that I had abilities for learning, I felt mortified, that no plan for my improvement had been thought of; and I saw Philip depart with emotions not remote from envy.
"From that hour, I felt ill-will towards my unoffending brother, and was stimulated by a proud sense of injustice, to shun his kindness, and to refuse his good offices. At this junction, I found a welcome at Mr. Wilson's house, and a companion and friend in Henry Heartley. Mr. Flamall and Miss Flint were displeased with the frequency of my visits. I was lectured by my uncle, and sternly admonished not to go to the Abbey. 'My mother approves of my going there,' replied I, 'and as I am not sent to school like my brother, it is my business to get learning where I can find it.' 'And who prevents your mother sending you to school?' replied he with a sneer: 'some of your Scotch relations would find and instruct you for ten pounds a year, and get money by you.' 'They could not for any sum,' answered I, 'give me the lessons I receive from you: for, if like my father, they must be gentlemen and honourable men.' His rage was exhausted by the usual epithets, I was 'an insolent puppy, a stubborn dog,' and my pride was that of beggary. I may have merited some of this censure; for certain it is that not even my mother could prevail upon me to bend to my supercilious uncle, or to pay my court to Miss Lucretia, even when she relaxed into good humour. I carefully shunned her, and was silent in her presence. My father's unhappy malady quickened my sensibility, and gave poignancy to the reflections which were forced upon me. Flamall's tone of authority cut me to the soul; and his want of tenderness to my wretched mother, produced in my mind a rooted an aversion to this man, which I can neither conquer, nor do I wish to conquer it." "Oh Miss Cowley!" continued he, "it is impossible for me to say what my mother's sufferings have been! Unsupported, she watched over her husband with unremitting care, patience, and love! She has been his saving angel! And when disease and despair triumphed over their victim, her soothings and her faithfulness, were the healing balm that lulled him to repose."
"One day, shortly after Philip's removal to the university at Edinburgh, whither he was sent to finish his studies, I found my mother in the garden in an agony of tears; and on my urging her to tell me what had so affected her, she informed me, that Mr. Flamall had been talking to her of the absolute necessity of placing my father in a private mad-house near Durham; insisting upon it, that her indulgence was pernicious and would render him incurable. 'I have told Lucretia,' added she, 'that I wish to be any where, rather than be a burden to her, or further exposed to my brother's unfeeling advice in a business with which he has nothing to do. She has generously resented this conduct of your uncle's, and they have had a very serious quarrel; but it will be settled, as most are, at my expence!'—'But is there no place of refuge for us,' asked I with resentment, 'but a mad-house? Even that or a gaol would be a paradise to me, could we call our cell our own. Let us leave this house; my industry'——She prevented my proceeding, by saying with solemnity, 'I cannot, Malcolm!' Miss Flint is not weary of me; and she only can break the chains that keep me under this roof. Your father has comforts here. She wishes him to have an asylum in her house. You know not this woman; I do: and I know also, that my brother is jealous of her affection for me. To this meanness, I attribute the barbarity of his advice this morning, and the inhumanity with which he urged me to remove the 'maniac' where he would be 'properly treated.' Miss Flint's appearance with Mr. Flamall, still more disconcerted me. She asked me what was the matter, and whether my mother was ill. 'I understand, Madam,' answered I, 'that Mr. Flamall's project had been communicated to you, as well as it is now to me. But,' added I, fixing my indignant eyes on the stately gentleman, 'my mother will soon be better: I have convinced her, that a more equitable judgment and skill than any here, must pronounce my father a lunatic, before even his wife has the right of confining him to a mad-house. Sir Murdock Maclairn needs neither a cell nor the strait waistcoat.' My uncle aimed a blow at my head with a stout cudgel he had in his hand, by way of reply to my observation; and the first and only favour I have to acknowledge to Miss Flint, was probably, saving me from a fractured skull, for the weapon was heavy and knobbed. She not only warded off the stroke, but with amazing strength held his arms. I smiled with contempt at his fury. 'Your mode of attack,' said I with cool scorn, 'is consistent with yourself; but remember I am Maclairn's son for the future, and that I am not enfeebled by sickness, nor mad. I fear you not; for I despise you.' My poor mother franticly implored me to retire: I was deaf to her intreaties. Miss Flint's rhetoric and amazonian power prevailed. She dragged Mr. Flamall from the spot, foaming with rage, and bestowing his maledictions, instead of his cudgel, on my head. From that hour we never exchanged a word, beyond the few which were necessary at our meals.
"I have reason to believe that Miss Flint on this occasion was not displeased with the 'stubborn dog.' It is certain, that she behaved to me with more civility than ordinary for some time after this proof of my obstinacy: the mad-house was never mentioned from that period.
"It may not be improper to account to you, Miss Cowley, for the resentment I felt on the mere proposal of this measure. I did not think my father's intellects in a state that required such treatment. I knew that his malady had originated from a dreadful illness, brought on by a sudden stroke of adversity when he was a young man; to this, was to be attributed a peculiarity in his general habits of life, and a tincture of sadness, which shaded his character, and repressed his activity. But during his long confinement he constantly knew me, and his wife; and was apparently easy, and even tranquil, when we were by his side, though terror and alarm followed on every intrusion by others; and an unusual noise, or step, produced silence and dejection on him for hours; nay, sometimes days. At other times, we had the cheering consolations of hope to support us. He would examine my little drawings, sketch with a pencil a more correct outline, check me when playing out of time on my flute, and beat the measure with his hand. When reading to my mother, he would listen, and observe, 'I remember something of that passage, read it again.' I did so, and although I perceived the fleeting image had disappeared, yet it confirmed me in my hopes that time would restore my father. Under this conviction you may judge that I was not disposed to listen with patience to the opinion and brotherly counsel of Flamall, who had by a thousand indications, shewn me that my father's fate was perfectly indifferent to him.