From the same to the same.
You were very good in your last letter, my dear girl, and I thank you; although with the heart-burn. Is it not hard that I must hear my brother is well, &c. &c. by a breach of duty on your part? And would it not be barbarous if you could keep to the letter of your father's harsh law? He, above all men, ought to know that offences are multiplied by the severities of penal statutes. I have heard him say this many times; therefore Mr. Hardcastle is an inconsistent man. Tell him so for me, and add, if you will, that Rachel Cowley is still Rachel Cowley, and will, in spite of his scruples, be his child. But I see this will not do. There! I have taken up another pen.
The captain, after our first greetings, the other morning, drew me aside, and with some solemnity thanked me for the "generous" concern I had shewn in favour of his niece. "I feel," added he, "that my honour demands its acquittal from you: and till you know my motives for resigning up an orphan committed to my care, to the authority and direction of Miss Flint, I am certain you must blame me. I am however unequal to the recital of events, which ought to have forewarned me, that hatred and envy were incurable. My error arose from my ignorance of their unbridled power over minds in which they have once taken up their abode. Heaven be praised! my poor girl is once more in my protecting, though feeble arms; and when I quit her, she will find her Maker still her friend."—"You may safely rest in that hope," answered I, with seriousness; "for already hath he appointed an agent for the purposes of his fatherly goodness: and when I forsake this young and innocent being, may his bounteous hand direct my abundance into a different, and more worthy channel! I want a sister," said I smiling, "and you must give me one!" He bowed, and without replying hastily retired.
Mary, with her muslin wrappers, and still languid complexion, never appeared more amiable: she assumed however more gaiety than she felt; for I saw with satisfaction, that she was anxious about her uncle. "I will shew you my little chamber," said she in a caressing tone; "will you go?" I followed her, and seating myself on her little white dimity bed, observed that half a breadth of her aunt's cross-stitch carpet would cover her room. "It is this poor miserable aunt, I want to speak about," returned she; "I cannot forgive myself for having occasioned so much confusion and trouble. My dear uncle is so angry and vexed!"—"That will go off," returned I; "and as for your aunt, leave her to herself: you have done with her, and I am too angry to talk about her. What a neat room you have here!"—"Yet I could not sleep in it these last nights," said she sighing.—"Was there not a little self-reproach under your pillow?" asked I. "Did you not reflect, that, by concealing so long your aunt's conduct, you had been imposing on your uncle; and were striking at the root of his comforts, by endangering your health."—"What could I do, my dear Miss Cowley?" replied she in a deprecating tone. "I was no stranger to my uncle's narrow income. How could I be easy, whilst sharing with him comforts, barely sufficient for himself! I was unfortunately not fitted for labour, and too young to encounter the world without friends, in any situation. I thought I had reasonable claims on my aunt; and how was it possible for me to conceive that she would be unkind to me, because she had been cruel to my parents?" Her tears flowed unrestrainedly. "When she proposed taking me," continued the artless girl, "and said, I should no longer be a burden on my uncle, I felt I loved her; and as she had no longer Mr. Philip to comfort her in her solitude, I hoped to render myself both useful and agreeable to her. I was disappointed; but my lot was not harder than that of thousands: and although Miss Flint's temper was harsh, and her behaviour discouraging, I met with kindness from all besides, and was sheltered from evil. Was I not right to submit, and keep my secret? I knew that if I had dropped a word to Alice, I should have returned hither; and then my uncle would have had me on his hands again, and his difficulties would have been renewed: so I own, I always made the best of every thing, and parried as well as I could Mr. Malcolm's accounts, which often grieved Mrs. Heartley and Alice. My unlucky fainting fit has spoiled all! and what is worse, again separated Miss Flint from my uncle's favour! He says," whispered she, "that he cannot forgive her: and this grieves me to the heart; for my dear mother did forgive her; and I long to tell my aunt that her brother will forget this offence."—"What could urge her to such an outrage?" asked I. "You remember no doubt," replied she, "Mr. Snughead's passing us, and stopping to speak to you, the evening we returned from the Abbey. I was leaning on Mr. Wilson's arm, some paces behind you; and Malcolm and Alice were loitering still farther, I believe, behind us. Mr. Snughead slackened his pace and accosted Mr. Wilson, by saying, 'If you be not as happy as the turtles I have passed, you seem more gay, Mr. Wilson;' and he fixed his eyes with curiosity on me. 'A man must needs have a bad conscience indeed!' replied Mr. Wilson, with good-humour, 'if in so fine a night as this, and with such a companion as I have, he were not gay.'—'You say right!' answered Mr. Snughead, still looking at me; 'you say right,' repeated he, 'quite right,' laughing loud, and winking his eyes strangely at me; 'such a companion would make any night a fine night, without the aid of the moon!'—'That is a text, Mr. Parson,' answered Mr. Wilson, angrily, 'that suits you better than your hearers. I wish you safe home.'—'You are witty as well as gay, I perceive,' replied Mr. Snughead. 'I hope, Miss Howard, you will improve and retain Mr. Wilson's bons mots.'—'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said I, trembling, 'indeed I do not know what you mean.'—'Pretty innocent!' replied he, with another loud laugh; 'but you are in good hands, there is a time for all things!' So saying he spurred his horse forwards. I was alarmed, and told Mr. Wilson I feared he had displeased Mr. Snughead. He said he had got no more than he deserved; that he was a dirty rascal; and he believed he was then tipsy. Well, my dread of meeting my aunt put all this out of my head! You know, my dear Miss Cowley, how fortunately that business finished. My patience on Monday conquered my aunt's sullenness. On the Tuesday morning Mr. Snughead came to visit her. He staid a long time; and I, well knowing how he hates Mr. Wilson, became uneasy. At length my aunt entered my chamber, which is, as you know, over her's; and with a fury that made me tremble, she banged the door with such violence as to make that tremble also. 'A fine tale have I heard, my dainty minx!' exclaimed she; 'you can laugh and hoyden with the best of them, I find, with your own set! You can smile when a gentleman and a clergyman is insulted by your bully!'—'Good Heavens! my dear aunt,' said I, 'what do you mean? Surely'——'What! the pretty innocent has forgotten Mr. Wilson's 'bons mots!' replied she, with provoking scorn.—'No, Madam,' answered I, 'I have not forgotten what he said, nor the speech which occasioned his resentment. He conceived, I presume, that it did not become a clergyman; and, to speak the truth, I was of his opinion; yet I was vexed at Mr. Wilson's answer, because I thought Mr. Snughead looked as if he had been dining in company.'—'Insolence!' exclaimed she, 'Mr. Snughead was neither tipsy nor blind. He heard your fine speech.'—She advanced.—'I will teach you to defame your betters. I will teach you to make me the subject of your conversation and mirth with your Wilsons and their crew!—'Good God!' cried I, still more terrified, 'is it possible that Mr. Snughead should have thus accused me! He dares not assert it to my face. I never named you, Madam, nor heard you named, but with respect; and that was by my uncle when in the avenue speaking to Jonathan.'—'You are a liar,' said she, with encreasing rage, 'Mr. Snughead heard that impudent upstart name me to you, and the laugh which his ribaldry excited from you, hussy, at the name of 'the chaste Lucretia!' 'Indeed, my dear aunt,' answered I, 'Mr. Snughead has cruelly and erroniously repeated the word; for it was I, who was talking of the moon, and I remember to have said she was called the chaste Luna and Cynthia by the poets.'—'And you did not laugh I suppose?' said she, with sternness.—'Certainly I was laughing,' replied I, 'when Mr. Snughead came up to us: but surely, that was not a crime? I neither laughed at, nor, indeed, clearly understood what had displeased Mr. Wilson, who only gave me to imagine that he thought Mr. Snughead had drank more wine than was useful to him.'—'It is false,' said she, striking my face, 'and I will teach you to understand your champion's insolent reply. Mr. Snughead saw you smile.'—'He dares not say so before me,' cried I, struggling, for she grasped my throat so hard that she hurt me.—'What! you justify yourself?' said she.—'Yes,' answered I boldly; 'I never told a lie in my life. I scorn it.'—'Do you so, my pretty Miss!' answered she, applying a dog-whip to my face and bosom; this shall teach you to fear even contradicting me.' I defended myself by hiding my face with my gown, and she struck me on the back part of my head with the handle of the whip. I sprung from her; and, losing my respect in the sense of my danger, I asked her whether she meant to murder me. 'Is it thus,' cried I, losing my temper, 'that Howard's daughter ought to be treated? Is it thus your sister's child ought to be used?' She followed me about the room like a fury, whilst I screamed with terror. Warner, who was in her lady's chamber, flew up stairs, and on seeing her I fainted. When I came to my senses I found I was on my bed, and Lady Maclairn, pale as a ghost, weeping by me. She was more hurt than I was: she wished herself dead, and was so distressed that I tried to comfort her. Warner nursed me as if I had been her child; and, because she thought me feverish, she sat up with me. I was dreadfully frightened, to say the truth, and could not close my eyes without seeing my aunt with the whip in her hand. They gave me nothing but water-gruel for three days, but their kindness and compassion sweetened it. I shall never forget Lady Maclairn's goodness! She told me that my sufferings were light, when compared to hers; for that my stripes would be soon forgotten,—but her sorrows were without remedy. She then asked me whether, for her sake, I could forgive my aunt. 'She is unhappy,' said my lady. 'She is sensible of her fault.' I said that was enough, and I could pity her. So my aunt came to see me, and she begged my pardon. I was moved by this unexpected concession; but I answered that I was determined, for her honour, as much as my own safety, to leave her, and seek my bread elsewhere. She implored me, Miss Cowley, to conceal her 'disgrace,' (I use her own words) and promised that in future I should have no cause to complain of her want of kindness. 'My mother,' said I, 'gave with her dying breath an injunction to those about her to teach me to forget injuries; I am her child, and you may, at your pleasure, make me yours. Treat me with kindness and I must be grateful, for I am a Howard; and rest assured that my uncle shall never know how unworthily I have been treated.' She seemed surprised at my spirit; I saw, Miss Cowley, that she was so; and I told her plainly that I was not made for her spaniel. 'You may, Madam,' said I, 'wonder at this language from one who, hitherto, has not dared to assert her claims to your protection. These have never had a view beyond the shelter my youth made necessary. Give me time and instructions, and turn me out on the world; my principles will then secure me, and my industry shall provide for me.' She wept, and all was made up. Nothing could be more kind than she was. Now only think of the mischief my unlucky fainting has produced, and pity me!"
No language, my Lucy, which I could have employed, would so powerfully have roused you to indignation, as that I have used; and if you can command your feelings, whilst reading the account of this poor girl's sufferings, I must conclude, that the only means of awakening your torpid powers, will be to send the artless narrator to you. When you behold her feminine weakness, listen to her sweet voice, and view her pleading innocence of aspect, you will acquit Rachel Cowley of being vindictive. Till this time arrives, I shall hate Miss Flint with all possible cordiality. I was not in the humour to say any thing in the pathetic style; poor Mary's tears of "gratitude," as she called them, having excited mine, it became necessary to change my tone. "Methinks," observed I, "that my young sister looks somewhat shabby this morning; have they not sent you your cloaths?"—"Oh yes" replied she, "Mrs Warner took care of that business." "It was not a fatiguing one, I presume," said I; "a sheet of brown paper I suppose contained your wardrobe." She laughed. "Not altogether," said she; "though to say the truth, it did not fill a waggon."—"It is no matter," answered I, "we have done, Mary, with the rags of unfeeling tyranny; you are now mine, and must appear like mine." She again clung to my bosom, and I heard her say softly, "May this reach Heaven! and my mother!"
On joining Mrs. Heartley with our swollen eyes, I began at once on business. She entered with alacrity into my measures; and has engaged to provide us with the needful from Durham. "That bonnet of yours has seen service," said she laughing, and turning to Mary. "So Lady Maclairn thought," answered she, "and she wished to have given me a new one before Miss Cowley came to Tarefield; but my aunt would not permit her, she said it was not necessary."—"She judged right," said I, with malice in my heart. "She well understood your better claims to favour. But what trimmings will you have for your bonnet?" "Oh lilac!" said she, eagerly. Alice smiled, "Now that is so like you, Alice!" observed the sweet girl: "have you not repeatedly said, that it was my colour as well as Henry's? Mrs. Heartley, and even my uncle, think it becomes me." This naïveté was not lost: I gave my vote for lilac ribbands; and taking leave, told Mrs. Heartley I would send a list of such articles of dress as were immediately to be sent.
We go on at the hall composedly, notwithstanding the bruised knee. Mrs. Allen's charity led her to Miss Flint's room yesterday: she tells me she suffers much pain. You will not expect from me more than admiration of Mrs. Allen's virtue: she bids me tell you, your hearth rugs will be soon finished, and that Rachel Cowley is still her comfort; so love her, Lucy, as tenderly as you can love. Leave hatred to me, it demands a stronger constitution than yours. Heaven bless my Lucy!
Rachel Cowley.