LETTERLI.

LETTERLI.From Miss Serge to Miss Cowley.Putney, Dec. 6.“Youhave, my dear madam, been so minutely informed of every occurrence that has taken place here since our return home, that I have with less reluctance deferred writing to you than the kindness of your request of hearing from me would otherwise have justified. I hasten, however, with satisfaction to avail myself of an hour of comparative ease and tranquillity of mind, to acquit myself, in part, of the debt of gratitude so justly your due, and, with my poor, but sincere thanks for all your goodness, to relieve my thoughts by a further communication of those disquietudes, which still prevent my beingwhat I ought to be.“It will not surprise you to hear, that in my hours of solitude, my thoughts recur to Lady Maclairn’s affectionate greetings and tender solicitudes; to Mrs. Allen’s soothing cares; to Miss Cowley’s encouraging smiles and animating conversations. These thoughts will intrude; and I cannot yet treat them as intruders. Yet I have my father: butthat fatheris a source of my deepest sorrow! I see he is deceiving himself; that he cherishes the most fallacious of hopes: he thinks me better, because my pains are less acute. He sees not, that nature, worn out in the unequal struggle, is passively yielding to the inevitable, though still suspended stroke; and I have not the courage to tell him, that his Caroline is every hour hastening to her grave. A fever which eludes his notice, and profuse nightly perspirations, to which he is a stranger, must soon be terminated. I am neither deceived, nor alarmed. I have made an acquaintance with my conqueror, which has stripped him of his terrors, and I find that aspect which is so appalling and so hideous when viewed from afar, and through the medium of this world’s pleasures and gratifications, not unfriendly to the weary sufferer.“I have weighed and measured my portion of painful existence, with that of the sinner, who, like ‘the giant,’ runneth his race to destruction;’ and I am thankful. I have entered again and again into that seat of judgment, which none but the eye of my Maker can pervade: neither remorse nor fear assail me. I have beenan heedlesschild; but nevera hardened one, with my earthly parent; and how has he loved me! and can I for a moment tremble at the thought of meeting face to face, my Heavenly Father, my Almighty Friend, who knoweth that I am but dust before him; and who has yet upheld me with tenderness and love? No, my dear Miss Cowley: imperfect as my services have been, manifold as have been my omissions of duty, I cannot forget that I have for my salvation a God of infinite mercy and goodness; and in hope I shall calmly resign up my spirit into his hands. I have been led into these reflections by the considerations of that gracious providence which has permitted me to see my dear father somewhat relieved from his late vexations, and which hath allowed to me the means of being useful to my sister. All has been done that we can do for her comfort. We must leave the future to her own conduct, and the principles of the man to whom she has so unguardedly trusted her happiness. I wish to entertain a favourable opinion of Mr. Fairly; but I am uncandid, or he is unworthy. He disgusts me by his attentions and flattery to my poor mother, his fulsome and ridiculous fondness to his wife before my father. With me he affects a pragmatical gravity and importance, talks of my wonderful wisdom, patience, and fortitude, ‘till he convinces me, that I am peevish and irrascible. Poor Lydia is either overlooked or reproved by him, with an impertinence which my mother and Leonora ought to check. The consequence is, that she detests him; and has moped in her own room till she is unwell. She grieves also, poor thing! for Willet’s removal from the family. This young woman, whom you will recollect was with us at the Hall, was a favourite with my mother, and in fact Lydia’s companion and friend: indeed, we all liked her as a useful well-behaved young person. Willet, however, took offence on finding at our return hither, a house-keeper installed in office, by Mrs. Tomkins, at my father’s and mother’s request, during our absence: she was impertinent, and not chusing to make concessions, or to accept of the station my mother chose for her, she quitted her good lady and her dear Miss Lydia for another service. I have been a gainer by this change in our administration. Willet was too lively to be useful to me; and we have gained a prize in the good woman whom Mrs. Tomkins recommended to us. Mrs. Thornton has so pleased my dear father, that he has in his fond consideration promoted her to a place of more trust than the housekeeper’s room—she is now my constant attendant; and her daughter superintends below stairs with great regularity and diligence.“My mother has been absent from home nearly a fortnight. She accompanied Mr. Fairly and Nora to his house, near Chelmsford in Essex; with the intention of seeing that it was a suitable abode for her daughter. I was much gratified with my sister’s reply on the occasion. She said she should be happy with any accommodations in the country. I suspect poor Nora has in the course of a few short weeks discovered that she has gained but little by exchanging the yoke of her tender and generous father, for the chains of wedlock, a regimental suit, and a handsome man. She is not in spirits. Since her departure she has written twice to my father: her expressions of gratitude, paid him for his money, and I believe they were dictated by her feelings. She mentions the house as being all she wishes, but that her toofondandanxioushusband thinks it stands in need of repairs, and that it cannot be made a suitable residence for her for less thanfifteen hundred pounds. The money was instantly advanced; and Leonora, in her second letter informed us, that Mr. Fairly had consented to live at the farm till the house was ready for them. There was an appearance of content and triumph in this letter which delighted me. She spoke of her plans of furnishing itneatly: of her garden; and of the happiness she hoped to find in a cottage orné.“Yesterday, instead of my mother, whom we expected, arrived a letter from her, dated from Reveland Park, the seat of a rich nabob, called Anthony Dangle, Esq. His house borders on Mr. Fairly’s little estate, and his lady, recently married, was one of Nora’s school companions. My poor dear mother writes in raptures of the grandeur and style of Reveland Park: the table, the society, and the politeness of the young mistress of the mansion, who at eighteen or nineteen, purchased with her beauty and accomplishments, the state of an Asiatic princess, and a husband of forty, already a cripple with the dead palsy. Leonora will be her guest for some time: in the exultation of my mother’s heart she hopes they will keep her till her own ‘little box’ is ready; for Nora is adored at the Park. Can you blame me, if my anxious and apprehensive mind recurs to the story of the Homespun family? Alas! no: you are too judicious not to see the danger of such connections as these, tomy mother.”“This letter, my dear Miss Cowley, will not amuse you, but it will make its appeal to your good nature: you will think of the invalid who has beguiled three or four tedious days of their allotted dullness, in writing it: you will think you see her raising her languid eyes to heaven, whilst she breathes out a petition for your happiness; and you will think with kindness of the grateful and obliged“Caroline Serge.”“P. S. I shall say nothing of mybrother, Malcolm Maclairn. Ah! would to heaven I had a more legitimate claim to use that title, than even his kindness has given me. What a difference in Nora’s fate would such a man have made! It is not possible for me to tell you, how gentle how humane, his conduct was to us on the road. But he is a good and a virtuous man; and may the Almighty bless him! My father writes to Sir Murdoch, or to him, I believe; he desires to have my letter to enclose. I expect to see my mother in a few days, and Mrs. Tomkins will be with us to-morrow evening, to pass some time at Putney.”LETTERLII.To Malcolm Maclairn, from Mr. Serge.“My dear young Friend,”“Havingreceived from your good father more compliments than I asked, and less information than I wanted, relative to the plans in which you were engaged with Mr. Wilson, when I was at Tarefield, I have taken my measures in my own way, and with better success; for Wilson and I have managed the business without compliments or demurs; and you are fairlylurched, if you be a young man too proud to accept of a kindness from a true friend. Hoping you will see the drift of my meaning, I send you a draft on my banker for a thousand pounds: it is placed in your name, and herewith you have his acknowledgment. Get married and settle at once: have no fears: I will take care of my farm and my farmer. Let your nest be well lined: I send the bill for that intent; meaning to take care myself of all without doors. Your answer to this will either break the thread of our love, or join it till death; for it will either show me, that you do not know Jeremiah Serge, or that he does not know Malcolm Maclairn. However, guessing where the “shoe will pinch,” I will say that when I want my money again I will ask you to pay it. And in the mean time receive a good interest for it in your good will and kindness. So may God prosper you, and my money thus employed!“I am your loving friend,“Jeremiah Serge.”[Miss Cowley’s pen is employed in what follows.]I was with Lady Maclairn when her son read her this letter. I cannot describe to you the various changes of her countenance, whilst he was so doing. Her lips trembled, and with difficulty she asked him whether Sir Murdoch would be satisfied to see his son established in life by Mr. Serge. Malcolm answered that his father left him to act as his own judgment directed: that he had convinced him of the probability of being able to repay his generous friend, and that it was in fact a good speculation for Mr. Serge. “But,” added he, “I am not governed altogether by this consideration in my purpose of accepting Mr. Serge’s kindness. I am not too proud to receive favours; nor so mean as to court them. The voluntary offering of an honest and generous heart shall be received with a frank and honest gratitude, and I may live, my dear mother,to give, as well asto receivebenefits. At any rate I am not worthless, and my benefactor will not have to blush for his predilection in my favour; for I shall never forget his kindness. And the prospect! my dear Miss Cowley,” added he, seizing my hand as if it had been Alice’s, “is it not too alluring for romantic scruples, and a fastidious pride to combat.” I smiled; and he now eagerly ran over the advantages which would ultimately accrue from the Wereland Farm: expatiated on the happiness before him; and in the most unqualified manner adverting to Miss Flint’s dissolution as a contingency that would not break his heart, he drew a picture of domestic peace and comfort, to which his affection gave the most glowing colours. “We shall then taste the blessings of union and love undisturbed,” said he. “My Alice will reverence and serve my mother; and we shall see her smile, and bless our infants.” The poor mother answered only with her tears. “Why do you weep?” asked he, with tenderness. “It is because I fear, my dear Malcolm,” replied she, “that this cup of joy will never reach my lips.” “It is I that ought to have this doubt to check my present contentment,” answered he seriously, “whilst I see my mother wasting her health and spirits on——.” She prevented his finishing; and with a gentle smile asked him, whether he had seen Mr. Wilson. He replied in the negative, adding that he was then going. “Do not forget to tell your friends,” said she, “that Lady Maclairn means to write to Mr. Serge, and to thank him for having rendering her son happy.” Malcolm kissed her glowing cheek, and withdrew. “Poor fellow!” said she, the instant the door closed, “how little does he know that nothing on this side of the grave can makehis mother happy! I see your surprise, my dear Miss Cowley,” added she, weeping, “you are not prepared for the frankness with which I now confess that there has beenfor yearsa canker worm in this bosom, which has not only destroyed my peace, but which has also tainted myvery faceby its baleful influence. You are yet a stranger to the woman before you; notwithstanding that penetration which has shown you that she is not what shewishes to appear. I have perceived your suspicions; and in a thousand instances, have marked your but too accurate conclusions. I have had lately to struggle, not only with my secret sorrows, but with the acute sense of being suspectedas a deceitful womanby that being to whom I stand indebted for the only comfort of my life: by my husband’s friend and consoler! Yet, Miss Cowley, my soul is yearning to convince you that it is honest and sincere. I must explain to you the causes which have imposed upon me a conduct of duplicity and deceit. I want a friend, Miss Cowley: yes, I want a friend, in whose faithful bosom I may with safety place a secret that oppresses my own, and which must destroy me. I have for some time resolved to take this step. You will, I think, be disposed to grant me your compassion, if the narrative I mean to place before you should exclude me from your friendship and esteem.” She spoke with so much energy and feeling, that I was confounded, and remained silent. “I distress your generous mind,” continued she, “but recollect your conduct; recall the numberless instances in which your candour and goodness have been exerted to spare the too conscious dissembler. I will only say a few words more: justice to myself demands them! Had not your firm refusal of Philip Flint rendered my purpose needless, you would have known his mother before you had been a week under this roof. I will not say what were my feelings when I found that this trial of my strength was spared me! You once invited me to call youmy daughter,” added she, renewing her tears. “Good God! could you at that moment have seen my heart! Could you but have conceived what then passed through my very soul! You were the child of my husband’s fond and grateful love! You had saved him! But I was unworthy of you!” I am not made for moments of this kind, Lucy. I could not speak: but hiding my face in her extended arms, I sobbed forth my feelings.In continuation.—Lady Maclairn has this moment left me. I was shut up all yesterday in my apartment with a cold in my head, which you will place to the real cause. Sir Murdoch and Mrs. Allen made some remonstrances on my insisting that they should keep their engagements to dine at the Abbey. And you will judge that my time was fully engaged by the manuscripts I now send you.Lady Maclairn took her tea with me, and with composure and dignity of manner, she said, “I see, my dear Miss Cowley, that I have taxed your sensibility severely. You are now acquainted with the unfortunate Harriet Flamall, and are now qualified to judge of her hopes and pretensions to your kindness.” ‘You are an angel,’ exclaimed I, with honest fervour. ‘Patience and suffering have made you one, even before your time.’ She mournfully shook her head. “I gratefully welcome the sentiment which has urged the misapplied epithet,” said she. “I accept with joy and comfort the friendship which dictated it.I know Miss Hardcastle.Do you, my dear Miss Cowley, prepare her for her knowledge ofme. Tell her, that you have received me as a guest worthy of your pure bosom. Send her the manuscripts, and ask her whether two hearts will not be needful to shelter mine from the oppression under which it groans. The dread of having those papers in my possession,” added she, “has frequently tempted me to destroy them. Yet I wish to leave some memorial behind me, to witness that my soul abhorred deceit, and that even under the cruel yoke of it, my principles were firmly those which rectitude teaches. The peace and honour of my husband and son were of too much consequence to be hazarded by my impatience under the dependence to which my own weakness had reduced me. Miss Flint’s caprices and temper have been to mepetty evils; and my conformity to her will has been amply recompensed by the reflection that I have served as a barrier, although a weak one, to passions that would have betrayed her more to censure and reproach. She wanted not my brother’s arguments to mislead her, but she was a stranger to his artifices. And to whom but myself was it owing that she knew the betrayer of her integrity and honour? Can you any longer be surprised that I have yielded up to motives so powerful, that independence, which under every privation of fortune I should have calledblessednessto the life I have passed under this roof. Oh, you know not, Miss Cowley,” added she, weeping bitterly, “what I have endured! But what was I, if not useful in contributing to Sir Murdoch Maclairn’s comfort and happiness! I had deceived him, and imposition was myhardduty. How often have I wished that mydeathcould have been as beneficial to him, as a life miserable, though devoted to his service!”You will love and reverence this woman, Lucy. I am certain you will. Sedley will give you this packet. You will understand my caution. I have written to Mary in French, expressly to prevent her inquiries. Let me know that the manuscript is safe in your hands, and that you concur with your perhaps too impetuous,Rachel Cowley.P. S. We were reading a beautiful work of Mrs. Inchbald’s, called, “The Simple Story,” when the vagrants returned. Red eyes and defluxions in the head are the least of these tributes which this novel merits. Ours escaped all further inquiry.Manuscript intended, for Sir Murdoch Maclairn, from his Wife, and sent to Miss Hardcastle by Miss Cowley.The vowsof fidelity, of obedience, of love, and gratitude, which the obscure Harriet Flamall plighted at the altar with you, my Maclairn, were registered in heaven; and I am prepared to answer undismayed, the inquiry which will be made relatively to myperformanceofmy duties as your wife. Yes, I am prepared and God and man will acquit me of having deviated from my duty in the course ofthat honourable character. But to what tribunal shall I appeal, when called upon to answer to the charge of deceit, of imposition, of falsehood! Of having imposed on thy generous confidence, and of having worn anameand a title to which I hadno right, and which I havecontaminated? Is there not a refuge for the penitent? Has not the Almighty promised to forgive his contrite erring children; and will Maclairn’s noble mind, refuse pity and compassion to an offender whom he loves?He cannot: for it is his delight to walk in the path his Maker hath appointed, and to honour him, by imitating him who is perfect in his goodness. The history of my life will contain all that I have to urge in extenuation of my errors. I am induced to place it before you, by the hope, that it may produce on your mind a conviction, that I was not deliberately, systematically wicked; and that as having beendeceived, I am an object for commiseration, though not justified forhaving deceived others.HISTORY OF THE FLAMALL FAMILY.You know but little more of my family and connexions, my dear Maclairn, than that I was the only daughter of a reputable attorney, who lived respected in modest affluence; and who died as he had lived, with an unblemished character. My mother, whose understanding and virtue would have done honour to any station in life, died when I was in my ninth year; and in her last illness she requested my father to place me, after her decease, in the house of the lady who had instructed her; and with whom she had continued to live on terms of intimacy and mutual regard. This lady’s seminary had been gradually establishing itself in the opinion of the public, from the time that my mother had been one of its pupils; and it was at this period justly considered as one of the most respectable boarding-schools in London. Friendship for my mother, added to the governing principles of this excellent woman’s mind, produced a tenderness for me, which was necessary in the first instance of my removal from my indulgent father; but I soon found that in my good governess I had a friend, and my school insensibly became my home. During this period of my life, I enjoyed every advantage which my fond father could supply; and his liberality extended to whatever was judged suitable for girls of large fortunes. It is necessary to mention Miss Flint’s arrival, as a boarder, during my long residence in this house; but as I was two or three years younger than herself, I had formed my littlecoterie; and as I was not particularly attracted by her manners, we had no further intercourse, than such as resulted from being under the same roof. With the partiality of my father and my governess, I happily enjoyed peculiar marks of affection from my brother, who was some years my senior; and to him I stood indebted for my instruction in those branches of female accomplishments, which, as being very expensive from the attendance of capital masters, my father might have thought unnecessary for a girl in my station; but my brother judged of my talents so favourably, that no improvement could be useless to me. I had just gained my sixteenth year, when my dear father was suddenly removed, and my happiness interrupted. My governess kept me as a cherished guest till some days after the funeral, when she gave up her charge to an affectionate brother. It may not be improper to mention here an event which soon after deprived me of this inestimable friend. Easy on the side of fortune, and breaking in health, she gave up her school to another person, and retired to the west of England, where she had near relations. My grief for the loss of my father was for some time countenanced by the dejection of my brother Philip’s spirits, and I discovered it to be my duty to restrain my tears before him. I even attempted the office of consoler, and assumed a cheerfulness with him which was remote from my feelings. One day I particularly endeavoured to lead him to a more resigned submission to the will of Heaven. He shook his head, and in a desponding tone, replied, “that he should not need my friendly admonition, could he forget his sister, but it was forhis Harrietthat he grieved.” An explanation followed. My father’s death had been accelerated by the difficulties which pressed upon him: he had just escaped being insolvent. Philip had incautiously, or rather with the honest pride of sparing to himself, and me, a disgrace so humiliating, administered; and the effects had been inadequate to the demands. He had consulted-his friends: had met with assistance and encouragement; and had every hope that diligence and economy would in time extricate him from his difficulties. In the mean time, I was his blessing; and if I could submit with cheerfulness to superintend his family for a season, he should be happy, and look forward to my more eligible situation. He now mentioned his connections, and the chances which were in his favour: hinting that my father had at least left him the integrity attached to his name, and a knowledge in his profession which none could dispute. I was not intimidated by this confidence, but I reminded him that my education had qualified me for a teacher: and that with Mrs. D—’s recommendation I had no doubt of being able to provide for myself. “We have one and the same interest,” replied he, “to conceal our affairs from Mrs. D—, and from all the world. Whilst by my exertions I can keep matters as they now stand, I shall not be suspected of being a necessitous man. You know not the world you live in, my dear Harriet: we must keep up appearances, in order to surmount our difficulties. You are young and beautiful, and in time, may marry well. Till you can make a better exchange for my protection and love, than by degrading yourself, my last guinea shall be spent to support you. Have no fears, I will support my sister’s claims to respect: you shall never serve forwages, till those of love fail.” Penetrated by this goodness and generosity, it will be no matter of surprise to you, my dear Maclairn, that I trusted to this brother; and repaid his kindness by the most assiduous attention to his comforts and interest. For nearly a year I superintended his family with contentment; for Philip praised without ceasing his housekeeper, and frequently declared that he would not change me for the richest wife in the kingdom; for that I had established his credit by my management. I saw three clerks constantly employed in the office, my brother’s regular attendance, and every appearance of business as in my father’s time going on. The new year’s day, I was told, that he was happy; for he could without inconvenience augment his dear Harriet’s little allowance for clothes; that he wished to see me always dressed like Harriet Flamall, and the gentlewoman; though never like a girl on the look-out for a husband, or a simpleton ready to take up with any offer. I well understood that my brother was little disposed to favour what are called love-matches, at which his wit and ridicule were constantly pointed; but as I was neither exposed to those temptations, nor in any haste to change my condition, I received these indications of his prudence with gratitude; perfectly coinciding with him, that love was not the better for being houseless and unfed; and as I had no wealthy suitors, though some danglers, I was perfectly contented with being mistress of my brother’s house, and seeing it his abode of peace. With youthful spirits and youthful vanity, I exulted in the regularity which presided at his table, and my heart was gay, when Philip said, “his Harriet was never taken by surprise, nor unfit to be seen.” Kindness had given me an interest with his servants, which were two maids, and a foot-boy; and when my brother led a friend to his table, they good-naturedly forgot, that they had shared with their mistress the liver and bacon, or tripe, in order to sup on more costly viands. My brother’s person and address were much in his favour, and it was not without some agreement on my part, that our acquaintance “wondered that the handsome and agreeable Mr. Flamall did not marry.” Some hints given me by our chamber-maid, who, as I fancied, thought her master “too sober a gentleman,” led me to suspect, that my brother had formed some connexion which stood in the way of a more honourable one; and whilst his regular visits into the country, in one certain direction, strengthened my suspicions, I could not help doing him justice for the consideration with which I was guarded from a knowledge of this supposed irregularity in his conduct; and sensible that his cautions in regard to mine were scrupulously exact and proper, I prudently left Philip to judge of the propriety of his own actions; and with unbounded trust believed, that if he erred, it was because he was human, and could not be altogether perfect, as I sometimes fondly thought him; whilst with the utmost solicitude he recommended to me the improvement of my time, and the prudence necessary for my security.Under these happy circumstances of life, did I reach my seventeenth year, when towards the autumn, I was requested to prepare for the accommodation of a young man, who was to reside with us. Philip perceived my surprise. “It was not possible for me to avoid receiving him under my roof,” added he; “his mother pressed the measure on me, with so much earnestness from her death-bed, that I had not the resolution to refuse her request; and standing as I do in the relation of a guardian to the young man, who has not a single connexion or friend in the world to whom he can turn, except myself, it is the more incumbent on me to provide for his safety. He is a modest lad; but at present a mere green-horn. He has been very ill since he has been in town, and I should not be surprised, if, with his excessive sorrow for the loss of his only friend, and the effects of his dreadful fever, he be plunged into a decline. You will be kind to him, my dear Harriet,” continued he, “for you will pity him. If we can manage to get him well, he will become my pupil in the office, for he is poor, and must have some employment. He is sensible of this, and grateful for the education and little means which Mrs. Duncan has contrived to leave him.”A sick, consumptive, friendless youth, oppressed with sorrow for a mother’s death, was a guest not to be placed in any inferior part of our house: my bed room was visited by the south sun, and had next to it, a light dressing closet, appropriated for my books and bureau. I was healthy; and the attic was equally convenient. The poor, dejected young man should find a home, and a neat retreat: and the books might help to divert his thoughts. This resolution was adopted. The following week, Mr. Charles Duncan made his appearance at our dining table; and on introducing him to me, Philip congratulated him with kindness on his improved good looks; whilst I, with emotions of pity, gazed on the finest youth my eyes ever beheld, blasted by sorrow and sickness. His deep mourning dress, the sober-sadness and dignity of his person, his collected demeanour and unstudied ease of manners, surprised me. From time to time, he spoke; his intelligent eyes were raised; and as the subject adverted to the recent events, his countenance marked the keenest sensibility, and the most profound grief. Without any of that aukward timidity, which I had been led to expect, he with politeness made his apologies for wishing to retire to his room, alledging that he had made exertions during the morning, which had fatigued him. Philip with much civility conducted him to his apartment. I had risen to receive his compliment on leaving the room, and felt a secret delight in reflecting, that he would find the one he sought suitable in those accommodations which he had a just title to expect under any roof. I still remained standing, lost in thoughts which perplexed me. The extreme caution of my brother in respect to me, seemed to have yielded to his zeal for a stranger; and I felt uneasy that I could not think Mr. Duncan alad just new to the world. “But he is poor and friendless,” thought I, “and my brother trusts to those disqualifications for my safety.” A deep sigh followed; for I discovered, that poverty was no shield to my bosom. My brother’s returning steps roused me from my reverie, and I sat down to the piano forte, to prevent my agitation from being noticed, and began to play a lesson which lay open on the music-desk, in the hope of evading any further conversation, relative to a guest, who I already discovered had gained too much of my attention. But Philip immediately reassuming the subject, and thanking me for giving up my room to the stranger, asked me what I thought of him. “Poor young man,” replied I, “he looks consumptive and very melancholy. I should not be surprised if the air of London was found pernicious to health apparently so weak and declining.” “He must take his chance on that point,” answered my brother, “and should your prognostics be verified, I do not know whether I should regret his death. Under the circumstances of an illegitimate birth and friendless condition, life can afford but a very scanty portion for his hopes or enjoyments. It appears,” continued my brother, “that Duncan, as he is called, is one of those unhappy beings, who are destined to share the iniquity of their mothers. His probably has worn the cloak of hypocrisy and concealment so long, that she has forgotten it was borrowed, or that she was the mother of a child whom she did not dare to acknowledge. I know that the good woman who has passed for his mother has left him a few hundred pounds, the savings from an annuity allowed her for this child’s maintenance from his cradle.” “But you know also his real mother,” observed I with eagerness. “Indeed I do not,” answered Philip, “nor does Duncan know her. I have some reasons for believing she lives in a foreign country; is a woman of birth and fortune; and probably one of those chaste dames, who thinks ‘the world can never thrive,’ &c. &c. I am sorry,” continued my brother, “that I was not sooner known to Mrs. Duncan. I might have gained more insight into this poor young fellow’s history, and perhaps his mother might have been induced to continue his annuity. But it was too late to press the business on a dying woman. She only declared, that she was not the real mother of Charles, commonly called Duncan; and requested he might be told so. I trusted to her papers for further information, but nothing satisfactory has appeared; and for the present, I think it is better to leave him to his regrets for the loss of his reputed mother, than to the bitter conviction of his birth and desertion.” I entirely coincided in Philip’s opinion; and our conference finished by my admiring his goodness and humanity, and vehemently reprobating the monster who could give up an infant to save herself from the reproach and shame she alone merited.Mr. Duncan’s health, for the space of more than a month, gave an ostensible colour to my attentions. I had pity, for the motive of an assiduity which, young as I was, my heart whispered was but the assumed name for love. My brother trusting, as I concluded, to the effects of his intelligence relative to his ward’s fortune and disgraceful birth, for the security of a girl of seventeen, whose good sense and prudence were proverbial with him, left the interesting invalid to my unremitting cares, till the bloom of youth was restored, and Mr. Duncan was deemed in a condition to pass some hours in the office, in pursuance of his declared intention of studying the law. To what purpose should I detail the progress of a passion mutually excited under such circumstances as I have already mentioned? Let it suffice, that my lover was a stranger to the arts of seduction, and myself too inexperienced for the documents of worldly prudence, and too innocent for doubts or cautions.Amongst the number of expedients we had ingeniously contrived, to elude my brother’s knowledge of our union, till Mr. Duncan was of age, was one which appeared practicable and safe: my lover suggested it, and related to me the interest he had with the good woman under whose roof his mother had died. It appeared to him a providential interference, that had conducted them to Mrs. Keith’s humane cares; for such was the name of the person with whom they lodged. “My dear mother,” added Mr. Duncan, “was indebted to chance for the recommendation of lodgings in London, when she was a stranger. At Grantham we took up a lady apparently of some respectability in the neighbourhood of that town, for she was in a gentleman’s carriage, when she inquired at the inn the hour at which the stage coach would reach London. She was a handsome, pleasant, and well bred woman, and good-humouredly communicative. My mother, in the course of our journey, expressed some regret on not having written to her only agent in town, to secure lodgings for her, observing that she did not much enjoy the thoughts of being forced to sleep in a common inn. The courteous stranger instantly engaged to conduct us herself to lodgings which she could recommend, adding, that her uncle, Counsellor Peachley, had recently quitted his apartments, for a country residence near town, and that by agreement, or rather favour, the Keiths had permission to let the rooms in his absence, for their own emolument. But this indulgence was, it appeared, limited; and the lady’s good offices were requisite to our success. She kindly performed her promise, and I believe was farther useful to us in the distressing scenes which followed. My gratitude on leaving this house for your brother’s, has, I believe, attached Keith and his wife to me. He serves the office of clerk in this parish church, and might assist us effectually. Your brother,” added he smiling, “pays his devoirs regularly every Sunday in the country. You are tempted by a more popular preacher, to stray from Mr. G——’s flock, and I suspect that your servants are not scrupulous in the observance of their sabbath.”I complied with a project from which I had little to fear, well knowing that my brother’s example had been contagious in his family. Our banns were published: Keith officiated as father at the altar, and his wife as my friend and companion, my appearance not contradicting hers. My husband demanded a certificate of our marriage, and I returned home with it in my bosom unsuspected.With a circumspection rarely preserved in a union, where the sum total of years did not amount to forty, we eluded for a time all suspicion. My situation became the signal for terror and anxiety to break into that contentment of heart, which had succeeded to our marriage.Duncan in vain urged the necessity of his openly declaring his claims to protect me. I opposed to his arguments my dependence on my brother, and his minority, which would for some months prevent his free agency. I pleaded the expected absence of Philip, who constantly left town in the summer vacation; and sanguinely brought forwards my project of preserving our secret by means of Mrs. Keith: thus passed the early months of my pregnancy. But I was unable to counterfeit health. My brother was alarmed by my cough; and my friends recommended to me country air. At this eventful period,Mrs. Hatchwaywith her daughter, now Mrs. Serge, paid their annual visit to London. Mr. Hatchway was master of a ship, and his wife and only child, Miss Lydia, contented with its accommodations, and fond of an element with which they were too familiar for fear, every summer made this little voyage; and stationing themselves in Wapping, enjoyed with unwearied activity the more remote and fashionable pleasures of the metropolis. They were our relations; and dining in Red-Lion square from time to time, during their short stay, had been the customary offering of good-will, and for which they liberally paid, by supplying us with turkies and red herrings in the winter. Their remembrances of this kind had been so abundant, that we on our side had enlarged our civilities; and Philip had for the two preceding visits, treated them with a sight of Sadler’s Wells, or the Haymarket. On seeing my pale and emaciated form, they expressed much compassion; and, with theutmost generosity, they declared I should not be hurried to a crowd, in order to please them. My brother as warmly insisted that Miss Hatchway should not be disappointed of her amusement; and this contest finished by the good-natured mother’sheroicallysaying, she preferred remaining with me. During the absence of the party, my ill-health was the subject of her conversation. Change of air and a voyage were urged: she was certain that sea air would restore me in a month. She remembered that her mother, before her marriage, was thought in a decline; and had been cured by residing a few months at Y——h. I immediately saw the advantages which might result from my quitting my brother’s house; but I had my husband to consult. This, however, I happily effected; for my restless cousin recollected a shop near us, in which she had purchased some article a few days before, and she wished for more of it. My cough again befriended me; it was near nine o’clock, and the evening unpleasant, so she sallied forth alone. My husband blessed heaven for this promised deliverance; he urged me to accept of the invitation, and declared that he would remove me from Y——h to Newcastle, and from thence to Leith: for that I should not return to my brother’s, till my spirits were more equal to meet his resentment. At supper, the good captain seconded his lady. “He had long piloted his women.” The cabin was neat; and I had nothing to fear in the “Charlotte.” My brother counselled me to try the experiment; and my voyage was determined on. At the expiration of a few days the ship sailed. Our navigation was prosperous and delightfully pleasant. I was in no way incommoded; and the good friends with me, exulted on seeing me keenly devour sea-biscuit. Freed from the dread of my brother’s inquisitorial eyes, and amused by the novelty of the scene, my spirits rose to cheerfulness; and I was led to consider my female friends with some curiosity and amusement. Mrs. Serge, at present, so strongly resembles her good mother in her person, that it is only necessary to observe that when young, she was extremely pretty. Nature had not been less faithful in the lineaments of their minds. Both enjoyed an exuberance of health and activity; a constant flow of animal spirits and good humour; to which was annexed an absence of thought or attention for the morrow. My observations soon led me, however, to doubt, whether their sum of positive happiness exceeded that of their fellow mortals. Their constant restlessness; their insatiable cravings for vanity and pleasure, might be fairly weighed with the cares of the ambitious, and the labours of the philosopher; and most assuredly were as fatiguing as the demands of vanity. A “frolic,” to use Mrs. Hatchway’s term for a jaunt of pleasure, was the supreme good in her opinion: it was necessary to her existence; and however qualified, all was a “frolic” which put her spirits in motion. Having been wet to the skin in an open cart; or slept in a barn on straw, or in a bed with half a dozen companions, only gave zest to the remembrance of the “fun” occasioned by any disaster. If the pleasure had smoothly rolled on in post-chaises, and a good dinner, and a good inn received them, their joy was complete; “for what was money made for, but to be spent? Those whoworkedhad a right tospend.” No grievance tormented them, but being stationary; nor did they believe there was a malady which a dance would not cure. To people of this description I could only plead the weakness of my bodily strength. We were safely landed at Y——h, the captain proceeding in his voyage to Sunderland. A neat habitation announced the opulence of my friends in that class to which they belonged. The first day was passed in settling ourselves, which was performed with admirable dispatch and order; for Mrs. Hatchway observed, that, “after a holiday, idleness was ingratitude.” The next day was given to their neighbours, who were numerous; but I was indulged, and in my neat little chamber enjoyed the privilege of writing to my husband. At supper, my cousin told me, she had engaged me to see a ship launched. “We shall breakfast,” added she, “with the captain’s wife, who lives on the quay. As soon as the vessel floats, we shall go on board, and sail in her down the river. You will see also the fort and the pier; and in the evening we shall return home incarts; they are the fashion here, and the exercise they give, is strongly recommended to invalids.” I had seen scores of these vehicles moving in the street, and instantly imagined that awheelbarrow, although drawn by a horse, would not suit me. I pleaded fatigue, and without the smallest ill-humour appearing, I was told, that no welcome was worth a farthing, if folks were not left to judge for themselves: “so please yourself, my dear Harriet,” added she, “and you will please me. I hope to see you, before you leave us, as eager to run after a fiddle, and as fond of a ride in a cart as this girl, who two years since was as fond of her own room as yourself; but I soon made her what you see her, as healthy a girl as any in England; and her aunt will tell you so, when she comes. I have no notion of patch-work, and darning muslin, which costs so dearly; Lydia was half killed by being with my sister. You will take care of yourself, my love,” continued she; “Sarah will be left with you; and I can trust her.”She was not mistaken; Sarah was assiduous, and my tranquillity continued uninterrupted till one o’clock, when she informed me, that Mrs. Priscilla Hatchway, her master’s sister, was in the parlour, and wished to see me. “There has been some blunder,” added the girl; “for she is come to dine with my mistress.” Civility compelled me to leave my retreat. A neat well-dressed woman of forty and upwards, rose to salute me, and with much good-nature congratulated me on my safe arrival. For some time I found my guest an intruder; but she insensibly engaged my attention, by talking of my mother, and flattered my self love, by observing, that I was her very picture. I learned that Mrs. Priscilla had fully expected to meet the family party. “I sent my sister word, yesterday,” continued she smiling, “of my intention; but a ship-launch was too serious a business for me to interrupt, and they well know I am not apt to take offence where none is intended.”After dinner she proposed to me a walk; to this I had no objection; and she took the road to the fort. The level and fine turf I trod, with the prospect in view, beguiled the time: for on the left was the main ocean, and on the right the river, which, at the fort, forms the bar and the pier, useful for working the vessels from and into the harbour. We reached the ferry-boat which led to a village on the opposite side of the river; and we sat down. “I have had my designs in conducting you hither,” said she; “that,” pointing to a small neat habitation, “is my house; and you see how easy the road is which separates us. Have you any objections to our drinking tea there? I will conduct you home; and if the vagrants are returned, I will sup with them; for it is a full moon, and the boatman will wait my call.” I acceded to this arrangement, and we soon reached the house, but with some surprise found the parlour filled with Mrs. Hatchway’s friends, and she busily engaged in assisting the maid, to prepare a regale of fruit and tea. The good Mrs. Priscilla received with momentary gravity her sister’s greetings and apology. This amounted, to having forgotten, in her hurry, to send her notice of her engagement, and intention of calling upon her in her way home. To this succeeded her pleasure of seeing me. “Nothing ever was more fortunate! for they expected a cart, and I might ride home.” The company now claimed our attention. This consisted of several persons, but the principal care of Mrs. Hatchway was directed to a lady who had been “uncomfortable” on board the ship, being fearful of the water. I found she was from the country, and with her husband had a daughter of Miss Lydia’s age. A survey of Mrs. Priscilla’s parlour pleased me; it was furnished with good prints, and a handsome book-case; the windows commanded the sea, and a pretty garden hung from the elevated ground to the river. I expressed my approbation of her abode; and in the kindest manner she pressed me to try, what she called,countryas well asseaair. I thanked her, and acknowledged that I thought her situation delightful. “Then sleep here to-night,” answered she eagerly, “I will show you my little spare nest.” I looked at Mrs. Hatchway. “Please yourself, and you will please me,” said she with her usual good-humour. “Do, my dear Miss Flamall, consent to my aunt’s proposal,” cried Miss Lydia; “for then I shall see Beecles races.” This settled the business. The strangers were accommodated with my room at Mrs. Hatchway’s house, and my trunk was sent, for greater dispatch, that evening; and before my eyes were open the next morning, my Y——h friends were on the road to Beecles races. They called in their way at our door, and said their absence would not be for more than aweek. On the maid-servant’s delivering this message at our comfortable breakfast table, Mrs. Priscilla laughed, and said that her sister’sweekswere not always regulated by the calendar: she had known some, that had extended tosixof the common reckoning of time, “and should either a wedding, a christening, or a funeral intervene,” added she, “you may find this “frolic” longer than you wish, unless you love quiet as well as I do.” You will not be surprised that I wished for nothing but for letters from my Charles, and the prolongation of my friend’s pleasures.Duncan was made easy by my account of myself, and my new situation. I was happy in his assured love, and we mutually agreed to wait with patience till he could see me at G—ne. A fortnight had nearly elapsed; when, in the place of an expected letter from my husband, one arrived from Mrs. Hatchway. Fortune had been favourable. She was detained in spite of herself. Lydia was to be bride-maid to her young friend, and having had a letter from her husband, to inform her that he was going to Leith, she had indulged her friends in their request. Even this good news did not cheer me. I had missed receiving my cordial for two posts. The sympathizing Mrs. Priscilla dispatched a person the next morning to the Y——h post-office, and endeavoured to divert my attention till the woman’s return. She brought me a letter: it had my brother’s writing on the address. I turned pale, I suppose; for she smiled, observing that I might have another, and still more welcome letter on the morrow. “It is from my brother,” answered I, still mournfully holding the fatal scroll in my hand. “Well, and you may have good news fromyour brother,” replied she, rising. “So I will go and get you some strawberries, whilst you are busy.”Merciful heaven! From what unknown cause did it arise that I remained several minutes with this letter unopened in my hand! I recollected that I had not answered a former one; and that Philip hated writing letters. Some unknown terror seized my spirits; and I wept. At length I was mistress of its contents. “Anunpleasant,” (yes, that was the word,) “occurrence had engaged his time, and harassed his mind.”His ward, Duncan, had absconded; a charge of a highway-robbery having been lodged against him at the Bow-street office. He had been summoned on the occasion to answer to some questions relative to the young offender; but he was sorry to say that his evidence in his favour could not set aside the proofs of his guilt. He had, however, acted prudently in withdrawing from the threatened prosecution. “I have done all in my power”, added my brother, “to soften his accuser, but he is a determined man; and says that he cannot recede, in justice to the community, nor to himself.” Much followed, in which my brother’s vexation had for its object his ownreputation, and the mortification of having it known that he had had connexions with a highway-robber.I did not faint on reading this dreadful letter: no: I did not die, when death would have been a blessing! but grasping it with convulsive force, my whole frame shivering as in an ague fit, I remained motionless on my chair, conscious of the overwhelming tide of misery which was bursting on my head. At last impelled by ideas too dreadful to be recalled, and too vague to be ascertained, I hurried down stairs. The kitchen was my passage to the garden, and the fire, I believe attracted me; for I sat down by it, in a great-chair, which had its station in the chimney-corner, and bending over the hearth, my nerves relaxing; the horrid paper fell from my hand, and heedless of my danger, I gazed on the flame it raised. The maid-servant at this moment entered, and screaming out, that, “my gown would take fire,” recalled me to recollection. I started, and with a deep drawn sigh, said “let me die!” When recalled to life, I found myself in my bed. My worthy friend was watching me: her looks bespoke distress and pity. “Be comforted,” said she, “you are safe with me. Be composed, and trust to my care.” Let it suffice, Harriet Flamall was saved from reproach and shame, and like thousands of her unhappy sex, was doomed to weep the loss of her infant, and to be thankful it lived not to partake of its mother’s disgrace. Mrs. Priscilla Hatchway was, however, informed of my situation; and she advised me to give her my marriage certificate, which I had worn in my bosom. She enforced the prudence of my keeping my marriage a secret, till Mr. Duncan appeared. His letters to me had prepossessed her in his favour. “She did not believe he was capable of such an outrage as that of which he was accused.” Every hour she repeated that it was impossible; and that it required with her more than presumptive proof to condemn any man, much more one whose sentiments were noble and pure.I am prolix, my dear Maclairn: I will endeavour to be less so. Encouraged to hope, soothed to patience by this excellent woman, and, above all, led to think with her, that I should hear tidings of my husband from Mrs. Keith, I combated so effectually with my griefs, as to be able to suppress their appearance; and having seen my friends return to meet Captain Hatchway, I preferred, for several reasons, the conveyance of his cabin to any other. We had a tedious passage, which was highly beneficial to me; for on reaching my home, I was congratulated on mygood looks. My brother was on an excursion; and I profited from his absence.I went to Mrs. Keith’s house. It was shut up; and “to be lett.” Ready to sink, I entered the opposite shop, and made my inquiries. “Keith had been taken up on suspicion of forgery. No one could tell what was become of his wife. Their goods had been seized by the proprietor of the house, which was very hard, as the Counsellor who lived in the apartments in the winter months, had bought every thing for his own use; and had generously permitted them to let the rooms for their benefit six months in the year.” Some comments were added to this account: “Mrs. Keith was pitied, and the shopkeeper finished by saying that it was a pity her husband had so long escaped justice, for he had been the ruin of many.” A customer entered, and I quitted the shop with aggravated distress; for I could not avoid associating the guilt of Keith with my husband’s fate.Two days having passed under these impressions, had reduced my strength, and diminished my “good looks.” My brother was shocked at my appearance, and listening only to my friends, he removed me to Kensington Gravel Pits, with a solicitude that wounded my feelings. More than once my secret was on my lips, but my resolution failed: I had no opportunity for disclosing the painful cause of my sufferings, and I hoped to die without wringing Philip’s heart. My youth, in the mean time, resisted the attacks of sorrow: I recovered gradually; and sensible of the extraordinary expences which my brother had incurred in consequence of my illness, I urged him to give up the lodgings. He insisted on keeping them another month, adding, that the air was evidently salutary to me. I now heard Duncan named for the first time. My brother received a visit from an acquaintance, and pleading my inability to admit the visitor into the little parlour, they sat down on a garden-seat under the window, the sash of which was up, and I was screened by the blind. “Have you heard from that fool, Duncan?” asked the guest. My brother answered in the negative. “He was soon frightened, by what I can understand of his unlucky business,” rejoined the stranger. “The fellow who appeared against him is too well known to be able to hurt any man. Every one believes Duncan perfectly innocent.” “I wish I were one of that number,” replied my brother; “but his going off, and never writing since, looks suspicious. We traced him to Harwich, and I have no doubt of his having crossed the sea. He cannot be insensible to the anxiety I must suffer on this occasion. I cannot pardon his ingratitude, for he was treated like a brother under my roof. However, when he can draw for his little fund, I shall see his name I do not doubt: in a few weeks more I shall hear that he has not forgotten the little money which he may without peril claim from me.” The conversation then turned on the visitor’s business, whom my brother attended a part of his way to town. I was forcibly struck by what I had heard. Duncan’s cruel desertion of me; his apparent ingratitude to my brother; the society he had mixed in; his suspected crime, and neglect of writing, seized upon my heart. I resolved to conceal from my brother my connection with a reputed robber, and a man who had without pity left me to suffer the penalty of my weakness and credulity. My brother’s peace was to be preserved; and I was firm to my purpose.Again I remonstrated on the expence of the lodgings. “Say not a word on that subject, my dear Harriet, I intreat you,” answered Philip. “In preserving you, I am preserving my own comforts. I would spend my last shilling to see you well andhappy; but till you have more confidence in my affection, I must despair.” “What is it you mean?” asked I in trembling doubt. “Not to alarm, not to distress you,” replied he with solemnity. “Are you really well enough to return home? Are you equal to the exertions which your return to society will demand? Can you be cheerful, and prepared for every accident? Answer these questions. I mean not to reproach; butto heal. I will not,” continued he, taking my cold hand, “leave you in suspense. I am no stranger to your fatal engagements with an unprincipled man. Nothing of this indiscretion can be recalled; but in a discovery ofyour marriageis involvedmy ruinas well as your own. When you are more composed, I will be more explicit; in the mean time rely on my prudence and love. Weak and errring as your conduct has been, I will yet trust to your reason and principles. Let these resolve the question. Are your peace and happiness, my success and reputation in life, to be sacrificed to a romantic attachment to avillain, whose name is already a reproach to us, merely because we sheltered him?” He quitted me much agitated, and unable to witness my agony.My brother’s lenity was not lost upon me. Grateful for his forbearance, touched by his arguments, I assiduously endeavoured to appear what he wished. My occupations were renewed; and my serenity was such, as imposed on my acquaintance. The poor and wretched wanderer was regarded, as one whom it was my duty never to name, never to believe otherwise than guilty of the crime laid to his charge, nor ever to be acquitted of having abandoned me. Sometimes I recalled to memory his conversations relative to his early life, and the suspicions he entertained of his not being Mrs. Duncan’s son. Among the reasons he assigned for this opinion, was her anxiety to see himaccomplished, as well as solidly instructed; her never proposing any plans for his future provision, and the silence she preserved in respect to his resources, and her own. I once mentioned to Mr. Duncan my brother’s account of Mrs. Duncan’s declaration. He was apparently agitated; and I regretted my too fond loquacity; whilst he endeavoured to console me for my indiscretion. In the variety of my painful reflections, I sometimes conjectured that Mr. Duncan had discovered his parents; and finding his rank and expectations incompatible with his engagements with me, had withdrawn from the kingdom: that he had even concerted the story which had been circulated; and trusting to a splendid name and fortune for favour with the world, had left the name of Duncan to reproach and infamy; and his wretched wife to sink into the grave. These ideas prevailed for a season; and were then discarded with disdain, as unworthy of him and myself. Tenderness, trust, and his fond and unambitious heart had their turns. Thus fluctuating, I determined to speak to my brother; he had said, that he would be moreexplicitwith me, when I was in a state to be treated with entire confidence; and I reminded him of his promise, adding at the same time that I found the doubts which distracted my mind unfriendly to every purpose of my reason, and too much for my religious faith; I could not be resigned, till I was convinced that I should see my husband no more.“I have expected the application,” answered he, with calmness, “and I am prepared for it. It is not amiss that you should be informed of all that is known of this unhappy man. Notwithstanding our friends carefully avoid a subject, which they well know has given me more vexation than any occurrence of my life, something may accidentally drop which will affect you. I have seen that my Harriet has fortitude, and when you are acquainted with the circumstances which have convinced me of this wretched man’s guilt, you will the more steadily pursue that line of conduct which becomes you. I will leave you a few minutes to yourself,” added he, unlocking his scrutoire, and taking from it a letter, which he gave me. “Only promise me, that you will not lose sight of your Philip, in your sorrow for a worthless husband.” He pressed my hand to his bosom, and left the room. The letter before me was addressed to Mr. Flamall, in the well-known characters of my husband. I was still weeping over it, when Philip returned, and without speaking, placed himself opposite to me with visible anxiety. The contents of the letter were as follow.

LETTERLI.

From Miss Serge to Miss Cowley.

Putney, Dec. 6.

“Youhave, my dear madam, been so minutely informed of every occurrence that has taken place here since our return home, that I have with less reluctance deferred writing to you than the kindness of your request of hearing from me would otherwise have justified. I hasten, however, with satisfaction to avail myself of an hour of comparative ease and tranquillity of mind, to acquit myself, in part, of the debt of gratitude so justly your due, and, with my poor, but sincere thanks for all your goodness, to relieve my thoughts by a further communication of those disquietudes, which still prevent my beingwhat I ought to be.

“It will not surprise you to hear, that in my hours of solitude, my thoughts recur to Lady Maclairn’s affectionate greetings and tender solicitudes; to Mrs. Allen’s soothing cares; to Miss Cowley’s encouraging smiles and animating conversations. These thoughts will intrude; and I cannot yet treat them as intruders. Yet I have my father: butthat fatheris a source of my deepest sorrow! I see he is deceiving himself; that he cherishes the most fallacious of hopes: he thinks me better, because my pains are less acute. He sees not, that nature, worn out in the unequal struggle, is passively yielding to the inevitable, though still suspended stroke; and I have not the courage to tell him, that his Caroline is every hour hastening to her grave. A fever which eludes his notice, and profuse nightly perspirations, to which he is a stranger, must soon be terminated. I am neither deceived, nor alarmed. I have made an acquaintance with my conqueror, which has stripped him of his terrors, and I find that aspect which is so appalling and so hideous when viewed from afar, and through the medium of this world’s pleasures and gratifications, not unfriendly to the weary sufferer.

“I have weighed and measured my portion of painful existence, with that of the sinner, who, like ‘the giant,’ runneth his race to destruction;’ and I am thankful. I have entered again and again into that seat of judgment, which none but the eye of my Maker can pervade: neither remorse nor fear assail me. I have beenan heedlesschild; but nevera hardened one, with my earthly parent; and how has he loved me! and can I for a moment tremble at the thought of meeting face to face, my Heavenly Father, my Almighty Friend, who knoweth that I am but dust before him; and who has yet upheld me with tenderness and love? No, my dear Miss Cowley: imperfect as my services have been, manifold as have been my omissions of duty, I cannot forget that I have for my salvation a God of infinite mercy and goodness; and in hope I shall calmly resign up my spirit into his hands. I have been led into these reflections by the considerations of that gracious providence which has permitted me to see my dear father somewhat relieved from his late vexations, and which hath allowed to me the means of being useful to my sister. All has been done that we can do for her comfort. We must leave the future to her own conduct, and the principles of the man to whom she has so unguardedly trusted her happiness. I wish to entertain a favourable opinion of Mr. Fairly; but I am uncandid, or he is unworthy. He disgusts me by his attentions and flattery to my poor mother, his fulsome and ridiculous fondness to his wife before my father. With me he affects a pragmatical gravity and importance, talks of my wonderful wisdom, patience, and fortitude, ‘till he convinces me, that I am peevish and irrascible. Poor Lydia is either overlooked or reproved by him, with an impertinence which my mother and Leonora ought to check. The consequence is, that she detests him; and has moped in her own room till she is unwell. She grieves also, poor thing! for Willet’s removal from the family. This young woman, whom you will recollect was with us at the Hall, was a favourite with my mother, and in fact Lydia’s companion and friend: indeed, we all liked her as a useful well-behaved young person. Willet, however, took offence on finding at our return hither, a house-keeper installed in office, by Mrs. Tomkins, at my father’s and mother’s request, during our absence: she was impertinent, and not chusing to make concessions, or to accept of the station my mother chose for her, she quitted her good lady and her dear Miss Lydia for another service. I have been a gainer by this change in our administration. Willet was too lively to be useful to me; and we have gained a prize in the good woman whom Mrs. Tomkins recommended to us. Mrs. Thornton has so pleased my dear father, that he has in his fond consideration promoted her to a place of more trust than the housekeeper’s room—she is now my constant attendant; and her daughter superintends below stairs with great regularity and diligence.

“My mother has been absent from home nearly a fortnight. She accompanied Mr. Fairly and Nora to his house, near Chelmsford in Essex; with the intention of seeing that it was a suitable abode for her daughter. I was much gratified with my sister’s reply on the occasion. She said she should be happy with any accommodations in the country. I suspect poor Nora has in the course of a few short weeks discovered that she has gained but little by exchanging the yoke of her tender and generous father, for the chains of wedlock, a regimental suit, and a handsome man. She is not in spirits. Since her departure she has written twice to my father: her expressions of gratitude, paid him for his money, and I believe they were dictated by her feelings. She mentions the house as being all she wishes, but that her toofondandanxioushusband thinks it stands in need of repairs, and that it cannot be made a suitable residence for her for less thanfifteen hundred pounds. The money was instantly advanced; and Leonora, in her second letter informed us, that Mr. Fairly had consented to live at the farm till the house was ready for them. There was an appearance of content and triumph in this letter which delighted me. She spoke of her plans of furnishing itneatly: of her garden; and of the happiness she hoped to find in a cottage orné.

“Yesterday, instead of my mother, whom we expected, arrived a letter from her, dated from Reveland Park, the seat of a rich nabob, called Anthony Dangle, Esq. His house borders on Mr. Fairly’s little estate, and his lady, recently married, was one of Nora’s school companions. My poor dear mother writes in raptures of the grandeur and style of Reveland Park: the table, the society, and the politeness of the young mistress of the mansion, who at eighteen or nineteen, purchased with her beauty and accomplishments, the state of an Asiatic princess, and a husband of forty, already a cripple with the dead palsy. Leonora will be her guest for some time: in the exultation of my mother’s heart she hopes they will keep her till her own ‘little box’ is ready; for Nora is adored at the Park. Can you blame me, if my anxious and apprehensive mind recurs to the story of the Homespun family? Alas! no: you are too judicious not to see the danger of such connections as these, tomy mother.”

“This letter, my dear Miss Cowley, will not amuse you, but it will make its appeal to your good nature: you will think of the invalid who has beguiled three or four tedious days of their allotted dullness, in writing it: you will think you see her raising her languid eyes to heaven, whilst she breathes out a petition for your happiness; and you will think with kindness of the grateful and obliged

“Caroline Serge.”

“P. S. I shall say nothing of mybrother, Malcolm Maclairn. Ah! would to heaven I had a more legitimate claim to use that title, than even his kindness has given me. What a difference in Nora’s fate would such a man have made! It is not possible for me to tell you, how gentle how humane, his conduct was to us on the road. But he is a good and a virtuous man; and may the Almighty bless him! My father writes to Sir Murdoch, or to him, I believe; he desires to have my letter to enclose. I expect to see my mother in a few days, and Mrs. Tomkins will be with us to-morrow evening, to pass some time at Putney.”

LETTERLII.

To Malcolm Maclairn, from Mr. Serge.

“My dear young Friend,”

“Havingreceived from your good father more compliments than I asked, and less information than I wanted, relative to the plans in which you were engaged with Mr. Wilson, when I was at Tarefield, I have taken my measures in my own way, and with better success; for Wilson and I have managed the business without compliments or demurs; and you are fairlylurched, if you be a young man too proud to accept of a kindness from a true friend. Hoping you will see the drift of my meaning, I send you a draft on my banker for a thousand pounds: it is placed in your name, and herewith you have his acknowledgment. Get married and settle at once: have no fears: I will take care of my farm and my farmer. Let your nest be well lined: I send the bill for that intent; meaning to take care myself of all without doors. Your answer to this will either break the thread of our love, or join it till death; for it will either show me, that you do not know Jeremiah Serge, or that he does not know Malcolm Maclairn. However, guessing where the “shoe will pinch,” I will say that when I want my money again I will ask you to pay it. And in the mean time receive a good interest for it in your good will and kindness. So may God prosper you, and my money thus employed!

“I am your loving friend,

“Jeremiah Serge.”

[Miss Cowley’s pen is employed in what follows.]

I was with Lady Maclairn when her son read her this letter. I cannot describe to you the various changes of her countenance, whilst he was so doing. Her lips trembled, and with difficulty she asked him whether Sir Murdoch would be satisfied to see his son established in life by Mr. Serge. Malcolm answered that his father left him to act as his own judgment directed: that he had convinced him of the probability of being able to repay his generous friend, and that it was in fact a good speculation for Mr. Serge. “But,” added he, “I am not governed altogether by this consideration in my purpose of accepting Mr. Serge’s kindness. I am not too proud to receive favours; nor so mean as to court them. The voluntary offering of an honest and generous heart shall be received with a frank and honest gratitude, and I may live, my dear mother,to give, as well asto receivebenefits. At any rate I am not worthless, and my benefactor will not have to blush for his predilection in my favour; for I shall never forget his kindness. And the prospect! my dear Miss Cowley,” added he, seizing my hand as if it had been Alice’s, “is it not too alluring for romantic scruples, and a fastidious pride to combat.” I smiled; and he now eagerly ran over the advantages which would ultimately accrue from the Wereland Farm: expatiated on the happiness before him; and in the most unqualified manner adverting to Miss Flint’s dissolution as a contingency that would not break his heart, he drew a picture of domestic peace and comfort, to which his affection gave the most glowing colours. “We shall then taste the blessings of union and love undisturbed,” said he. “My Alice will reverence and serve my mother; and we shall see her smile, and bless our infants.” The poor mother answered only with her tears. “Why do you weep?” asked he, with tenderness. “It is because I fear, my dear Malcolm,” replied she, “that this cup of joy will never reach my lips.” “It is I that ought to have this doubt to check my present contentment,” answered he seriously, “whilst I see my mother wasting her health and spirits on——.” She prevented his finishing; and with a gentle smile asked him, whether he had seen Mr. Wilson. He replied in the negative, adding that he was then going. “Do not forget to tell your friends,” said she, “that Lady Maclairn means to write to Mr. Serge, and to thank him for having rendering her son happy.” Malcolm kissed her glowing cheek, and withdrew. “Poor fellow!” said she, the instant the door closed, “how little does he know that nothing on this side of the grave can makehis mother happy! I see your surprise, my dear Miss Cowley,” added she, weeping, “you are not prepared for the frankness with which I now confess that there has beenfor yearsa canker worm in this bosom, which has not only destroyed my peace, but which has also tainted myvery faceby its baleful influence. You are yet a stranger to the woman before you; notwithstanding that penetration which has shown you that she is not what shewishes to appear. I have perceived your suspicions; and in a thousand instances, have marked your but too accurate conclusions. I have had lately to struggle, not only with my secret sorrows, but with the acute sense of being suspectedas a deceitful womanby that being to whom I stand indebted for the only comfort of my life: by my husband’s friend and consoler! Yet, Miss Cowley, my soul is yearning to convince you that it is honest and sincere. I must explain to you the causes which have imposed upon me a conduct of duplicity and deceit. I want a friend, Miss Cowley: yes, I want a friend, in whose faithful bosom I may with safety place a secret that oppresses my own, and which must destroy me. I have for some time resolved to take this step. You will, I think, be disposed to grant me your compassion, if the narrative I mean to place before you should exclude me from your friendship and esteem.” She spoke with so much energy and feeling, that I was confounded, and remained silent. “I distress your generous mind,” continued she, “but recollect your conduct; recall the numberless instances in which your candour and goodness have been exerted to spare the too conscious dissembler. I will only say a few words more: justice to myself demands them! Had not your firm refusal of Philip Flint rendered my purpose needless, you would have known his mother before you had been a week under this roof. I will not say what were my feelings when I found that this trial of my strength was spared me! You once invited me to call youmy daughter,” added she, renewing her tears. “Good God! could you at that moment have seen my heart! Could you but have conceived what then passed through my very soul! You were the child of my husband’s fond and grateful love! You had saved him! But I was unworthy of you!” I am not made for moments of this kind, Lucy. I could not speak: but hiding my face in her extended arms, I sobbed forth my feelings.

In continuation.—Lady Maclairn has this moment left me. I was shut up all yesterday in my apartment with a cold in my head, which you will place to the real cause. Sir Murdoch and Mrs. Allen made some remonstrances on my insisting that they should keep their engagements to dine at the Abbey. And you will judge that my time was fully engaged by the manuscripts I now send you.

Lady Maclairn took her tea with me, and with composure and dignity of manner, she said, “I see, my dear Miss Cowley, that I have taxed your sensibility severely. You are now acquainted with the unfortunate Harriet Flamall, and are now qualified to judge of her hopes and pretensions to your kindness.” ‘You are an angel,’ exclaimed I, with honest fervour. ‘Patience and suffering have made you one, even before your time.’ She mournfully shook her head. “I gratefully welcome the sentiment which has urged the misapplied epithet,” said she. “I accept with joy and comfort the friendship which dictated it.I know Miss Hardcastle.Do you, my dear Miss Cowley, prepare her for her knowledge ofme. Tell her, that you have received me as a guest worthy of your pure bosom. Send her the manuscripts, and ask her whether two hearts will not be needful to shelter mine from the oppression under which it groans. The dread of having those papers in my possession,” added she, “has frequently tempted me to destroy them. Yet I wish to leave some memorial behind me, to witness that my soul abhorred deceit, and that even under the cruel yoke of it, my principles were firmly those which rectitude teaches. The peace and honour of my husband and son were of too much consequence to be hazarded by my impatience under the dependence to which my own weakness had reduced me. Miss Flint’s caprices and temper have been to mepetty evils; and my conformity to her will has been amply recompensed by the reflection that I have served as a barrier, although a weak one, to passions that would have betrayed her more to censure and reproach. She wanted not my brother’s arguments to mislead her, but she was a stranger to his artifices. And to whom but myself was it owing that she knew the betrayer of her integrity and honour? Can you any longer be surprised that I have yielded up to motives so powerful, that independence, which under every privation of fortune I should have calledblessednessto the life I have passed under this roof. Oh, you know not, Miss Cowley,” added she, weeping bitterly, “what I have endured! But what was I, if not useful in contributing to Sir Murdoch Maclairn’s comfort and happiness! I had deceived him, and imposition was myhardduty. How often have I wished that mydeathcould have been as beneficial to him, as a life miserable, though devoted to his service!”

You will love and reverence this woman, Lucy. I am certain you will. Sedley will give you this packet. You will understand my caution. I have written to Mary in French, expressly to prevent her inquiries. Let me know that the manuscript is safe in your hands, and that you concur with your perhaps too impetuous,

Rachel Cowley.

P. S. We were reading a beautiful work of Mrs. Inchbald’s, called, “The Simple Story,” when the vagrants returned. Red eyes and defluxions in the head are the least of these tributes which this novel merits. Ours escaped all further inquiry.

Manuscript intended, for Sir Murdoch Maclairn, from his Wife, and sent to Miss Hardcastle by Miss Cowley.

The vowsof fidelity, of obedience, of love, and gratitude, which the obscure Harriet Flamall plighted at the altar with you, my Maclairn, were registered in heaven; and I am prepared to answer undismayed, the inquiry which will be made relatively to myperformanceofmy duties as your wife. Yes, I am prepared and God and man will acquit me of having deviated from my duty in the course ofthat honourable character. But to what tribunal shall I appeal, when called upon to answer to the charge of deceit, of imposition, of falsehood! Of having imposed on thy generous confidence, and of having worn anameand a title to which I hadno right, and which I havecontaminated? Is there not a refuge for the penitent? Has not the Almighty promised to forgive his contrite erring children; and will Maclairn’s noble mind, refuse pity and compassion to an offender whom he loves?He cannot: for it is his delight to walk in the path his Maker hath appointed, and to honour him, by imitating him who is perfect in his goodness. The history of my life will contain all that I have to urge in extenuation of my errors. I am induced to place it before you, by the hope, that it may produce on your mind a conviction, that I was not deliberately, systematically wicked; and that as having beendeceived, I am an object for commiseration, though not justified forhaving deceived others.

You know but little more of my family and connexions, my dear Maclairn, than that I was the only daughter of a reputable attorney, who lived respected in modest affluence; and who died as he had lived, with an unblemished character. My mother, whose understanding and virtue would have done honour to any station in life, died when I was in my ninth year; and in her last illness she requested my father to place me, after her decease, in the house of the lady who had instructed her; and with whom she had continued to live on terms of intimacy and mutual regard. This lady’s seminary had been gradually establishing itself in the opinion of the public, from the time that my mother had been one of its pupils; and it was at this period justly considered as one of the most respectable boarding-schools in London. Friendship for my mother, added to the governing principles of this excellent woman’s mind, produced a tenderness for me, which was necessary in the first instance of my removal from my indulgent father; but I soon found that in my good governess I had a friend, and my school insensibly became my home. During this period of my life, I enjoyed every advantage which my fond father could supply; and his liberality extended to whatever was judged suitable for girls of large fortunes. It is necessary to mention Miss Flint’s arrival, as a boarder, during my long residence in this house; but as I was two or three years younger than herself, I had formed my littlecoterie; and as I was not particularly attracted by her manners, we had no further intercourse, than such as resulted from being under the same roof. With the partiality of my father and my governess, I happily enjoyed peculiar marks of affection from my brother, who was some years my senior; and to him I stood indebted for my instruction in those branches of female accomplishments, which, as being very expensive from the attendance of capital masters, my father might have thought unnecessary for a girl in my station; but my brother judged of my talents so favourably, that no improvement could be useless to me. I had just gained my sixteenth year, when my dear father was suddenly removed, and my happiness interrupted. My governess kept me as a cherished guest till some days after the funeral, when she gave up her charge to an affectionate brother. It may not be improper to mention here an event which soon after deprived me of this inestimable friend. Easy on the side of fortune, and breaking in health, she gave up her school to another person, and retired to the west of England, where she had near relations. My grief for the loss of my father was for some time countenanced by the dejection of my brother Philip’s spirits, and I discovered it to be my duty to restrain my tears before him. I even attempted the office of consoler, and assumed a cheerfulness with him which was remote from my feelings. One day I particularly endeavoured to lead him to a more resigned submission to the will of Heaven. He shook his head, and in a desponding tone, replied, “that he should not need my friendly admonition, could he forget his sister, but it was forhis Harrietthat he grieved.” An explanation followed. My father’s death had been accelerated by the difficulties which pressed upon him: he had just escaped being insolvent. Philip had incautiously, or rather with the honest pride of sparing to himself, and me, a disgrace so humiliating, administered; and the effects had been inadequate to the demands. He had consulted-his friends: had met with assistance and encouragement; and had every hope that diligence and economy would in time extricate him from his difficulties. In the mean time, I was his blessing; and if I could submit with cheerfulness to superintend his family for a season, he should be happy, and look forward to my more eligible situation. He now mentioned his connections, and the chances which were in his favour: hinting that my father had at least left him the integrity attached to his name, and a knowledge in his profession which none could dispute. I was not intimidated by this confidence, but I reminded him that my education had qualified me for a teacher: and that with Mrs. D—’s recommendation I had no doubt of being able to provide for myself. “We have one and the same interest,” replied he, “to conceal our affairs from Mrs. D—, and from all the world. Whilst by my exertions I can keep matters as they now stand, I shall not be suspected of being a necessitous man. You know not the world you live in, my dear Harriet: we must keep up appearances, in order to surmount our difficulties. You are young and beautiful, and in time, may marry well. Till you can make a better exchange for my protection and love, than by degrading yourself, my last guinea shall be spent to support you. Have no fears, I will support my sister’s claims to respect: you shall never serve forwages, till those of love fail.” Penetrated by this goodness and generosity, it will be no matter of surprise to you, my dear Maclairn, that I trusted to this brother; and repaid his kindness by the most assiduous attention to his comforts and interest. For nearly a year I superintended his family with contentment; for Philip praised without ceasing his housekeeper, and frequently declared that he would not change me for the richest wife in the kingdom; for that I had established his credit by my management. I saw three clerks constantly employed in the office, my brother’s regular attendance, and every appearance of business as in my father’s time going on. The new year’s day, I was told, that he was happy; for he could without inconvenience augment his dear Harriet’s little allowance for clothes; that he wished to see me always dressed like Harriet Flamall, and the gentlewoman; though never like a girl on the look-out for a husband, or a simpleton ready to take up with any offer. I well understood that my brother was little disposed to favour what are called love-matches, at which his wit and ridicule were constantly pointed; but as I was neither exposed to those temptations, nor in any haste to change my condition, I received these indications of his prudence with gratitude; perfectly coinciding with him, that love was not the better for being houseless and unfed; and as I had no wealthy suitors, though some danglers, I was perfectly contented with being mistress of my brother’s house, and seeing it his abode of peace. With youthful spirits and youthful vanity, I exulted in the regularity which presided at his table, and my heart was gay, when Philip said, “his Harriet was never taken by surprise, nor unfit to be seen.” Kindness had given me an interest with his servants, which were two maids, and a foot-boy; and when my brother led a friend to his table, they good-naturedly forgot, that they had shared with their mistress the liver and bacon, or tripe, in order to sup on more costly viands. My brother’s person and address were much in his favour, and it was not without some agreement on my part, that our acquaintance “wondered that the handsome and agreeable Mr. Flamall did not marry.” Some hints given me by our chamber-maid, who, as I fancied, thought her master “too sober a gentleman,” led me to suspect, that my brother had formed some connexion which stood in the way of a more honourable one; and whilst his regular visits into the country, in one certain direction, strengthened my suspicions, I could not help doing him justice for the consideration with which I was guarded from a knowledge of this supposed irregularity in his conduct; and sensible that his cautions in regard to mine were scrupulously exact and proper, I prudently left Philip to judge of the propriety of his own actions; and with unbounded trust believed, that if he erred, it was because he was human, and could not be altogether perfect, as I sometimes fondly thought him; whilst with the utmost solicitude he recommended to me the improvement of my time, and the prudence necessary for my security.

Under these happy circumstances of life, did I reach my seventeenth year, when towards the autumn, I was requested to prepare for the accommodation of a young man, who was to reside with us. Philip perceived my surprise. “It was not possible for me to avoid receiving him under my roof,” added he; “his mother pressed the measure on me, with so much earnestness from her death-bed, that I had not the resolution to refuse her request; and standing as I do in the relation of a guardian to the young man, who has not a single connexion or friend in the world to whom he can turn, except myself, it is the more incumbent on me to provide for his safety. He is a modest lad; but at present a mere green-horn. He has been very ill since he has been in town, and I should not be surprised, if, with his excessive sorrow for the loss of his only friend, and the effects of his dreadful fever, he be plunged into a decline. You will be kind to him, my dear Harriet,” continued he, “for you will pity him. If we can manage to get him well, he will become my pupil in the office, for he is poor, and must have some employment. He is sensible of this, and grateful for the education and little means which Mrs. Duncan has contrived to leave him.”

A sick, consumptive, friendless youth, oppressed with sorrow for a mother’s death, was a guest not to be placed in any inferior part of our house: my bed room was visited by the south sun, and had next to it, a light dressing closet, appropriated for my books and bureau. I was healthy; and the attic was equally convenient. The poor, dejected young man should find a home, and a neat retreat: and the books might help to divert his thoughts. This resolution was adopted. The following week, Mr. Charles Duncan made his appearance at our dining table; and on introducing him to me, Philip congratulated him with kindness on his improved good looks; whilst I, with emotions of pity, gazed on the finest youth my eyes ever beheld, blasted by sorrow and sickness. His deep mourning dress, the sober-sadness and dignity of his person, his collected demeanour and unstudied ease of manners, surprised me. From time to time, he spoke; his intelligent eyes were raised; and as the subject adverted to the recent events, his countenance marked the keenest sensibility, and the most profound grief. Without any of that aukward timidity, which I had been led to expect, he with politeness made his apologies for wishing to retire to his room, alledging that he had made exertions during the morning, which had fatigued him. Philip with much civility conducted him to his apartment. I had risen to receive his compliment on leaving the room, and felt a secret delight in reflecting, that he would find the one he sought suitable in those accommodations which he had a just title to expect under any roof. I still remained standing, lost in thoughts which perplexed me. The extreme caution of my brother in respect to me, seemed to have yielded to his zeal for a stranger; and I felt uneasy that I could not think Mr. Duncan alad just new to the world. “But he is poor and friendless,” thought I, “and my brother trusts to those disqualifications for my safety.” A deep sigh followed; for I discovered, that poverty was no shield to my bosom. My brother’s returning steps roused me from my reverie, and I sat down to the piano forte, to prevent my agitation from being noticed, and began to play a lesson which lay open on the music-desk, in the hope of evading any further conversation, relative to a guest, who I already discovered had gained too much of my attention. But Philip immediately reassuming the subject, and thanking me for giving up my room to the stranger, asked me what I thought of him. “Poor young man,” replied I, “he looks consumptive and very melancholy. I should not be surprised if the air of London was found pernicious to health apparently so weak and declining.” “He must take his chance on that point,” answered my brother, “and should your prognostics be verified, I do not know whether I should regret his death. Under the circumstances of an illegitimate birth and friendless condition, life can afford but a very scanty portion for his hopes or enjoyments. It appears,” continued my brother, “that Duncan, as he is called, is one of those unhappy beings, who are destined to share the iniquity of their mothers. His probably has worn the cloak of hypocrisy and concealment so long, that she has forgotten it was borrowed, or that she was the mother of a child whom she did not dare to acknowledge. I know that the good woman who has passed for his mother has left him a few hundred pounds, the savings from an annuity allowed her for this child’s maintenance from his cradle.” “But you know also his real mother,” observed I with eagerness. “Indeed I do not,” answered Philip, “nor does Duncan know her. I have some reasons for believing she lives in a foreign country; is a woman of birth and fortune; and probably one of those chaste dames, who thinks ‘the world can never thrive,’ &c. &c. I am sorry,” continued my brother, “that I was not sooner known to Mrs. Duncan. I might have gained more insight into this poor young fellow’s history, and perhaps his mother might have been induced to continue his annuity. But it was too late to press the business on a dying woman. She only declared, that she was not the real mother of Charles, commonly called Duncan; and requested he might be told so. I trusted to her papers for further information, but nothing satisfactory has appeared; and for the present, I think it is better to leave him to his regrets for the loss of his reputed mother, than to the bitter conviction of his birth and desertion.” I entirely coincided in Philip’s opinion; and our conference finished by my admiring his goodness and humanity, and vehemently reprobating the monster who could give up an infant to save herself from the reproach and shame she alone merited.

Mr. Duncan’s health, for the space of more than a month, gave an ostensible colour to my attentions. I had pity, for the motive of an assiduity which, young as I was, my heart whispered was but the assumed name for love. My brother trusting, as I concluded, to the effects of his intelligence relative to his ward’s fortune and disgraceful birth, for the security of a girl of seventeen, whose good sense and prudence were proverbial with him, left the interesting invalid to my unremitting cares, till the bloom of youth was restored, and Mr. Duncan was deemed in a condition to pass some hours in the office, in pursuance of his declared intention of studying the law. To what purpose should I detail the progress of a passion mutually excited under such circumstances as I have already mentioned? Let it suffice, that my lover was a stranger to the arts of seduction, and myself too inexperienced for the documents of worldly prudence, and too innocent for doubts or cautions.

Amongst the number of expedients we had ingeniously contrived, to elude my brother’s knowledge of our union, till Mr. Duncan was of age, was one which appeared practicable and safe: my lover suggested it, and related to me the interest he had with the good woman under whose roof his mother had died. It appeared to him a providential interference, that had conducted them to Mrs. Keith’s humane cares; for such was the name of the person with whom they lodged. “My dear mother,” added Mr. Duncan, “was indebted to chance for the recommendation of lodgings in London, when she was a stranger. At Grantham we took up a lady apparently of some respectability in the neighbourhood of that town, for she was in a gentleman’s carriage, when she inquired at the inn the hour at which the stage coach would reach London. She was a handsome, pleasant, and well bred woman, and good-humouredly communicative. My mother, in the course of our journey, expressed some regret on not having written to her only agent in town, to secure lodgings for her, observing that she did not much enjoy the thoughts of being forced to sleep in a common inn. The courteous stranger instantly engaged to conduct us herself to lodgings which she could recommend, adding, that her uncle, Counsellor Peachley, had recently quitted his apartments, for a country residence near town, and that by agreement, or rather favour, the Keiths had permission to let the rooms in his absence, for their own emolument. But this indulgence was, it appeared, limited; and the lady’s good offices were requisite to our success. She kindly performed her promise, and I believe was farther useful to us in the distressing scenes which followed. My gratitude on leaving this house for your brother’s, has, I believe, attached Keith and his wife to me. He serves the office of clerk in this parish church, and might assist us effectually. Your brother,” added he smiling, “pays his devoirs regularly every Sunday in the country. You are tempted by a more popular preacher, to stray from Mr. G——’s flock, and I suspect that your servants are not scrupulous in the observance of their sabbath.”

I complied with a project from which I had little to fear, well knowing that my brother’s example had been contagious in his family. Our banns were published: Keith officiated as father at the altar, and his wife as my friend and companion, my appearance not contradicting hers. My husband demanded a certificate of our marriage, and I returned home with it in my bosom unsuspected.

With a circumspection rarely preserved in a union, where the sum total of years did not amount to forty, we eluded for a time all suspicion. My situation became the signal for terror and anxiety to break into that contentment of heart, which had succeeded to our marriage.

Duncan in vain urged the necessity of his openly declaring his claims to protect me. I opposed to his arguments my dependence on my brother, and his minority, which would for some months prevent his free agency. I pleaded the expected absence of Philip, who constantly left town in the summer vacation; and sanguinely brought forwards my project of preserving our secret by means of Mrs. Keith: thus passed the early months of my pregnancy. But I was unable to counterfeit health. My brother was alarmed by my cough; and my friends recommended to me country air. At this eventful period,Mrs. Hatchwaywith her daughter, now Mrs. Serge, paid their annual visit to London. Mr. Hatchway was master of a ship, and his wife and only child, Miss Lydia, contented with its accommodations, and fond of an element with which they were too familiar for fear, every summer made this little voyage; and stationing themselves in Wapping, enjoyed with unwearied activity the more remote and fashionable pleasures of the metropolis. They were our relations; and dining in Red-Lion square from time to time, during their short stay, had been the customary offering of good-will, and for which they liberally paid, by supplying us with turkies and red herrings in the winter. Their remembrances of this kind had been so abundant, that we on our side had enlarged our civilities; and Philip had for the two preceding visits, treated them with a sight of Sadler’s Wells, or the Haymarket. On seeing my pale and emaciated form, they expressed much compassion; and, with theutmost generosity, they declared I should not be hurried to a crowd, in order to please them. My brother as warmly insisted that Miss Hatchway should not be disappointed of her amusement; and this contest finished by the good-natured mother’sheroicallysaying, she preferred remaining with me. During the absence of the party, my ill-health was the subject of her conversation. Change of air and a voyage were urged: she was certain that sea air would restore me in a month. She remembered that her mother, before her marriage, was thought in a decline; and had been cured by residing a few months at Y——h. I immediately saw the advantages which might result from my quitting my brother’s house; but I had my husband to consult. This, however, I happily effected; for my restless cousin recollected a shop near us, in which she had purchased some article a few days before, and she wished for more of it. My cough again befriended me; it was near nine o’clock, and the evening unpleasant, so she sallied forth alone. My husband blessed heaven for this promised deliverance; he urged me to accept of the invitation, and declared that he would remove me from Y——h to Newcastle, and from thence to Leith: for that I should not return to my brother’s, till my spirits were more equal to meet his resentment. At supper, the good captain seconded his lady. “He had long piloted his women.” The cabin was neat; and I had nothing to fear in the “Charlotte.” My brother counselled me to try the experiment; and my voyage was determined on. At the expiration of a few days the ship sailed. Our navigation was prosperous and delightfully pleasant. I was in no way incommoded; and the good friends with me, exulted on seeing me keenly devour sea-biscuit. Freed from the dread of my brother’s inquisitorial eyes, and amused by the novelty of the scene, my spirits rose to cheerfulness; and I was led to consider my female friends with some curiosity and amusement. Mrs. Serge, at present, so strongly resembles her good mother in her person, that it is only necessary to observe that when young, she was extremely pretty. Nature had not been less faithful in the lineaments of their minds. Both enjoyed an exuberance of health and activity; a constant flow of animal spirits and good humour; to which was annexed an absence of thought or attention for the morrow. My observations soon led me, however, to doubt, whether their sum of positive happiness exceeded that of their fellow mortals. Their constant restlessness; their insatiable cravings for vanity and pleasure, might be fairly weighed with the cares of the ambitious, and the labours of the philosopher; and most assuredly were as fatiguing as the demands of vanity. A “frolic,” to use Mrs. Hatchway’s term for a jaunt of pleasure, was the supreme good in her opinion: it was necessary to her existence; and however qualified, all was a “frolic” which put her spirits in motion. Having been wet to the skin in an open cart; or slept in a barn on straw, or in a bed with half a dozen companions, only gave zest to the remembrance of the “fun” occasioned by any disaster. If the pleasure had smoothly rolled on in post-chaises, and a good dinner, and a good inn received them, their joy was complete; “for what was money made for, but to be spent? Those whoworkedhad a right tospend.” No grievance tormented them, but being stationary; nor did they believe there was a malady which a dance would not cure. To people of this description I could only plead the weakness of my bodily strength. We were safely landed at Y——h, the captain proceeding in his voyage to Sunderland. A neat habitation announced the opulence of my friends in that class to which they belonged. The first day was passed in settling ourselves, which was performed with admirable dispatch and order; for Mrs. Hatchway observed, that, “after a holiday, idleness was ingratitude.” The next day was given to their neighbours, who were numerous; but I was indulged, and in my neat little chamber enjoyed the privilege of writing to my husband. At supper, my cousin told me, she had engaged me to see a ship launched. “We shall breakfast,” added she, “with the captain’s wife, who lives on the quay. As soon as the vessel floats, we shall go on board, and sail in her down the river. You will see also the fort and the pier; and in the evening we shall return home incarts; they are the fashion here, and the exercise they give, is strongly recommended to invalids.” I had seen scores of these vehicles moving in the street, and instantly imagined that awheelbarrow, although drawn by a horse, would not suit me. I pleaded fatigue, and without the smallest ill-humour appearing, I was told, that no welcome was worth a farthing, if folks were not left to judge for themselves: “so please yourself, my dear Harriet,” added she, “and you will please me. I hope to see you, before you leave us, as eager to run after a fiddle, and as fond of a ride in a cart as this girl, who two years since was as fond of her own room as yourself; but I soon made her what you see her, as healthy a girl as any in England; and her aunt will tell you so, when she comes. I have no notion of patch-work, and darning muslin, which costs so dearly; Lydia was half killed by being with my sister. You will take care of yourself, my love,” continued she; “Sarah will be left with you; and I can trust her.”

She was not mistaken; Sarah was assiduous, and my tranquillity continued uninterrupted till one o’clock, when she informed me, that Mrs. Priscilla Hatchway, her master’s sister, was in the parlour, and wished to see me. “There has been some blunder,” added the girl; “for she is come to dine with my mistress.” Civility compelled me to leave my retreat. A neat well-dressed woman of forty and upwards, rose to salute me, and with much good-nature congratulated me on my safe arrival. For some time I found my guest an intruder; but she insensibly engaged my attention, by talking of my mother, and flattered my self love, by observing, that I was her very picture. I learned that Mrs. Priscilla had fully expected to meet the family party. “I sent my sister word, yesterday,” continued she smiling, “of my intention; but a ship-launch was too serious a business for me to interrupt, and they well know I am not apt to take offence where none is intended.”

After dinner she proposed to me a walk; to this I had no objection; and she took the road to the fort. The level and fine turf I trod, with the prospect in view, beguiled the time: for on the left was the main ocean, and on the right the river, which, at the fort, forms the bar and the pier, useful for working the vessels from and into the harbour. We reached the ferry-boat which led to a village on the opposite side of the river; and we sat down. “I have had my designs in conducting you hither,” said she; “that,” pointing to a small neat habitation, “is my house; and you see how easy the road is which separates us. Have you any objections to our drinking tea there? I will conduct you home; and if the vagrants are returned, I will sup with them; for it is a full moon, and the boatman will wait my call.” I acceded to this arrangement, and we soon reached the house, but with some surprise found the parlour filled with Mrs. Hatchway’s friends, and she busily engaged in assisting the maid, to prepare a regale of fruit and tea. The good Mrs. Priscilla received with momentary gravity her sister’s greetings and apology. This amounted, to having forgotten, in her hurry, to send her notice of her engagement, and intention of calling upon her in her way home. To this succeeded her pleasure of seeing me. “Nothing ever was more fortunate! for they expected a cart, and I might ride home.” The company now claimed our attention. This consisted of several persons, but the principal care of Mrs. Hatchway was directed to a lady who had been “uncomfortable” on board the ship, being fearful of the water. I found she was from the country, and with her husband had a daughter of Miss Lydia’s age. A survey of Mrs. Priscilla’s parlour pleased me; it was furnished with good prints, and a handsome book-case; the windows commanded the sea, and a pretty garden hung from the elevated ground to the river. I expressed my approbation of her abode; and in the kindest manner she pressed me to try, what she called,countryas well asseaair. I thanked her, and acknowledged that I thought her situation delightful. “Then sleep here to-night,” answered she eagerly, “I will show you my little spare nest.” I looked at Mrs. Hatchway. “Please yourself, and you will please me,” said she with her usual good-humour. “Do, my dear Miss Flamall, consent to my aunt’s proposal,” cried Miss Lydia; “for then I shall see Beecles races.” This settled the business. The strangers were accommodated with my room at Mrs. Hatchway’s house, and my trunk was sent, for greater dispatch, that evening; and before my eyes were open the next morning, my Y——h friends were on the road to Beecles races. They called in their way at our door, and said their absence would not be for more than aweek. On the maid-servant’s delivering this message at our comfortable breakfast table, Mrs. Priscilla laughed, and said that her sister’sweekswere not always regulated by the calendar: she had known some, that had extended tosixof the common reckoning of time, “and should either a wedding, a christening, or a funeral intervene,” added she, “you may find this “frolic” longer than you wish, unless you love quiet as well as I do.” You will not be surprised that I wished for nothing but for letters from my Charles, and the prolongation of my friend’s pleasures.

Duncan was made easy by my account of myself, and my new situation. I was happy in his assured love, and we mutually agreed to wait with patience till he could see me at G—ne. A fortnight had nearly elapsed; when, in the place of an expected letter from my husband, one arrived from Mrs. Hatchway. Fortune had been favourable. She was detained in spite of herself. Lydia was to be bride-maid to her young friend, and having had a letter from her husband, to inform her that he was going to Leith, she had indulged her friends in their request. Even this good news did not cheer me. I had missed receiving my cordial for two posts. The sympathizing Mrs. Priscilla dispatched a person the next morning to the Y——h post-office, and endeavoured to divert my attention till the woman’s return. She brought me a letter: it had my brother’s writing on the address. I turned pale, I suppose; for she smiled, observing that I might have another, and still more welcome letter on the morrow. “It is from my brother,” answered I, still mournfully holding the fatal scroll in my hand. “Well, and you may have good news fromyour brother,” replied she, rising. “So I will go and get you some strawberries, whilst you are busy.”

Merciful heaven! From what unknown cause did it arise that I remained several minutes with this letter unopened in my hand! I recollected that I had not answered a former one; and that Philip hated writing letters. Some unknown terror seized my spirits; and I wept. At length I was mistress of its contents. “Anunpleasant,” (yes, that was the word,) “occurrence had engaged his time, and harassed his mind.”His ward, Duncan, had absconded; a charge of a highway-robbery having been lodged against him at the Bow-street office. He had been summoned on the occasion to answer to some questions relative to the young offender; but he was sorry to say that his evidence in his favour could not set aside the proofs of his guilt. He had, however, acted prudently in withdrawing from the threatened prosecution. “I have done all in my power”, added my brother, “to soften his accuser, but he is a determined man; and says that he cannot recede, in justice to the community, nor to himself.” Much followed, in which my brother’s vexation had for its object his ownreputation, and the mortification of having it known that he had had connexions with a highway-robber.

I did not faint on reading this dreadful letter: no: I did not die, when death would have been a blessing! but grasping it with convulsive force, my whole frame shivering as in an ague fit, I remained motionless on my chair, conscious of the overwhelming tide of misery which was bursting on my head. At last impelled by ideas too dreadful to be recalled, and too vague to be ascertained, I hurried down stairs. The kitchen was my passage to the garden, and the fire, I believe attracted me; for I sat down by it, in a great-chair, which had its station in the chimney-corner, and bending over the hearth, my nerves relaxing; the horrid paper fell from my hand, and heedless of my danger, I gazed on the flame it raised. The maid-servant at this moment entered, and screaming out, that, “my gown would take fire,” recalled me to recollection. I started, and with a deep drawn sigh, said “let me die!” When recalled to life, I found myself in my bed. My worthy friend was watching me: her looks bespoke distress and pity. “Be comforted,” said she, “you are safe with me. Be composed, and trust to my care.” Let it suffice, Harriet Flamall was saved from reproach and shame, and like thousands of her unhappy sex, was doomed to weep the loss of her infant, and to be thankful it lived not to partake of its mother’s disgrace. Mrs. Priscilla Hatchway was, however, informed of my situation; and she advised me to give her my marriage certificate, which I had worn in my bosom. She enforced the prudence of my keeping my marriage a secret, till Mr. Duncan appeared. His letters to me had prepossessed her in his favour. “She did not believe he was capable of such an outrage as that of which he was accused.” Every hour she repeated that it was impossible; and that it required with her more than presumptive proof to condemn any man, much more one whose sentiments were noble and pure.

I am prolix, my dear Maclairn: I will endeavour to be less so. Encouraged to hope, soothed to patience by this excellent woman, and, above all, led to think with her, that I should hear tidings of my husband from Mrs. Keith, I combated so effectually with my griefs, as to be able to suppress their appearance; and having seen my friends return to meet Captain Hatchway, I preferred, for several reasons, the conveyance of his cabin to any other. We had a tedious passage, which was highly beneficial to me; for on reaching my home, I was congratulated on mygood looks. My brother was on an excursion; and I profited from his absence.

I went to Mrs. Keith’s house. It was shut up; and “to be lett.” Ready to sink, I entered the opposite shop, and made my inquiries. “Keith had been taken up on suspicion of forgery. No one could tell what was become of his wife. Their goods had been seized by the proprietor of the house, which was very hard, as the Counsellor who lived in the apartments in the winter months, had bought every thing for his own use; and had generously permitted them to let the rooms for their benefit six months in the year.” Some comments were added to this account: “Mrs. Keith was pitied, and the shopkeeper finished by saying that it was a pity her husband had so long escaped justice, for he had been the ruin of many.” A customer entered, and I quitted the shop with aggravated distress; for I could not avoid associating the guilt of Keith with my husband’s fate.

Two days having passed under these impressions, had reduced my strength, and diminished my “good looks.” My brother was shocked at my appearance, and listening only to my friends, he removed me to Kensington Gravel Pits, with a solicitude that wounded my feelings. More than once my secret was on my lips, but my resolution failed: I had no opportunity for disclosing the painful cause of my sufferings, and I hoped to die without wringing Philip’s heart. My youth, in the mean time, resisted the attacks of sorrow: I recovered gradually; and sensible of the extraordinary expences which my brother had incurred in consequence of my illness, I urged him to give up the lodgings. He insisted on keeping them another month, adding, that the air was evidently salutary to me. I now heard Duncan named for the first time. My brother received a visit from an acquaintance, and pleading my inability to admit the visitor into the little parlour, they sat down on a garden-seat under the window, the sash of which was up, and I was screened by the blind. “Have you heard from that fool, Duncan?” asked the guest. My brother answered in the negative. “He was soon frightened, by what I can understand of his unlucky business,” rejoined the stranger. “The fellow who appeared against him is too well known to be able to hurt any man. Every one believes Duncan perfectly innocent.” “I wish I were one of that number,” replied my brother; “but his going off, and never writing since, looks suspicious. We traced him to Harwich, and I have no doubt of his having crossed the sea. He cannot be insensible to the anxiety I must suffer on this occasion. I cannot pardon his ingratitude, for he was treated like a brother under my roof. However, when he can draw for his little fund, I shall see his name I do not doubt: in a few weeks more I shall hear that he has not forgotten the little money which he may without peril claim from me.” The conversation then turned on the visitor’s business, whom my brother attended a part of his way to town. I was forcibly struck by what I had heard. Duncan’s cruel desertion of me; his apparent ingratitude to my brother; the society he had mixed in; his suspected crime, and neglect of writing, seized upon my heart. I resolved to conceal from my brother my connection with a reputed robber, and a man who had without pity left me to suffer the penalty of my weakness and credulity. My brother’s peace was to be preserved; and I was firm to my purpose.

Again I remonstrated on the expence of the lodgings. “Say not a word on that subject, my dear Harriet, I intreat you,” answered Philip. “In preserving you, I am preserving my own comforts. I would spend my last shilling to see you well andhappy; but till you have more confidence in my affection, I must despair.” “What is it you mean?” asked I in trembling doubt. “Not to alarm, not to distress you,” replied he with solemnity. “Are you really well enough to return home? Are you equal to the exertions which your return to society will demand? Can you be cheerful, and prepared for every accident? Answer these questions. I mean not to reproach; butto heal. I will not,” continued he, taking my cold hand, “leave you in suspense. I am no stranger to your fatal engagements with an unprincipled man. Nothing of this indiscretion can be recalled; but in a discovery ofyour marriageis involvedmy ruinas well as your own. When you are more composed, I will be more explicit; in the mean time rely on my prudence and love. Weak and errring as your conduct has been, I will yet trust to your reason and principles. Let these resolve the question. Are your peace and happiness, my success and reputation in life, to be sacrificed to a romantic attachment to avillain, whose name is already a reproach to us, merely because we sheltered him?” He quitted me much agitated, and unable to witness my agony.

My brother’s lenity was not lost upon me. Grateful for his forbearance, touched by his arguments, I assiduously endeavoured to appear what he wished. My occupations were renewed; and my serenity was such, as imposed on my acquaintance. The poor and wretched wanderer was regarded, as one whom it was my duty never to name, never to believe otherwise than guilty of the crime laid to his charge, nor ever to be acquitted of having abandoned me. Sometimes I recalled to memory his conversations relative to his early life, and the suspicions he entertained of his not being Mrs. Duncan’s son. Among the reasons he assigned for this opinion, was her anxiety to see himaccomplished, as well as solidly instructed; her never proposing any plans for his future provision, and the silence she preserved in respect to his resources, and her own. I once mentioned to Mr. Duncan my brother’s account of Mrs. Duncan’s declaration. He was apparently agitated; and I regretted my too fond loquacity; whilst he endeavoured to console me for my indiscretion. In the variety of my painful reflections, I sometimes conjectured that Mr. Duncan had discovered his parents; and finding his rank and expectations incompatible with his engagements with me, had withdrawn from the kingdom: that he had even concerted the story which had been circulated; and trusting to a splendid name and fortune for favour with the world, had left the name of Duncan to reproach and infamy; and his wretched wife to sink into the grave. These ideas prevailed for a season; and were then discarded with disdain, as unworthy of him and myself. Tenderness, trust, and his fond and unambitious heart had their turns. Thus fluctuating, I determined to speak to my brother; he had said, that he would be moreexplicitwith me, when I was in a state to be treated with entire confidence; and I reminded him of his promise, adding at the same time that I found the doubts which distracted my mind unfriendly to every purpose of my reason, and too much for my religious faith; I could not be resigned, till I was convinced that I should see my husband no more.

“I have expected the application,” answered he, with calmness, “and I am prepared for it. It is not amiss that you should be informed of all that is known of this unhappy man. Notwithstanding our friends carefully avoid a subject, which they well know has given me more vexation than any occurrence of my life, something may accidentally drop which will affect you. I have seen that my Harriet has fortitude, and when you are acquainted with the circumstances which have convinced me of this wretched man’s guilt, you will the more steadily pursue that line of conduct which becomes you. I will leave you a few minutes to yourself,” added he, unlocking his scrutoire, and taking from it a letter, which he gave me. “Only promise me, that you will not lose sight of your Philip, in your sorrow for a worthless husband.” He pressed my hand to his bosom, and left the room. The letter before me was addressed to Mr. Flamall, in the well-known characters of my husband. I was still weeping over it, when Philip returned, and without speaking, placed himself opposite to me with visible anxiety. The contents of the letter were as follow.

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